From Cookoff to Tradition: How to Turn a One-Time Event Into an Annual Favorite

The First Spark

Linda remembers exactly why she called everyone together that October Saturday five years ago. Her kitchen had exploded with new recipes that fall—a sudden obsession with spice blends and slow-cooked meats that needed an audience. She invited her brother, two neighbors, and her sister-in-law. Four people. Four pots of chili. A voting system that involved slips of paper in a coffee mug and her teenage daughter announcing the winner with theatrical flair borrowed from watching reality competition shows.

"It was nothing fancy," Linda recalls. "We scored on the back of napkins. I think we forgot to even time how long people cooked. But something happened that day."

What happened is now called the "Napkin Awards" in family group chats. What started as four competitors has grown to a waiting list of people hoping to participate next year. There's a traveling trophy—a vintage chili pot from an antique store, spray-painted gold. There's a rivalry so friendly it's spawned its own language. ("Did you see Marcus's entry last year?" comes with a knowing head shake, as if invoking a legend.) There are kids who grew up watching adults compete and now submit their own creations. And yes, there's still a group chat, though the scorekeeping has gotten slightly more sophisticated.

Linda's story is far from unique. Across the country, families, workplaces, friend groups, and communities are discovering the same truth: the moments that matter most often begin with something small, unpretentious, and rooted in genuine human connection. But turning that moment into a tradition—something that survives the test of years and the friction of reality—requires something more than hope.

It requires intention.

Why Traditions Matter More Than One-Time Events

A single event is a memory. A tradition is a thread that weaves through years of your life.

Think about the difference between attending a party and having an annual gathering. Both are fun. But when you know something will happen again next year—that same time, same place, same beloved chaos—something shifts in your brain. You start to anticipate it. You prepare for it. You talk about it with the people who were there last time, building momentum and inside jokes.

Traditions create a sense of continuity. They tell us that we're part of something that lasts. That we belong to a group stable enough, committed enough, to do this again. In an increasingly fragmented world, where people move apart, relationships drift, and schedules perpetually conflict, a recurring tradition becomes an anchor. It's a day circled on the calendar. A commitment that predates any individual plan. A reason to show up.

But here's what many people don't realize: traditions also serve a deeper psychological function. They create what researchers call "temporal markers"—moments that structure our lives and help us understand our own narrative. Years later, people won't remember a random Tuesday in March. But they'll remember the year Marcus finally beat his sister's famous white chili. The year someone accidentally brought store-bought chili and we found out. The year your kid was old enough to enter for the first time.

Traditions also distribute responsibility and joy. A one-time event belongs to an organizer. A tradition belongs to everyone. The mental and logistical burden of hosting shifts from feeling like "my job" to feeling like "our thing." That's when it becomes sustainable.

Getting Year One Right (But Not Perfect)

Here's the secret that might surprise you: your first year doesn't need to be perfect.

In fact, trying to make it perfect often kills traditions before they start. People get burned out. The bar gets set impossibly high. Everyone leaves exhausted instead of energized.

Keep it simple. Your first event should be straightforward enough that you could theoretically run it again with minimal effort. A cookoff with four to eight entries? Manageable. Thirty entries with ten categories, a red carpet entrance, and a live band? You've set a standard you might not want to maintain forever. Start small. There's plenty of time to add complexity later if everyone wants to.

Focus on fun over perfection. The best traditions are fun for their own sake, not because they're Instagram-worthy. Focus on what makes people smile and lean in. What makes them want to come back? Usually it's not perfect plating or flawless execution. It's laughter. Friendly competition. Inside jokes forming in real time. The story that won't get old in the retelling. That matters far more than a professionally decorated venue or gourmet-quality judging criteria.

Document everything. Take photos. Record the announcement of the winner. Write down the recipes and scores, even if it's on a napkin. Ask someone to take a video of your best moment. This might feel premature—you don't know if this will become a tradition yet—but documentation is the bridge between year one and year two. When you can look back and say, "Remember how Linda completely roasted Marcus's chili selection?" you're already building anticipation for the next one. Plus, if this does become a tradition, you'll have priceless documentation of where it all started.

