How to make Friend Soup

A recipe for building connections

Last year, I moved to London and found myself frequently longing for company. I wanted so much for an invitation—to dinner, to a party, to see an exhibition with someone.

While adept at enjoying my alone time, I knew I had to be proactive if I wanted to build a social life (with friends!)

In my mid-20s, I met a stranger every week for a year. This experiment led to everything from new work opportunities to forming some of the deepest friendships I have today.

I decided to pick up the habit and began actively trying to meet people, asking for introductions and reaching out to virtual connections.

This time, I was meeting two or three people per week, which soon added up to dozens of strolls along the canals of London with friends-of-friends or coffee catch-ups and dinners with online-turned-real-life acquaintances.

Despite sparking with many of the people I’d met, I still wasn’t making much progress with truly fostering community and connection. I found people were busy with work, away on holidays, or already had well-established social rhythms. Bringing a new friend into the fold isn’t always possible, and sometimes extending an invitation simply doesn’t occur to people.

I realised something was missing in my budding social life: momentum.

An overlooked ingredient when it comes to making and sustaining friends

There are countless ways to meet new people—I’ve met people at art classes, waiting in line at a cafe, through friends-of-friends.

But what’s rarely spoken about is that meeting new people is not the same as creating a friendship—it’s the mirepoix, not the whole soup.

Friendships can have varying levels of depth, but there needs to be momentum in order to foster true connection—that is, time and mutual investment.

It’s been found that the likelihood of an acquaintance becoming a casual friend improves by 50% when people spend about 43 hours together in the first three weeks after meeting.

That’s a rather daunting number. It explains why people have an easier time befriending colleagues due to the sheer exposure. But as a freelancer, I didn’t have a workplace to rely on.

I was going to have to create the momentum.

But how?

The barriers to momentum

With Londoners being notoriously busy, it was a challenge to find opportunities to spend time together to build momentum. Plus, I wasn’t sure whether others desired such an investment.

When I conducted my first experiment in friendship-making, I was in my 20s, and there was a different flavour of receptiveness. When I attempted to revive it in my mid-30s, I found many people were settled in work and family obligations, but there was also a sense that people were settled in their friendships, too.

Maybe it’s true of locals in most places, but I noticed many of the Londoners I met had a solid friendship group that formed in school or university. The only way to infiltrate such a long-established group seemed to be as the romantic partner of someone who was already a member.

I asked my housemate, a Londoner, if I was imagining the guardedness of groups. He said it’s something he’s also noticed about his own social group. “I love the group, but it feels more established now we are in our 30s and 40s and less open to new people coming into the fold.”

When you’re not in a group, it can feel like everyone is hanging out with theirs, without you. But I was starting to observe that being part of a group can come with its own challenges.

“People are less available to do things now they have partners and kids or have moved away. It can be lonely, even with the group,” said my housemate.

I’ve never quite understood why a group wouldn’t want an injection of new people from time to time—why platonic friendships aren’t met with the same openness as, say, a romantic partner? Are those in a group simply content with the connections they have, or do they just not have the time or energy to be putting themselves out there?

My friend Ellen, who is in a stable long-term relationship, told me that new friendships are the only way to fall in love over and over again without jeopardising what you have with your monogamous romantic partner.

I’m not in a long-term relationship, but I also need that excitement in my life—the particular kind of falling in love that new friendships bring.

Perhaps many of us want to continue to experience the vitality, freshness and expansiveness of platonic crushes, too. We want to deepen those connections where we have “clicked” with someone, but simply haven’t yet found momentum.

It struck me that, irrespective of whether we’re in a group, it seems countless people are waiting for an invitation but are hesitant to make the move.

If I wanted company and community in this new city, I needed to be the one to extend an invitation.

A recipe for making and sustaining friends

Just before my move overseas, I’d started this very project,

A social life, with friends

to explore how people navigate their social lives and sustain connections.

While it was on pause, I was busy applying what I’d learned to my real life.

Across dozens of interviews with experts, some clear instructions emerged—a recipe for making new friends, if you will.

1. Start with what you already have

Who is already around you? Connect more deeply with the people in your direct vicinity, be it housemates, neighbours or colleagues.

What do you already have available to you? What existing clubs are in your area, or where is a place you can meet new people?

2. Consider what you long for and create it

Once you’ve explored what already exists, consider what you want. If you want an invitation to a dinner party, host a dinner party. If you want to go to a book club, start one.

It doesn’t have to be a huge commitment—what can you create in your community, or even your home?

3. Is it repeatable?

Momentum is found in repetition. If you are going to a gym class, go at the same time each week. If you are starting your own group viewing of your favourite TV show, watch it on the same day each week. Make connection a ritual.

Putting it all together

With the recipe above in mind, I made a plan to bring momentum to my own social life.

What did I have? I had a great share house for hosting and a list of over 30 people I’d already met in London.

