Winter won’t officially be here until the 21st of the month. By then most of the Christmas parties will be over and we’ll be deep into present wrapping, food prep, and last-minute stocking stuffers.

But with the snow on the ground and that raw westerly wind, I don’t care when the calendar declares the season. For me, it’s here. Give me that old bathrobe, the flannel pj’s, and the fur-lined slippers. Then leave me in my nest in the den: the recliner sofa facing the big TV. Oh, and the warm cat who occasionally visits for a cuddle and a snack.

Recently, some friends and I chatted about the things that mean comfort to each of us. The most obvious similarity was comfort food, but most of us also have physical comforts that we look forward to. Those are mostly associated with cold weather. I guess in the summer we’re simply contented with the sun warming both our skin and our dispositions, the lack of multiple clothing layers, and the freedoms of the outdoors.

Oh sure, watermelon, swimming, barbeques – that’s all very nice. But I prefer the hunker-down, snuggly, cozy season, and it begins when my down comforter comes out of summer storage. It seems that the same weekend the air-conditioners get struggled out of the windows, it’s time to put the fluffy white duvet on the bed. I drift off faster and sleep more deeply when I’m cuddled up under that airy puff.

Freud would probably say it’s a return to the womb, or at the very least an early bassinet. I know when I was a kid that snuggling up under lots of covers not only kept me warm, but also safe from that terrifying monster that lived under the bed. Although I slept near the edge, I never dangled a hand or foot over the side, knowing full well he would grab me and pull me under. Those layers of blankets protected me from that hairy green ogre. My current midnight monsters, sleeplessness and arthritis, are somewhat subdued when I surrender under the miraculous down protector. I now know why it’s called a comforter.

Chattering cold mornings find me crawling out of the sack directly into my beloved pink fuzzy bathrobe. I noticed this autumn that eight years of non-stop warming have taken a toll on this cozy old friend. Its sleeves are tattered and the collar is worn, but its shabbiness makes it somehow even more comfortable. I don’t imagine that the bi-weekly washings contribute to the robe’s longevity, but breakfast prep and English muffin crumbs pretty much dictate regular trips to the laundry room. Come to think of it, I probably wear this ratty robe more than any other garment I own. If I figured out its cost per wearing, it would be enough to make a frugal Yankee proud … and a small price for comfort.

Both scientists and psychologists tell us that more memories are evoked by our sense of smell than any other sense. I could make an argument for the sounds of favorite old music, but it’s hard to fight the aroma of an apple pie in the oven. We’re in the season of homecomings and the time of year I love my house the most – when its aromatic welcome accompanies the bear hugs. Comfort food and comforting kisses, what could be better?

When my family arrives for Christmas, they count on their old comfort foods to be ready and waiting. Traditionally, the first night is homemade corn chowder and biscuits, something that works no matter what time they arrive. By the time Christmas dinner is in works, the whole house smells like turkey and last-minute cookies. By then we’ve all spent a few days slipping back into the way home comfort is supposed to be – morning coffee aromas wafting up the front stairs and laughter crackling while a cork is being popped.

I’ve heard a few twists on the old axioms, “There’s no place like home” and “Home is where the heart is.” One of my black humor favorites is “Home is where no matter how bad you screw up, they still have to take you in.” Luckily, I’ve never strayed that far. I think home is where you can’t wait to be whether it’s after a hard day’s work or months apart from family.

As much as I’ve loved the most perfect vacation, I’ve always enjoyed coming home just as much. The ratty pink robe that I’m too embarrassed to travel with awaits.

The two perfect bed pillows are plumped next to the just-right reading lamp. And the cat? Well, the cat, as usual, couldn’t care less. And that’s part of normal too … comfortable, everyday home.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren, Pa.