Collect feedback while enthusiasm is fresh. Before people leave, ask: "If we did this again next year, what would you want to change?" or "What was your favorite part?" You don't need a formal survey. A casual conversation works. But capturing people's thoughts while the event is still glowing in their minds gives you gold. You'll learn what worked, what didn't matter, and what small tweak would make everyone happier. (Spoiler: people often want the same thing. More time. More food. Less chaos. You're looking for patterns.)

The Critical Transition: From Year One to Year Two

This is where traditions either crystallize or evaporate.

Year two is hard because the novelty has worn off, but the structure hasn't solidified yet. People might assume it's over. Or they might assume they're invited but not be sure. Or they might think it was a one-time thing. You have to intentionally move from "that was fun, let's do it again sometime" to "this is now a thing we do."

Set the date before people leave year one. This is crucial. Not "let's definitely do this next year," but "Mark your calendar: October 15th, 2025. Same time, same place." This accomplishes several things. It signals that you're serious. It removes the ambiguity. And it gives people something concrete to hold onto. That date becomes real in a way "sometime next year" never does.

Send a save-the-date early. Don't wait until August to mention it's happening in October. In the months leading up to year two, drop hints in conversations. Send a casual text in spring: "Start thinking about your chili recipe—we're doing this again." People need time to get excited. They need to think about their contribution. They need to tell new people about it and figure out who they want to invite.

Reference last year's highlights to build hype. Text the group chat with a funny photo. "Does everyone remember when this happened?" Remind people of the moments that made year one special. Not to be sentimental (though some sentimentality is good), but to recreate that feeling of anticipation. You're essentially saying: "Remember how fun that was? Let's make more memories like that."

Keep the same core format but add one small improvement. This is the genius move that most traditions do instinctively. You keep 95% of what worked (the date, the participants, the basic rules) but change one thing. Maybe year one you scored on napkins; year two you use a simple online form or a shared spreadsheet. Maybe year one the winner got a high-five; year two they get a traveling trophy. Maybe year one you did blind taste tests, and year two you add a dramatic reveal moment with music.

This continuity-plus-one-small-change formula does something psychologically powerful. It tells people: "This is becoming a tradition. We're learning and improving. You belong to something that's evolving." It also keeps it interesting for the organizer and prevents that sense of "we're just repeating ourselves."

What Makes a Tradition Sticky: The Elements That Last

Not all recurring events become traditions. Traditions have texture. They have moments that people remember. They have physical and emotional anchors that make them feel real.

The Traveling Trophy. This might be the single most important tradition-building tool you can add. A trophy doesn't need to be expensive or fancy. It can be a spray-painted pot (like Linda's), a wooden spoon with the year burned into it, a thrift-store find that gets more personality every year. What matters is that it's physical and it moves. A winner takes it home. They display it. They text photos of it. The next year, someone else tries to claim it. The trophy becomes a protagonist in the ongoing story. It's a focal point that says: "This matters enough to celebrate with an object."

The Hall of Fame. A simple list, kept digital or physical, of every winner since year one. Maybe include scores, maybe include a photo, maybe include a funny comment from that year. This serves multiple purposes. It's a historical record that lets people remember who won when and by how much. It also creates what sports call "dynasties"—people chasing a second or third title, or trying to dethrone the current champion. It makes the competition meaningful because it's part of something larger than one year.

Signature Moments. The best traditions have rituals. An opening ceremony where someone reads a dramatic introduction. A specific song that plays during judging. A particular catchphrase that someone yells. A reveal style—maybe the winner is announced in reverse order, "saving the best for last," or maybe their name appears one letter at a time. These moments don't develop by committee; they usually emerge organically from year one and get intentionally repeated because people loved them. By year three or four, they're sacred. People would feel like something was missing if you skipped the traditional opening moment or forgot to play the song.

