For the record, I throw a decent dinner party.
I mean, nothing Martha Stewart–worthy, of course, but I know how to set a table, curate a playlist, buy good wine. My holiday gatherings — where I ask guests to bring me an ornament for my Christmas tree, so that over the decades it has become a living historical record of my life — are fun and fizzy affairs. So I would seem well prepared to host an event like Dinners for 12 Strangers, a UCLA tradition where you open up your home to a randomly curated crew of 11 other Bruins with one catch: You don’t know any of them.
But I can tell you from experience that hosting a successful dinner party requires organizing, planning and, perhaps most of all, playing to the particular tastes of one’s guests. So, when you really think about it, inviting people whom you have never met — people you know almost nothing about — to your home (or, in this case, your West Hollywood apartment) to feed and entertain them is an insane idea. And, indeed, nothing went quite as I expected.
But first, a word about Nana Russo.
One chilly day in 1997, when I was living in a homey brownstone apartment in the heart of Boston, my friend Cheryl Della Pietra came over to teach me how to make lasagna. And not just any lasagna: her grandmother’s lasagna. Nana Russo was one of those archetypal Italian women whose parents had come to America and brought all of their best recipes with them. I never met Nana, but I always pictured her like Sophia Petrillo, the peppy octogenarian on the sitcom The Golden Girls.
One of my New Year’s resolutions that year was to become a better cook. And so it was that Cheryl came over one Sunday, armed with Nana’s recipe and strict instructions to follow the ingredients list. (Her exact words: “If you go low-fat on any of this, I am out of here.”) For the better part of an afternoon, I learned the art of selecting lasagna noodles (“Never the no-boil kind!” Cheryl declared); how to turn tomato paste, crushed tomatoes and a medley of spices into a bubbling lava of zingy sauce; how to layer the noodles and the ricotta and the sauce, then repeat, artfully sprinkling the mozzarella on top. Cheryl showed me how to toss a yummy Caesar salad and make crusty garlic bread. It was a true Italian feast, worthy of any dinner party.
So it was no accident that when it came time to plan my Dinner for 12 Strangers, I went looking for my 28-year-old scribbled recipe from Nana Russo. It was failsafe, I felt, because it was (a) made from scratch, (b) delicious, (c) good for a large gathering and (d) most critically, a meal you could prepare in advance. Everything would go off without a hitch.
I hoped.
An event for “university family”
Dinners for 12 Strangers originated within the UCLA Alumni Association in the late 1960s, at a time when the country was being riven apart politically. (Sound familiar?) It was born of a simple belief that a shared meal creates community. We may eat in order to live, but we eat together to connect. A description given at an alumni event in the late 1980s summed up the program’s ideal of creating kinship “among the various parts of the university family.”
Any Bruin — student, staff, faculty or alumnus — is invited to participate. You can sign up to host a dinner, either at home or at a restaurant, or sign up to be a guest at one. (Alumni typically serve as hosts.) Dinners are held over a two-week period in winter each year, mostly in Southern California, though these meals have been held in such faraway locales as Japan, India and Ireland. In a typical year, more than 400 such dinners take place. Over the last 60-plus years, the soirees have fostered countless friendships and professional connections.
I wanted a dinner that would really reflect a cross section of Bruinhood, and I got one: My final guest list included seven students, three alums, a staffer (me) and a faculty member.
As the date for my fete drew closer, I looked around my charming but compact apartment in panic. A lot of these dinners, I knew, were hosted at fancy houses in Beverly Hills, Encino or Santa Monica. Would these Bruins troop into my humble lodgings and sigh in disappointment? Wanting an authentic experience, I had steadfastly refused to order catering, putting Nana Russo’s recipe to the test. Now I wondered: What if it all goes wrong?
Slowly, it all came together. I ordered a banquet table and linens and cleared away my living room furniture to fit everyone. I arranged mismatched china and glassware, borrowed extra napkin rings from friends, and dug out tarnished cutlery I’d bought years ago at a thrift store in London and polished it to a shine. I accented with votive candles, blue and gold flowers and a 1950s supper club–worthy playlist.
On the night of the dinner, I tossed the salad, slid the trays of lasagna into the oven and prepped the garlic bread. And prayed it would all come off.
Twelve strangers become a little bit closer
The faculty member (who shall remain nameless, but you know who you are) canceled an hour before the dinner. Trouble already! Luckily, I recruited a colleague to fill in. So, for me, it would now be Dinner for 10 Strangers and a Co-Worker. I figured the heavens — and the Alumni Association — would let it slide.
At the stroke of six, in they came — the students all together, the rest straggling. I poured wine for the alums, foisted waters, club sodas and iced teas on the undergrads and offered appetizers to everyone while occasionally glancing into the oven to be assured all was well.
And then an amazing thing happened. I let go — of my anxiety, of my self-consciousness that my humble apartment was too unglamorous, that the food wouldn’t be worthy of Spago. Everyone was so clearly happy to just be there: to be meeting new people, to be sharing our UCLA ties, to be in a space of joy and community. No one complained about their dietary restrictions. Not a single person looked at their phone.
I was impressed by the three alums, gentlemen who all happily recounted memories of UCLA and wore their Bruin pride like badges. But I was gobsmacked by the students: two English majors, two cognitive science majors, a chemical engineering major, a physiological sciences major and a neuroscience major. Every year — first through fourth — was represented. Two were international students, including the editor of the Daily Bruin. Their self-possession and confidence, their ability to hold their own in conversing about global issues, their sunny goodwill and youthful charm … it was a tonic, and a reminder not only of the specialness of one’s college years, but of the specialness of UCLA, too. It filled me with hope for the future.
At the end of the dinner (the lasagna seemed to go over well), we went around the table and talked about what being a part of the university meant to us. Anshita spoke about how coming to Westwood had been “big school kind of scary,” but that the friendships she’d forged had “made the big pond feel a little smaller.” Tucker shared that they had started feeling like they belonged. “L.A. is sunny,” they said. “But now the whole campus feels sunny, too.” Charlotte said she had found so much community that she became a Bruin tour guide so she could pay it forward.
Some of the shares were just plain fun. Dylan, the Daily Bruin editor and a native of the U.K., confessed coming to Westwood had been “a weather-based decision”; Shreya raved about learning not just rigorous academics but also sailing and beekeeping. Steve, an alum from the Class of ’92, provided valuable perspective about how UCLA is a patchwork quilt of various communities and how the vastness of the university ecosystem had taught him an invaluable lesson in how to navigate a large organization. He also relayed a hilarious anecdote about late 1980s UCLA quarterback Troy Aikman ’08 that had everyone in stitches.
We ended the night with a joyous eight-clap and a selfie. As my guests filtered out, exchanging hugs and handshakes, I was filled with mixed emotions. Primarily happiness, satisfaction and gratitude for being part of this special Bruin family. And also sadness that I did not own a dishwasher.
But I didn’t mind. Because in the end, I had achieved something worth every dirty dish.
I was sure that somewhere, I’d made Nana Russo proud.
Need a playlist for the next meal you're hosting? Stream the same tunes that set the tone at our Dinner for 12 Strangers:
Read more from UCLA Magazine’s Spring 2026 issue.
