My friend Emily throws the very best theme parties. In college, she dreamed up ideas and organized them miraculously into being, such as when her urge to throw a Chanukah-themed golf party led us to making latkes for twenty. Always a stick in the mud, I groused about how annoying all that damn potato-grating would be, but Emily saw the big picture: that after nine rounds of holiday drinks at nine different campus locations (including Jello shots at the library—oh, college!) nobody, not even yours truly, would care that the apartment would smell like hot oil for weeks. And you know what? I didn’t.

In fact, it’s times like those that I look back on fondly, especially now that Emily’s packed her boxes and moved to a tiny New York City apartment. Right up until her departure this summer, she was planning get-togethers for everybody still in town, always with a creative twist. Case in point: to commemorate the arrival of Top Chef in D.C., she invited us over for a series of potlucks, with the stipulation that our contributions would be (in true Top Chef fashion) part of a challenge. The first night, we made foods that somehow represented our home cities; I explained my salted butter caramel ice cream as being a dessert-ified version of the classic Chicago caramel corn from Garrett’s. At the height of World Cup fever, we brought over dishes inspired by the countries that made it to the final four. I chose Germany.

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As I had hoped, three city-dwelling friends visited my suburban apartment this Saturday, plied by promises of (what else?) food, and lots of it. Formally, this gathering would be called a dinner party—but that sounds so staid, doesn’t it? I think of dinner parties as those events of my youth when children were banished by means of early bedtimes. As a child then, my biased opinion was that dinner parties must be no-fun zones washed of spontaneity and liveliness.

Of course, as I’ve grown up, I’ve learned better. Now that college is over, dinner parties are a great way for groups of far-flung friends to get together at once. They’re cheap, with only the cost of an extra bag of groceries to fuel an evening. And they don’t require screaming over music and strangers, as with nights spent at restaurants or bars. Really, I’m glad that I’ve gotten over that childhood bias, just as I’m relieved to have recovered from another one: vegetable phobia. Because when dressed up with cake batter, golden raisins, and white chocolate, carrots ain’t half bad.

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If there’s one thing I miss about college life, it’s the proximity to my friends. Yes, sharing 600 square feet with three other girls became grating by senior year — in retrospect, I think we were literally running into each other in our tiny kitchen. No, I don’t miss our upstairs neighbors; christened “The Stompers,” they not only enjoyed jumping (with astounding force) from their bunk beds at 7 a.m., but also played five instruments between them (badly, and loudly).

But nothing beats the commiseration/coffee breaks with friends as you lock yourselves in the library together, or the run-ins with casual acquaintances that you can’t really orchestrate. My college campus did all the social heavy lifting, which is especially important when you’re an introvert like myself. Just by virtue of bumping into characters on the street, I received party invitations, fell into impromptu catch-up sessions, and found company for walks to the farmers market. No effort necessary! Life was good.

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