Friday evening doesn’t start with the clock hitting 6 PM. It starts in the kitchen, when something sizzles differently. When the dinner isn’t rushed or made from leftovers. When there’s a second pot on the stove, just for indulgence. That’s how I always knew the weekend had arrived — not because of a calendar notification, but because of what was for dinner.
Growing up in Mumbai, Friday nights were quietly celebratory. Not loud like Diwali, not official like birthdays. But there was a shift — a soft exhale that settled over the house once the workweek ended. My mom would tie her hair differently. My dad would change into his oldest, softest kurta. The TV would go on before dinner, not after. And something indulgent would appear on the stove: pav bhaji, masala dosas, egg curry with extra fried onions, or chole bubbling with the richness of a recipe we didn’t have time for on a Tuesday.
The Food That Meant You Could Breathe
On Fridays, food wasn’t just about sustenance. It was a message. It said: you made it. You endured the buses, the deadlines, the homework, the humidity. Now here’s something that didn’t come from a tiffin box or a microwave. Here’s a meal that asked nothing of you but presence.
My favorite was pav bhaji. My mother would begin by mashing potatoes with a rhythm that seemed almost musical. Onions would be chopped finer than usual. Butter — the big Amul block, not the stingy wrapped cubes — would be used unapologetically. The pav would be roasted until golden, just shy of burnt, with a crisp edge and a buttery sigh. And that first bite, with bhaji so hot it burned your tongue a little? That bite was freedom.
Setting the Tone
Friday dinners did more than feed us — they reset the week. My dad would serve extra helpings, crack more jokes. I was allowed a Thums Up with dinner, which felt thrillingly adult. Even the table felt different. No one rushed. No one scrolled. Plates were refilled, stories were shared, even the silence felt lighter.
And it wasn’t always elaborate. Some Fridays it was simple: curd rice and pickle, eaten on the balcony with the city buzzing in the background. But even then, there was intention. There was the sense that this meal was the threshold — a passage from weekday chaos to weekend calm.
Now That I Cook My Own Fridays
These days, living alone in Austin, my Friday dinners are quieter. But the instinct remains. By 6 PM, I’m already scanning the fridge, wondering what I can make that’s more than just dinner. It doesn’t have to be fancy. Sometimes it’s just khichdi with extra ghee. Sometimes it’s frozen parathas jazzed up with garlic pickle. But always, it’s food that tells me the week is done, and I can let go a little.
And there’s music now — something soft in the background. No laptop at the table. A second helping without apology. It’s not about replicating the past. It’s about keeping the rhythm. Honoring that old idea: that the end of the week deserves a meal that makes you feel something.
Why It Still Matters
We all crave markers — signs that tell us we’ve arrived, that a transition is happening. For me, Friday dinner is still that marker. It draws a line between the doing and the being. It says, “Enough striving for now.” It invites you to sit, to eat, to remember that you’re allowed to enjoy without earning.
So I keep the tradition going, even if it’s just me and a bowl of sambhar. Because somewhere in that first, slow bite — in the smell of tadka, in the warmth of the food — I hear the week release its grip. I hear the weekend whisper: *You’re home now. Exhale.*
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
