Potlucks are the way to go. For starters, there aren’t many dining options where I can stay in my sweatpants, in the company of people who don’t care about what I look like. Potlucks mean we can get down and dirty cooking in my kitchen, and feel proud to prepare at least one substantial meal of the week. Chicken, beef, pasta or heating up leftover Wishbone: potlucks prove to Mom that I’m independent enough to cook for myself and my friends. After being up to your eyeballs in meetings all week, what could be better than having a genuine conversation? Not, “How are you?” or “How was your midterm?” I’m talking about some quality time chattin’ with my homies. Making this time for friends also means fulfilling my secret ambition to become Julia Child, or at least to emulate her baller cooking in every way that I can. I’m excited to practice cooking, all for the rewarding struggle of impressing my guests—the supportive grimaces when my friends are sitting around my table, tucking into my “well–cooked” lasagna. (Note to self: invite freshmen friends because their standards are lower.).
When I don’t have an assignment due at 11:59:59, I can drool over the lovely fresh bread my friend made or decorate cookies to make up for all the fun I didn’t have in Huntsman all week.
Once I’m well fed, I know I won’t miss freezing in long lines outside Rumor, the Uber X’s, or blowing bucks at the bar trying to seduce some guy.
Instead of drinking arsenic–tainted Franzia (look it up) in whatever second–rate Italian restaurant my Wharton club invited me to, I want to drink arsenic–tainted Franzia in the privacy of my living room, where I know I won’t get carded. Maybe I’ll get fancy and throw in some experimental fruit juice, *cough* vodka *cough*, concoctions. If I decide I want to head to Smokes or a late night after our potluck, it’ll only be a short, romantic walk away. In my slippers instead of high heels, I can hear my feet already thanking me.
See Getting Potlucky At Penn for Street approved ways to kill the potluck game.
