A lot has changed about how we observe Sundays.

The change came gradually, but for me it seemed to quickly lose a lot of its specialness.

When I remember the way Sunday used to be when I was a young adult, I can almost smell the enticing smells coming from neighborhood homes.

I remember the days when walking home from church would bring those wonderful aromas coming from the homes I passed.

Sunday was the day many cooks produced a special meal because most cooks didn’t have to work on Sunday. Some made a roast with vegetables, mashed potatoes and gravy. Others opted for another favorite — fried chicken.

I remember when stores just started to stay open on Sunday I made a vow never to spend my Sunday shopping. I figured I could shop for everything I needed in the other six days. I wasn’t going to let Sunday be like every other day of the week.

I loved Sundays. Getting dressed up for church then walking home as the entire neighborhood had enticing aromas coming from the kitchens.

Sunday was also special for me because I could do what I wanted to do, not what I had to do.

And of course, Sunday meals were special in our house. My mother sometimes made my favorite dessert — her homemade lemon meringue pie. If not, there was always the deliciously moist spice cake she called depression cake.

Who remembers depression cake?

A reader was nice enough to send me an authentic recipe for the depression era cake. It’s made with lard, because back in the Depression butter was almost impossible to come by and there weren’t many alternatives for a shortening like Crisco.

Who besides me is old enough to remember when we had to make our own margarine alternative to butter? Cooks had to buy a plastic bag filled with a red dot that one had to keep squeezing to give the fake margarine some color.

As the youngest in our expended family, my cousin Buddy and I were given the job of squeezing the red dot until the gob of shortening gained some color. When Buddy got tired of squeezing he resorted to throwing the plastic bag against the wall.

I am amazed when I think about the delicious meals our parents could cook up even with a shortage of decent ingredients. And of course, there was also a shortage of money, but we kids never knew it. All we knew was our mothers made incredibly good food.

But even though the food was memorably, the laughs and conversation around the table was even more laudable.

I sometimes brought friends home to share a meal with my family.

While my friend Jackie loved my mom’s food, she was bothered by how everyone talked at the table, often all at the same time. She said in her home they ate in silence. That sounds terrible to me.

In my Italian family we cherished mealtime as more than just eating great food. Our family time of lively conversation was even better than the food. I remember how we all lingered over dessert so we could extend our family time.

When I got married and had a family of my own I continued the family traditions I learned at home. But the years brought an end to special, leisurely Sunday feasts.

For a long time I kept my vow to keep Sundays special. But little by little I found myself in the grocery store on Sunday. And little by little I gave up something special — a peaceful, family centered Sunday.

When the school district and community sports teams started having games on Sunday, that was the last nail in the coffin for our long leisurely meals. Then my objective became putting something on the table that could be gobbled quickly so we could leave for the game.

When you work for a community newspaper, that often means working on a Sunday. But covering a parade, car show or community event also had its charms. And it’s especially enjoyable in a small town when you can see so many people you know.

When the girls were young we still had one simple pleasures: a Sunday car ride. Andy and I would take our daughters for our photographic adventures, looking for interesting places in the county or at a scenic area.

Maria was the only one with a complaint on those trips.

“Why must you spoil everything by taking pictures?” she asked. “Why can’t you just enjoy looking.”

Well, when you’re a family of photographers, taking photos is part of the fun.

While Sunday was no longer a day of leisure, I tried to squeeze as much into the day as possible. Trying to be all things to all people meant often doing the wash late at night.

Our Sunday family trips came to an end when the girls got older and wanted to go with their friends, not with their parents. And a few years later life changed again when they left for college.

Now, leisurely Sundays and family excursions are just a memory. But it’s a grand memory I will always hold dear.

Email Pattie Mihalik at newsgirl@comcastnet