I treat the porch between six and seven like a ceremony. Soft music, one simple pitcher—Aperol spritz in summer, something warm in winter—nuts, olives, a ribbon of good cheese. No full meal yet. Just arrival.
Cocktail hour is when strangers become dinner friends. I introduce people with a detail they can latch onto: Mara just hiked the coast trail, James fixes vintage radios. Conversation starts itself.
I keep a light wrap basket for chilly evenings because I am a hostess who has seen goosebumps kill a good story. Details are love.
You do not need alcohol to do this. Sparkling water with citrus works. The point is pause, face-to-face, before the plates arrive.