There are multiple days a week that could be special to someone for a variety of reasons; it might be Taco Tuesday or Mid-Week Wednesday, but for me, nothing could compare to Pizza Night Friday.

There’s always this kind of warmth in the air whenever the faithful day arrives. This chirping and bubbling atmosphere that could have any sour attitude turned ripe once more.

The smell of baked bread and warm cheese fills my heart and makes my stomach growl, bringing a special smile to my face. That memorable red picnic blanket that has never seen grass, only the gray carpet of my parent’s living room floor. The oven timer beeping and low rumbling signal the start of a beloved weekly tradition.

The TV is always on whether it’s rain, snow, sleet, or sun. Sometimes it’s to the sound of a football game, the crowds jeering at the players, and the overly enthusiastic commentator making wild claims at the expense of every watcher’s ears. Other times, it’s the drone of the news foretelling the events of the day worldwide to our couch side.

To our couch, we own a lot of messes. To the spilling of blue dye and the throw-up of early years, too sick to attend our classes but never sick enough to stray from the buzz of the Cartoon Network Channel. But especially on these nights do the old graying comfort bring peace, as we nestle along its wide encompass. 

Only on cold nights—when the windows are covered in frost and the snow stacks to our ankles—do we only reserve the most heated pleasure our house offers, the fireplace. 

That smoky pit of burnt firewood and oil, to this day, brings me the most nostalgic feeling like a kid on Christmas. That crackle of popping air and that sleep-inducing heat—heavy and pleasant—warm our cold-bit toes and lighten the all too quickly darkening sky.

And to those long and temperate summer days, we allow the earthly scent of the outside in amongst ourselves. When the smell of toasted tomatoes and fresh sprung leaves mix in a blended aroma, engulfing the room like a blazing fire to dry timber.

And the TV, that reflective surface that holds thousands of majestic and infamous screenplays from fantasy to fiction in its vast and interconnected servers. 

The movie itself we often don’t care for, whether my family is cursed by a horribly produced sketchy comedy that my dad somehow always finds or a monumental life-altering documentary we stumbled upon about mushrooms, we never find those hours wasted.

Those simple and final days of our lives—that are always constantly changing whether we want them to or not—feel much more manageable when that anticipated and cherished Friday night arrives.