For years I didn't invite people round nearly as often as I wanted to, because in my head an invitation meant a production — a menu, a clean house, three courses and a frantic afternoon. Then a friend turned up unexpectedly one cold evening, and all I had was a pot of stew, some bread and a jar of jam for afterwards. It was one of the nicest evenings I can remember. I've been trying to keep it that simple ever since.
Cook one thing
A single pot in the middle of the table is the most welcoming meal there is. Stew, soup, a big tray of something roasted — food that can sit on a low heat while you talk and doesn't mind if everyone's late. Put bread beside it and you're done. Nobody has ever left my table wishing there had been a starter.
Don't clean the whole house
Clear the table, sweep the kitchen floor, turn the overhead lights off and a couple of lamps on. That's enough. Friends aren't coming to inspect the skirting boards; they're coming to sit somewhere warm with you. A slightly lived-in room is more relaxing for a guest than a spotless one anyway.
Let people help
When someone asks what they can bring, give them a real answer — bread, a pudding, something to drink. When they offer to dry up, hand them a tea towel. Some of the best conversations happen at the sink at the end of the night, and letting people pitch in makes them feel at home rather than hosted.
The evenings I remember aren't the impressive ones. They're the ones where the food was plain, the candles burnt down, and nobody wanted to leave. That's well within anybody's reach, any night of the week.