about us

I’ve spent most of my life moving from place to place. New York. Seattle. Ohio. Two different colleges in Ohio. Then Seattle again. Dallas. Phoenix. Turning a unknown city into home was my favorite thing. I'd walk all the streets until they became engrained in my soul. When Phoenix turned into my longest stop since I was fourteen, I panicked. Three years felt like a death sentence to my wild and free lifestyle. I packed my bags and took a travel nursing contract in New Jersey.

I loved New Jersey. I loved the two minute walk to the train that would take me to Manhattan. And wandering the long beach listening to Lovelytheband's Conversations with Myself album on repeat. But something kept pulling me back to Phoenix. Maybe I was craving some stability for the very first time or I missed the sunshine (or because I met a boy I kind of liked). Whatever the reason, staying put, it turns out, was my newest adventure.

I wouldn't say I’ve always made friends easily. But I have always made a few close friends everywhere I went. What I’ve never done is stay long enough to let those friendships overlap. My life exists in neat little bubbles: family, work friends, old work friends, travel nurse friends, college friends. All the people that hold meaning in my life, have rarely been in the same room if ever.

David, my husband, had a childhood that sounds nothing like that.

He grew up in Somerton, Arizona, “Soma,” as he calls it. A small town close to the border where every one of his friends lived a few blocks apart. Where everyone remembers the time Kevin and Jerry put a hole in his mom’s wall (especially his mom) and Paloma is the candy store you'd stop by on the way home from school. The same friends who still show up decades later. That kind of closeness almost doesn't exist anymore.

As I think about starting a family, that sense of community feels less like a nice-to-have and more like a necessity. My family is at least a five-hour flight away. David’s is much closer, but the three hour drive to Yuma isn’t exactly popping by for dinner. Phoenix isn’t a small town where you accidentally run into everyone you know at the grocery store. Our future kids won’t have family around the corner. So if we want community, we have to make it.

We have to build our own Soma.

Nothing would make me happier than my friends meeting my friends’ friends. My neighbors meeting my family. A meeting of the minds in the most casual sense. Sunday Supper is for connecting over Mario Kart, Hues and Cues and homemade dishes.

Every month there will be a theme. An entrée. An appetizer. Dessert. A cake. A signature drink.

Is that too ambitious? Probably. Necessary? Maybe not. But I know myself to go a little overboard.

The plan was to start in January. That did not happen. So, February it is. 

The theme will be Valentine’s-meets-pizza-party energy, "You stole a PIZZA my heart." 

A not-too-gushy love letter to all the people we care about.

To be honest—I’m nervous (shocker.)

What if no one comes?
What if everyone comes and we don't have enough chairs?
Do I invite a few people first to test it out, or just invite everyone and figure it out?
How am I going to cook ten pizzas at once?
Do I decorate inside and outside? Or just inside?
Can I even make a cannoli? (It sounds hard. I'm not Italian.)

I don’t have all the answers. But I think that’s kind of the point.

Sunday Supper Club doesn’t have to be perfect. 

It just has to exist. 

A reminder that community doesn’t magically appear—we build it, slowly and imperfectly, over time. 

We'll learn as we go.

So this is Sunday Supper.
Making food.

Enjoying our people.
Creating a space.

Last Sunday of every month.
5pm.

Come when you can. 

Stay as long as you want. 

Bring a friend if you’d like.