The Rivalry. As traditions grow, friendly rivalries develop. Maybe it's between siblings who compete every year. Maybe it's a person who's won three times and someone determined to dethrone them. Maybe it's two teams from different offices competing in a workplace bakeoff. These rivalries build anticipation. They create a narrative. People stop competing in a vacuum; they're competing against someone specific, someone they like but also want to beat. This turns a competition into a story with chapters, and people come back to find out what happens next.

The Comeback Story. Relatedly, traditions thrive on narrative arcs. The person who bombed year one and came back stronger year two. The new participant who somehow wins their first year. The veteran who everyone thought was too tired to compete but showed up with something incredible. These stories give the tradition a human dimension. They remind everyone that it's not really about perfect food or perfect scores—it's about trying, showing up, and sometimes surprising yourself and others.

The Legacy Entry. At some point, a tradition often develops a signature creation. A recipe that became legendary. A specific style that someone pioneered and now everyone tries to copy. A dish that didn't win but that people still talk about fifteen years later because it was so memorable (good, bad, or hilariously in-between). Legacy entries become part of the tradition's mythology. "Remember the year someone brought the five-alarm chili and everyone had to sign a waiver?" That becomes the shorthand for that year. That becomes the story you tell new people about the time the tradition got real.

Growing Without Losing What Matters

One of the biggest threats to a young tradition is growth paced wrong. You start with eight people, and suddenly you have thirty people wanting in. The intimacy that made year one special gets lost in the chaos of scale. Here's how to grow thoughtfully.

Add categories or divisions instead of just piling on entries. If you had four chili entries in year one and thirty people want to participate in year three, don't go from one category to thirty entries. Divide it. Create a "Traditional Red Chili" category and a "Creative/Experimental" category. Add "Family/Kid-Friendly" as an option. Now thirty entries are distributed across multiple categories, which means judges can handle them, the competition still feels manageable, and the event doesn't become a bloated marathon.

Invite new people through existing participants. The best way to grow is through word-of-mouth from people already invested. Someone who attended year one brings a friend year two. That person brings two people year three. This self-regulating growth keeps the tradition rooted in relationships rather than just becoming "an event that anyone can join." Plus, when people join through a personal invitation from someone they trust, they're more likely to understand the spirit and culture of the tradition.

Create roles beyond competitor. As your tradition grows, you need more hands. But here's an opportunity: not everyone has to compete. Some people might love to be judges. Someone might want to be the MC who announces winners. Someone might volunteer to be the photographer or the person who keeps the Hall of Fame updated. Someone might run the social media account. These roles distribute the organizational load, give people a sense of belonging even if they're not competing, and make the tradition less dependent on a single organizer's effort.

Documenting Your Tradition for Posterity

The things you measure, the things you record, the things you remember—those are what give a tradition meaning over time.

Score archives. One of the simplest ways to make a tradition feel real and lasting is to keep scores. This doesn't need to be complicated. A spreadsheet works perfectly fine. Year one, year two, year three—all the scores, all the entries, all the results. Why does this matter? Because next year, someone will ask, "Wait, did Marcus ever beat Linda's score from year two?" Now you can look it up. You can compare. You can say, "That was the highest score we've ever given." You can analyze trends. Digital tools like RevealTheWinner make this automatic—you score on your phone, and everything is instantly archived and comparable. But even a simple shared document serves the same purpose.

Photo albums and social media highlights. Make it easy for people to revisit year one, year two, and year three. A shared Google Photos folder. An Instagram account dedicated to the tradition. A simple website where someone posts photos from each year. This serves as a visual record and a way for people who were there to relive moments and for new participants to understand what they're joining.

