Never was there a more disappointing invitation to dinner than the one that comes immediately before the lazy host’s non sequitur: “it’s bring a plate”.

It’s no wonder “potluck”, the international rendition of the uniquely Australian concept “bring a plate”, is a fading trend. For the host, it’s a culinary mishmash in which you end up with all of the washing up and none of the thanks, while nobody gets excited about food brought in on a paper plate.

As we stick our noses up at out-of-season asparagus and store-bought cakes, and compete over brands of stoves and dishwashers (yes, we do), we face the very real possibility that we’ll be undone by our dry Cajun chicken rice salad, our deflated pavlova. We moralise about the family dinner, outdo one another with homemade passata, only to lose all our domestic status as our from-scratch vindaloo gets lost on a buffet of pineapple pieces pinned to cheese cubes and a duck and mango salad from up the shops. It’s better to just decline the bring-a-plate invitation and shun the gathering altogether.

Better still, actually host a dinner, and do the cooking. When we host a meal ourselves we’re not reckoning with the restraints of making something that will “carry”, we can assort our best plates and bring things out the temperature in which they were intended. At the very core of every potluck dinner is the assurance that salads be served warm and casseroles just gone cold, a sad skin on the gravy to be lifted off by the first in queue. Plus, with bring-a-plate, there’s always a queue.

A home-based meal means there’s no ferreting about in the back room for the wicker basket, nor bargaining with the host on what’s left to make, dealing with the news that someone’s already bagged dessert, that so-and-so’s bringing the nameless meat course, and all that’s left is canapés. At home the fresh smashed avocado guacamole, vibrant with coriander, lime and spice, becomes the gloopy brown dip somebody brought. On the drive, at every traffic light you steady the homemade frosted brownies in the passenger seat, and then you’re the one who brought that dish with a thumbprint in every square.

But worse than being the embattled recipient of a bring-a-plate invitation is turning up to the smorgasbord of the host’s disorganised gastronomic labour. Nobody ever listens to instructions, so there are always three plates of grilled eggplant and zucchini, and two people brought an iceberg lettuce salad without dressing. There’s never enough barbecued chicken legs to go around and the store-bought quiche Lorraine has a soggy bottom. Potluck, the bring-a-plate ritual, has the powerful potential to be the undoing of our social circles. Nobody invites back the person who couldn’t be bothered to hand make a quiche for the occasion.

The culinary arts, for those with no interest in them, are nothing more than housework. Some of us hammer out life’s frustrations with a whisk to batter, a mandolin to the radishes, others are just as inclined to take a toothbrush to the bathroom sink. To them, the concept of bring-a-plate is as arduous as churning out any other daily chore; it’s all of the bother but done in their best outfits. I for one have always bee-lined for the dish I brought with me, and non-cooks do the same with theirs, but in the opposite direction.

Bring-a-plate just opens us up to the most awkward and picky of our friends: the host. The very person who enlisted you with the chore of cooking their party food is the very same to shuffle to the table as they lift off the plastic wrap, a subtle knife in the back as they introduce the dish: “Kate has brought this lovely… what is it again?” It’s supposed to be the easy and relaxed option, but bring-a-plate is entertaining at its most fraught.