What did I long for? I wanted to deepen these connections and receive invitations—and so I needed to send one myself.

What is sustainable? I need to host something scalable and repeatable, so simplicity was key.

It’s one thing to know what you need to do to cultivate the community you want, but it’s another to face the logistics.

Hosting is hard. It’s daunting to open your home to people. Having moved into a charming yet ramshackle share house, I was self-conscious. Bombarded by stylised images of table settings and interiors on social media, I wondered what people might think of our motley collection of tea-stained mugs.

Beyond the superficial, there are also the doubts that come with hosting. What if nobody attends? What if I’ve missed someone’s dietary requirement or miscalculated the quantity of food? What if I have a Bridget Jones moment when making introductions—“Mr… (Titspervert) ... Fitzherbert. Err … because that is his name.”

Then there’s the time investment. For me, at least, a lot of effort goes into appearing to be the effortless host! Between fretting over what to cook, shopping and preparing—I can worry away a whole day.

I’ve long envied those who don’t overthink it and whip up something simple—and then I realised I could do the same.

That’s when I decided on soup. It’s simple. It’s delicious. It can be prepared in advance, and it can be scaled.

With the menu sorted, I sent out invitations to everyone I’d met in London. I explained the concept: that since moving to the city, I’ve had the chance to meet some lovely new people and wanted to create some momentum by bringing everyone together to bob about in a delicious broth of connection and conversation. It would be like a Friend Soup!

Invitations went out to about forty people, and the dozen or so who couldn’t make it said they hoped there would be more soup-filled times to come.

I felt affirmed by the responses. People want to come to your home—ramshackle or otherwise! People want to meet new people. People want to do something novel.

Tasting notes from the debut Friend Soup

For the first iteration of the gathering, I thought a theatrical soup would be a good choice as it gives people something to do. So I made my friend’s carrot and red lentil soup, where you add a squeeze of lemon, drizzle some good olive oil, and finish with a sprinkle of smoked paprika.

I waited nervously for the first guests to arrive. Soon, there was knock after knock at the door. People came inside and admired the cosiness of the house, its warmth, the eclectic mix of bowls and mugs.

The first handful of people each happened to bring bread—a sourdough baguette, olive-spotted focaccia, ciabatta—and so a running joke began as I introduced people and their corresponding loaf.

Ladle after ladle of soup, my kitchen was soon filled with people I’d met at book launches, a rowing course, and during various sublets years before.

Someone popped in for a bowl before heading off to a date; another trio swung in together with a tea they said matched my personality—”We don’t know you very well, but we think wild apple and cinnamon suits you!”

I introduced fellow writers to other writers, photographers to other photographers, new arrivals to London locals.

As these new friends of mine bobbed about in the kitchen, I got to spend more time with each person, and they got to make new friends. Phone numbers and Instagram handles were exchanged; plans to go to an upcoming talk together emerged.

The event itself also became a shared thing. As I showed one person the order of garnishes for the soup—the squeeze, the drizzle, the sprinkle—they went on to show the next.

My hosting doubts simmered down as the joy of creating something I wanted to be part of rose to a boil. I looked around—not only was each person adding something different to the occasion, but it was the coming together of those things that added depth and flavour.

I realised that’s the beauty of Friend Soup! We start with the ingredients we have and build up from there.

When we connect one person to another, we not only broaden the community but also deepen our own connections.

As the gathering came to a close and people said their goodbyes, each expressed how much they’d enjoyed the afternoon—the soup, the warmth, the refreshing friendliness.

When I suggested we have another soon, my new friend Lara offered to make the soup, revealing another key ingredient for friendship: reciprocal effort.

For something to be sustained, it needs to be shared. When we are generous with our space, connections and heart, people meet that generosity.

Invitations beget invitations

In the days that followed, the date for the next Friend Soup was decided.

There was a new month ahead, new people to meet and invite along for the next batch. But there was something else—I received more invitations. To a birthday party, to the theatre, to a Christmas party.

By inviting people over for soup to foster the connection I’d been craving, I’d invited others to do the same.

That’s the thing about finally creating the things you want—you inspire others. As the proverb goes, the only way to have a friend is to be a friend. Invitations beget invitations. Friendship begets friendship.

Now, half a year after the first friend soup, I’m back in Melbourne and trying to apply the lessons of Friend Soup to my home city. Reconnecting with people and sustaining existing friendships can require the same proactiveness as meeting new people.

And so I thought, no better time to resume this very project. While the podcast and newsletter have been on pause, I feel like I’ve been conducting fieldwork: making new friends in a city, reconnecting with old ones, navigating various shifts, grieving lost connections, hosting, joining clubs.

I’ll be exploring these topics and more in future newsletters, so be sure to subscribe below for regular essays and insights.

Being a person in the world with other people isn’t always easy, but I’m trying to remember that sometimes you just need the perfect starter course.