Angela Mollard: How ‘bringing a plate’ became a high-stress competition for modern women
Women have transformed the simple tradition of “bringing a plate” to parties into an elaborate competitive sport that's stressing everyone out, writes Angela Mollard.
A man of my acquaintance – let’s call him Gavin – is moaning.
“All you women are loons,” he says, with an exaggerated sigh.
“You’ve turned a Christmas party into a performance sport. I can’t hear myself think with all the What’s App notifications announcing what you lot are bringing.”
He’s not wrong. Since my friend Lotta sent out invitations for her annual Swedish-themed festive party the women have been falling over themselves to contribute.
“Double herring for me please,” is the first response. From a bloke.
“Can I bring a salad?” says one woman (me). “I’ll bring my rocky road,” says another.
“How about I bring a couple of burnt basque cheesecakes?” chimes a third.
Our host, grateful for the offers, says she’s a control freak and will send out a request for contributions down the track. Fair enough, you want items that’ll work with the meatballs and gravlax.
But that doesn’t stop the pings.
“I can bring crackers and dips,” says a woman coming from interstate.
And then a message from a man. “What else do you need?” Turns out his wife has already inquired, suggesting a cheese plate.
Painful as it is to admit, Gavin has a point. “Bringing a plate”, that sweet community-minded tradition that ensured a host was not overwhelmed or sent broke, has been hijacked by overperforming, Pinterest-inspired, virtue-signalling women.
And that’s just me. My salad is not just a salad. It’s an Ottolenghi-sourced, harissa-spiced, pomegranate-sprinkled concoction that speaks not just to my culinary credentials and exemplary time management but my moral character. I am not just a woman juggling my job, an exhaustion-induced stye in my eye, a gift list, ham ordering, tinsel-draping and a partner in hospital but I am also contributing. I am excelling at life.
Which would be admirable if the stress stopped there But it doesn’t. Because I’m lugging my salad, complete with toasted hazelnuts in a separate container, I cannot walk to the party. I need to transport my gargantuan contribution, find a park and return for my car the following day but those are minor concerns compared to the real terror: what if no one eats my salad?
What if they prefer the prettier watermelon, cucumber and feta version that Sandra has brought, or the beetroot and fennel sitting atop a layer of homemade labneh which Josie is passing off as her own even though I know she got her sister to make it.
Why are we doing this to ourselves? When did we start interpreting “bring a plate” (subtext: something edible that won’t kill the group) into a marketing exercise for our personal brand. And why do we say “it’s no trouble” when of course it’s bloody trouble. Have you tried flash-frying curry leaves or grilling figs with Shaoxing dressing? Or discovering midway through your cheesecake assemblage that the gelatine you knew you had expired in 2006?
I admire men. They are not Googling “best glaze for heirloom carrots” or debating whether they should push the boat out on the good mascarpone. They are watching the cricket, musing a potential upgrade to their barbecue tongs (but only if someone doesn’t have the foresight to gift them) and sliding into their best shorts two minutes before the party begins. A quick drive through the bottle shop and they’re good to go.
The problem with women is that we’ve not just clung to the Stepford-era concept of “bringing a plate” but turbocharged it at the same time as adding careers, share portfolios and Instagram-fuelled expectations of what a salad should look like.
My grandmother never gave a plate this much thought. It was either her date scones or a nice iceberg lettuce salad with homegrown tomatoes, boiled eggs and a dressing made with condensed milk. I was once gifted a cookbook called Ladies, A Plate which I swear features her bacon and egg pie recipe. She never worried that would be left uneaten because it never was.
Anyway, I want to propose a solution. No, it is not the embracing of mediocrity though I can see the appeal of a return to a bag of chips and that delicious dip made with sour cream and French onion soup mix. Nor is it leaving it to the blokes, although I wouldn’t mind Gavin being asked to supply a cheeseboard with six French offerings, quince paste and some pricey muscatels.
Rather, let’s stop this quaint tradition of bringing a plate which belongs to a time when women wore aprons, crocheted doilies and considered matching their Tupperware lids a legitimate form of entertainment.
Instead, let’s do what the Greeks and the Italians do. When it’s your turn to host you feed everyone. You grill the meats, make the salads, rustle up a monster tiramisu and treat everyone to your hospitality. The next time someone else does all the work. No more balancing of triple-layer chocolate and cherry pavlovas in the passenger seat and no more repatriating of assorted salad bowls the following week.
You’re welcome.
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Originally published as Angela Mollard: How ‘bringing a plate’ became a high-stress competition for modern women
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