Sunday has always been my favorite night for dining with friends. This preference goes way back to an early learning experience.

During my college years, I worked summers in a fancy – but consistently busy – Cape Cod restaurant. The Sunday night patrons were always my favorite. The crowds were smaller, and nicer in many ways.

The Sunday diners were a bit more sophisticated, more relaxed, more knowledgeable about food and wine. They drank martinis, not rum and coke. When they shared dinner with another couple, their conversations were fun, but just as often turned to serious, meaningful topics. At that young age, I eavesdropped, gobbling up their cultured conversations and learning how fun banter worked.

The “Sunday Nighters” dressed and behaved more quietly than the Friday and Saturday guests. And their thoughtful manners convinced me that being polite mattered. I really looked forward to Sunday evenings and volunteered for every extra slot available.

And I thought, gee, maybe someday I could be one of those lovely Sunday evening people. Then of course, real life happened.

When my children were small, we didn’t eat out much, and I could never invite anyone for a Friday evening. Depending on their age, the week’s mess was Play-Doh, Legos, or eyes and ears from Mr. Potato Head. Saturdays were only a little better. Picking up the house, cleaning the bathroom, setting the dinner table AND cooking? Fuggedaboudit.

But circumstances change as the years go by. While raising children and working, I found myself never wanting to cook on Friday nights. The work week is over and I still have to cook? The answer to that question is why restaurants are packed on Fridays.

But because Saturday is THE night out, we did invite people for dinner parties and pulled out all the stops from Julia Child’s cookbooks. How we did all that when we had young children still amazes me – mostly because we were that stupid. Or maybe it was the last decade we had that much energy.

But Sundays, the end of the week, were so much easier. I had an extra day to neaten up the joint and an extra day to cook. The idea seemed more attractive as each year went by. It was a gracious way to end the week before tackling work Monday morning. Again.

The alternative of dining out on a Sunday seemed to change after Covid. Nowadays most restaurants are only open Wednesday through Saturday. Those quiet elegant Sunday suppers out are mostly a thing of the past

And now, between my accumulated years combined with the Sunday closures, I’m returning to Sunday evenings at home. With friends. But it has to be good friends, because they’re not going to get chicken cordon bleu. It’s more apt to be BLTs. And only good friends can accept the fact that there is no room in the coat closet and the week’s mail is stacked on the kitchen island.

We had a few friends over last Sunday evening. I asked beforehand, “Do you like chicken salad?” When I was assured that the answer was yes, I invited four others to share my large salad plates. One friend offered a pie from the Tidioute pie lady, making my evening even easier. We began with a simple good cheese, some fresh crackers, and drinks in the living room. Adding some vanilla ice cream to the warm peach apple pie ended our lighthearted evening.

As we chatted about the Sunday timing, we all liked it. Just because it’s my favorite doesn’t mean everyone should embrace the idea. But they did. And the idea of simply gathering with friends to wind down the week is more important than the food. I said, “You know, even tomato soup and grilled cheese would be more fun with friends.”

It’s not that I don’t enjoy dinner with Dear Richard. But stimulating conversation seven nights a week is challenging for any couple.

There are definitely going to be more Simple Sunday Suppers. I might still enjoy performing the full-on dinner party ritual, maybe once or twice a year. I could rest for a week, take daily naps, and work my way up to all that cooking, glass polishing, and table setting. But my mind and my ancient body are embracing the ease of just picking up my shoes strewn around the house and closing the laundry room door. And serving make-ahead soup, and maybe some garlic bread if I’m up to it. Tapioca pudding comes to mind. Make-ahead tapioca pudding.

Aging requires planning. As our abilities wane, as friends move away or pass on, spending time together is more important than what is on the plate. I’m planning quiet Sunday evenings. Golden years elegant.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren, Pa.