When he was little, my brother called lobsters “lahspers.” I’m not sure why he was even talking about them, though, because we lived in New Mexico, where there are no sea critters to be found. There was a Long John Silver’s, and that was it.

But I had the real thing over New Year’s, and maybe it’s due to my landlocked upbringing, but damn, those fuckers are delicious.

And I do say “fuckers” because my hands are still covered with tiny, painful nicks and jabs from where the shell gouged into them. But maybe that’s my fault for eating in a frenzied whirl, like a starved maniac? Maybe, also, the melted butter all over my fingers made me a little clumsy.

This was the first year I got to participate in what is now Karine’s NYE tradition in Vermont, but she’s been doing it for several years, after being faced with the challenge of a turkey deep-fryer: a big ol’ stainless-steel pot, with a temperature regulator, just begging for something to be cooked in it. She appreciated the theater of a deep-fried turkey, but wisely saw that all that dirty oil was not something she wanted to face with a hangover the next day.

Thus, the lobsters were summoned, from the northern reaches.

As a way of celebrating the new year, the lobsters seem perfect. On a superficial level, they’re the logical complement to champagne, and due to price and difficulty of eating, they have the suitable just-once-a-year feeling about them that good holiday food should have. (I know, New Englanders are scoffing right now. But for me, lobsters average out almost to once-a-decade.) They’re also a lovely bright red, the importance of which can’t be overstated in the middle of winter.

And this year, when Karine had chosen a dinner theme of “The American Apocalypto,” well, those little beasts looked just right on our plates, burnt-red as Satan’s hide, with waggly eye stalks, wiggly legs and other demonic details.

Which brings me back to the gashes all over my hands. I wouldn’t normally say getting wounded in the course of dinner is good, but this seemed like a suitable kind of penance for the utter sweetness and perfect texture of the meat.

Or maybe it’s proof that working hard for something makes you appreciate it more–which is a lesson I have to say I never internalized. While most people’s parents told them this, mine in fact told me the opposite: that just skating through is the way to go, as it makes you feel exceedingly clever. Perhaps if we’d had lobsters when I was little, I might’ve had a stronger work ethic? Perhaps if I’d eaten lobsters at every new year, I’d be inspired to actually make resolutions.

At any rate, as with the crabs in Maryland and the sea urchins in Greece, I was also reminded just how much some things don’t want to be eaten. And yet we are such ingenious humans that we now have dedicated tools for doing so: giant pots, tiny pokers, silver-plated claw-crackers, even little bibs to protect us as we gouge out the livers, like so many ancient Greek oracles. (My liver augured well for the coming year, I’m sure.)

Wait, I’m getting carried away, the music is swelling for the dramatic finale–and I didn’t even mention Julia Child! We spent all day watching old episodes of the French Chef, which, like the Muppet Show, has aged very well.

As fortune would have it, there was a lobster episode, which was sort of like Faces of Death, but for crustaceans. Luckily you’re spared the vision of 20-pound “Big Bertha” drawing her last on camera, but you do get to see Julia cheerfully put a brick (or was it an old-fashioned iron?) on top of the lid to make sure the smaller critters don’t escape their boiling torment.

So, dinner at the gates of Hell, welcomed by Julia Child–a mighty fine way to start the new year. I feel like I can handle anything now.