Friday nights have always been sacred to me. Always. Ever
since I was a little girl.
Friday nights are supposed to be enjoyed. Revered.
Appreciated for what they are – the time of the week to wind down, relax, and
do nothing if you please.
My fondness for Fridays began long before my working days.
As a little girl I learned how special Fridays were. Of course, this was the
early ‘70s, so half the population probably can’t relate when I reminisce about
spending Friday nights watching The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family (yes,
original episodes when they were aired on prime time). No that there was that
much else to watch. Who had heard of cable TV then? Besides, I had such a crush
on David Cassidy that there was no way I was missing that show about the
musical family with the multi-colored bus.
But it was more than just TV. Friday night was “popcorn and
Coke” night.
Every Friday – long before the concept of air poppers or microwave
popcorn – my Mom would make popcorn the old fashioned way. In the pot. Just
pour a little cooking oil in the pot, pour in the kernels, wait for the oil to
get hot, and, wah-lah, there’s popcorn. I recall how when the corn would start
popping Mom would hold the lid on the pot, hold the handle and start shaking
the pot. I’m guessing that was to keep the popcorn from burning.
And with the popcorn came the Coke. Not in two-liter
bottles. The only way you could get Coca-Cola back then was in the smaller
glass bottles, sans the screw-off lid. (Bottle openers were a must.) Coke with
our popcorn was a big deal on Friday nights. It was the only time of the week
that we were allowed to have soft drinks. To think that kids today take for
granted such a treat as having a soft drink!
As a teenager Friday nights were a time for friends and
fellowship. More than one slumber party took place in my basement on any given
Friday night. The overnight parties started out as birthday surprise parties,
then just regular birthday parties. Then just for fun. My basement was party
central, in a clean-cut sort of way (pop and snacks only), and I remember
staying up until all hours of the night, chatting and bonding with my friends
about the “important” things in life (usually the talk centered around guys,
and which ones we liked at the time).
Needless to say, my fetish for Fridays has continued into my
adulthood. I really try not to do anything on Friday night, though I often have
to cook dinner. On those occasions, at least I make sure it’s something I like –
proper Friday night fare. In my childhood the Friday night meal was shrimp and French
fries. Yes! Or Tacos, yes. Fish sandwiches, yes. Meatloaf, no. Meatloaf is a
Sunday or Monday meal. As are pork chops. I have different foods labeled in my
head as to what day of the week they should be served. (Fried chicken is always
a Wednesday night meal; steak is always a Saturday night meal.)
It’s now Saturday, and as I sit here drinking my Diet Coke,
I know I should start tackling some of the work I brought home with me this
weekend. After all, Saturday isn’t Friday night. Chalk this blog up to
procrastination, I guess, and a wish that it was still Friday. But alas, Friday
night will come again (though I’m reasonably sure I’ll have to work late next
Friday night, which is almost sacrilegious in my book.)
Last night, though, as the boys and I cleaned the kitchen
from our Friday night fish sandwich dinner, my Friday Fever peaked to the point
where I developed a hankering for popcorn. But there was no microwave popcorn
to speak of in the house. Yet low and behold, I did have a package of popcorn
kernels. Guess who made popcorn the old fashioned way? In the pot, finishing it
off with lots of real butter for ultimate taste. The boys didn’t know popcorn
could be made in such a way. Yet it turned out to be a hit with them. And my
husband ate quite a bit of it too.
The experience sufficed for taking me down memory lane for
just a few minutes at least. And it reminded me just how precious those Fridays
have always been to me.
Not that every day isn’t a gift. But my fondness for Fridays
will probably always remain steadfast. Friday is for family. Friday is for
friends. No matter how bad the rest of the week, there’s always Friday night.
The Friday Feeling. It’s a good feeling. If only I could
take it, bottle it up and sell it on the open market. I expect that would make me a wealthy woman.
For the moment, though, I guess I’ll just stay poor. Poor,
but rich in so many ways – with my health, my husband and my children.
And a healthy supply of weekly Fridays – for life.
