Last Christmas, I went full matriarch. My family of four ditched our Brooklyn apartment and headed to my dad’s home in London, where, surrounded by dogs, children, and the technicolor tumbleweed that is discarded wrapping paper, I put on an apron and spent eight hours preparing a preposterous amount of food for 17 people. Afterward, shattered and convinced it had all gone disastrously, I fell in a heap on what I’m fairly certain were those same kids and dogs. Later, I gathered my people and resigned as the maker of our family’s Christmas meal. No one objected and this year everyone’s going to the pub for lunch.