People are scurrying in and out of the kitchen as a warm, inviting aroma floods the dining room air. An outsider might think it was a holiday of sort and in a way, it was. A tradition that occurs weekly, at 1:00 P.M., on Sundays in the same house, with the same people. Sunday dinner doesn’t have a true purpose—other than the fact that everything starts at mealtime. From lighthearted conversations that emit genuine smiles to cold words that evoke cold wars—it all starts at the table.

Is the place of comfort the familiar faces that line the chairs? Or is it the reassuring feel of the wood under the table, the piece you grip when someone takes too long to pass the salt or speaks a little too loudly. The scraping of the chairs as everyone gathers around, eager to dig into the meal. Is it the laughter that comes from your sister from the other side of the spaghetti dish? Sunday dinners are important for many reasons, but to me, they mean security.

To be able to reminisce about the chairs or the way the wood feels. To look back upon the multitude of terrible occasions, wonderful occasions, holiday celebrations. Security is the sense that you dread the week ahead of you, but know that next week’s Sunday dinner might evoke other feelings. It will be a great week, perhaps.

Sunday dinners are important because they provide comfort—in all shapes and forms. Whether the meal be extravagant or boxed macaroni sloppily placed on five waiting plates—it’s there.

The stress of work, the stress of college, and the stress of life linger over you like a personal rain cloud. 50 pages of paper to write, a hundred articles to edit, and a million people to impress—but there is no need for that at Sunday dinner. Conversations start when your brother rolls out of bed, the aroma of freshly baked bread luring him out of his sleep. They start when you stumble down the stairs—awestruck that during the impending doom that is finals week, you pull yourself away from the computer.

You cannot miss Sunday dinner.