I cooked a chicken -- two, actually -- on Christmas Eve. I'd never cooked one before in my life. I ate some chicken, too, and I can't remember the last time I did that (though I have had bits and bites of other meats over the last year, and much seafood, for those of you keeping tabs on my faltering -- nay, fallen -- vegetarianism). I appeased my conscience somewhat by purchasing free-range birds, but boyfriend had to come to the rescue when the thought of cleaning them grossed me out. ("I stick my hand in where?!") I couldn't stop personifying the chickens: According to the packaging, they were young, so I imagined them as tough-acting but vulnerable adolescent boys whose voices hadn't even cracked yet, cut down violently and senselessly. "Where's the thigh on this poor little guy?" I asked, waving the meat thermometer.

Christmas didn't just teach me the true meaning of "giblets," but also these valuable skills: a) how to use the self-timer on my digital camera and b) how to rock my car, while E and a kind stranger push on it, so as to get it unstuck from a snowy ditch and back onto the slippery slushy road.