During the eighties, my husband and I often accompanied my grandmother, Sister Parish, to Sunday lunches with her friends and clients in " the country." On many a spring Sunday, we would meet at her New York apartment, where she would eagerly take the wheel of her cinnamon-colored Cadillac. Being a passenger with Sister was a roller coaster – she drove at breakneck speed and paid little heed to traffic signals. Alan Campbell famously remarked that she drove like an "outlaw," crossing lanes at high speeds without batting an eye.

We visited Brooke Astor's house in Briarcliff (Beechwood), Betsy Whitney's house on Long Island (Greentree), Albert Hadley's in Southport, and, my favorite, her childhood friends in Far Hills. These lunches followed a similar pattern: cocktails beforehand, no hors d'oeuvres, decadent creamy dishes like creamed chicken or shepherd's pie, vegetables from the garden, and lively conversation about the contents of that Sunday's New York Times. Interestingly, politics were frequently discussed as was the marital state of many high profile New Yorkers. Dominick Dunne might as well have been at the table. As we drove down the long pea stone driveways (except at Albert's), she would sigh and glibly proclaim "not a leaf in sight," observing the manicured lawns. On the trip home, we would discuss the menu and she often said there might have been "trouble in the kitchen" if a cheese souffle had not risen correctly.

Perhaps because of these memories, and those of happy weekends spent at friends' parents' houses as young city dwellers, I have a fondness for weekend lunches. Recently, we hosted a sinful Friday lunch for friends and clients at our house in Lyme and it was happily a lot like those with my grandmother. Here's how to host a memorable lunch that offers a welcome respite from our overly programmed busy lives.