There’s a hyperlocal board game group where I live. A special text group lets people arrange games and chat about all sorts of other things. I’m usually not available for their weekly events because they play on weekday evenings, but a special opportunity arose recently.

Aaron is a member of the chat group who isn’t really local, but Aaron has family who live pretty close, so he’s connected to the board game group through minimal degrees of separation. Aaron also happens to be an amateur game designer, and he was in town visiting family. During his time in town, Aaron reached out to the group to see if anyone wanted to get together to play test a game he’s working on. Aaron also needed a place to play, not wanting to impose on his family.

I happen to have a nice game table, so I offered our space. Aaron volunteered to bring kosher pizza for everyone. 

Suddenly, it occurred to me that I needed to let potential visitors to my home know a few things about the space. I’m accustomed to letting new folks know that our home is smoke-free and pet-free, since some people have physical allergies. But now I became aware that I also needed to let people know that we are not a kosher household. Being kosher doesn’t matter to me, but when Aaron mentioned “kosher pizza,” I was reminded that it matters a great deal to other people.

That’s fine, one of the players wrote back. As long as the pizza was not put in your oven or on your dishes, I will eat it. I can bring disposable plates.

I’ll admit, there was a part of me that felt a little insulted for a hot second. Saying that my plates are unclean feels like a close cousin to saying that I’m unclean—or somehow not good enough. That feeling was fleeting though. I noted it. I smiled about my sensitivity, and I was grateful that someone was willing to do what they needed to be comfortable in my space.

Except that this person then forgot to bring disposable plates. And Aaron had also brought a cinnamon babka, for which our kitchen knives were not kosher. 

So, I gently suggested that I had paper plates if that’s what was needed. And I had a plastic disposable knife that hadn’t been used. This was all acceptable. This kept everything kosher. I say this knowing very, very little about keeping kosher, but it seemed just fine to those who know a great deal about keeping kosher. The kosher pizza and the babka were eaten.

Some would say that offering what people needed was just being a good host—being hospitable. It’s lucky we had paper plates and a plastic knife. Now I know that I can just offer this in the future rather than making a guest bring their own disposable plates. Before this, I would never have thought it was necessary to know what kosher guidelines require. Now, I know a little bit about what accommodations I can make for a guest in my home who cares deeply about kosher dietary laws. I can be more welcoming. 

The conversation needs both sides, of course. We get to clearly let others know what we need, which might mean defining some things that seem obvious to us but for which other people have no frame of reference. And we get to listen without judgment to what other people need from us and respond with as much accommodation as possible. We can’t always provide everything that another person needs. And we can’t always get everything we need from another person. But we can come a lot closer to that ideal when we openly share and receive from one another. 

Sometimes it’s as simple as keeping a supply of paper plates and plastic knives. 

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