A simple website or shared folder with history. The most durable traditions have an informal home base. Maybe it's a simple one-page website. Maybe it's a shared Google folder with a folder for each year. Maybe it's a Notion page where someone documents the rules, the history, photos, and results. This doesn't need to be elaborate, but having a central repository—not scattered across texts and Instagram and people's phones—makes the tradition feel official and accessible.

Year-over-year comparisons that fuel friendly rivalry. Once you have history, you can do comparisons. "Marcus has won three times, more than anyone else." "Linda's year-three chili scored 234 points, our highest-scoring entry ever." "The average winning score has gone up each year—the competition is getting fiercer." These comparisons fuel conversation, rivalry, and anticipation. They give people something to chase.

When Traditions Need to Evolve

The traditions that last forever are not the ones that stay exactly the same. They're the ones that evolve thoughtfully with the people involved.

Changing format. Maybe year one was a chili cookoff, but by year three, people want to alternate years—chili one year, soup the next, desserts the year after. Or maybe the rules shift slightly. Maybe you move from blind taste tests to knowing who made what. Maybe you add a judges' choice award alongside the popular vote. These format changes keep things fresh and prevent the tradition from feeling stale.

Accommodating new members. As new people join, they might bring new ideas. A new judge might suggest a different scoring rubric. A new participant might want to compete in a category that didn't exist before. New family members might join in. Successful traditions find ways to say yes to these expansions without losing their core. You might create new categories rather than abandoning old ones. You might add a new tradition without removing the old ones.

Handling when the founding organizer can't host. This is the big test. The person who started the tradition gets a new job across the country, or has twins, or simply burns out. If the tradition was so dependent on that one person that it can't survive without them, it was never really a tradition—it was just their project. Real traditions find new stewards. Maybe the role rotates. Maybe someone else steps up. The key is having enough structure that someone else can run it. Documentation helps. Shared ownership helps. Not making the organizer the protagonist (make the tradition itself the protagonist) helps.

The Tradition-Killers: What to Avoid

Some habits and attitudes can quietly destroy a tradition before you realize it's dying.

Over-complicating the rules. The tradition started simple: everyone brings chili, we score it, the highest score wins. By year five, you've added a rubric with fifteen subcategories, a judges' training session, a points deduction system, and a tie-breaking protocol. The magic dies. People feel judged and stressed instead of excited and playful. If the rules are getting complicated, that's a signal to simplify, not to build an even more elaborate system.

Taking competition too seriously. A little trash talk is fun. Genuine anger over who won is not. If the competition becomes so serious that people dread it or it damages relationships, you've lost the point. The competition is the vehicle; the relationships and connection are the point. If those are at odds, dial back the competitive intensity.

Not adapting when the group changes. The group in year one is not the group in year five. People move. New people join. Your kids get older. Someone's work schedule changes. If you keep doing everything exactly the same way without considering how the group has actually changed, the tradition starts to feel like a burden instead of a joy.

Letting organization fall on one person. This is slow death. The organizer gets burned out. They resent the tradition. And when they finally step back, the whole thing collapses because no one else knows how to run it. Distribution of responsibility—even small roles—ensures the tradition outlives any one person's capacity to maintain it.

The Legacy You're Building

When you commit to turning a one-time event into a tradition, you're not just planning parties. You're creating the framework for memories, inside jokes, and connection that might last decades.

Years from now, people won't remember whether the first chili was perfectly spiced. They'll remember laughing. They'll remember the year someone did something unexpected and brave. They'll remember the traditions you built—the trophy being passed, the dramatic reveal, the inside jokes that only make sense to people who were there. They'll remember showing up, year after year, to be part of something.

That's the real magic of tradition. It's not about perfection. It's about consistency. It's about saying to a group of people: "You matter enough to me that I'm putting this on the calendar again. I'm showing up. I hope you will too."

And when they do, year after year, you build something that transcends any single event. You build a legacy.

Ready to Build Your Tradition?

Ready to start a tradition that lasts? RevealTheWinner saves your contest history so you can look back at past winners, compare scores year over year, and build on what worked. Create your first contest →