Before

Pick one category and one date, four to six weeks out. Look for something everyone has attempted at least once: brownies, banana bread, a lemon cake, or a pie.

Find your lawn: a cul-de-sac, a driveway, a churchyard, or the park pavilion. Borrow folding tables and a canopy, and buy the cheap bunting at the dollar store.

Recruit bakers by promising nothing. Say outright that beginners, kids, box-mix users, and one-oven apartment dwellers are all welcome, and that the prize is a surprise. Set entry up in Plurality so you know your headcount, and use the Needs and Volunteer tab to get folks to help out, from setting up to being judges.

Line up two or three judges who are neighbors, not experts: the oldest resident on the block, a kid, and the owner of the corner bakery if you can get them. And write the one rule that matters onto the invitation: help each other.

During

Number the entries and judge blind. Anonymity keeps the competitive folks honest.

Judge out loud and generously. Every entry gets one specific compliment before any critique, and the judges say the baker's name. This is where a competition becomes a welcome.

Then cut everything up and feed the crowd. Nobody takes their bake home; the tasting table is where the block actually mingles, plate in hand, arguing about whether the winner's crumb was really superior.

After

Give the winner something ridiculous and enduring: a painted wooden spoon, a thrifted trophy, or a cake stand that travels to next year's champion. Take a photo of the whole table before it's demolished and invite folks to record any other Moments.

Collect the recipes into a one-page neighborhood zine and put a copy through every door on the block, including the folks who didn't come. That handout is next year's invitation, and it puts the names of a dozen neighbors into everybody's kitchen drawer.

Then hand the hosting to the winner, and pick the next category by vote before anyone leaves.