It happens to the best of us: You’re ready for dinner, the aroma of fresh pizza and fries fills the house. Before settling down at the table, you take a quick detour to the fridge to get the ketchup – and you can’t find it. You were pretty sure the ketchup was there the day before. You check everywhere, but you just don’t see it. You conclude that someone must have finished it, shrug, and get a new bottle from the pantry. (You should always have backup ketchup for emergencies.) And then, a certain unrecorded number of slices and some fries later, you go to put the ketchup in the fridge only to find the one that you had been looking for earlier sitting there, as smug as a plastic squeeze bottle can be.

Things have an uncanny way of avoiding our detection (or we have an uncanny way of not noticing what’s in front of us). Either way, the ability to conceal is a crucial survival skill to many animals (and, apparently, ketchup).

As the temperature drops, there may be nothing that says “comfort” quite like sipping some hot soup. With every spoonful, you can feel the warmth radiate throughout your body. Whether you are chilled, aching, or just tired, finishing a bowl of soup is like being wrapped in a warm blanket on the inside.

It is fascinating how this simple sustenance can be both an inexpensive meal and a gourmet dish. It is fed to prison inmates and soldiers – and also to presidents and kings. It exudes warmth and comfort to the family yet takes little prep and inexpensive ingredients. Anyone can handle the straightforward cooking process – cut this, boil that – and there are hundreds of varieties to please any palette.

It is possible to question why we “eat” soup instead of “drink” it, since it’s a liquid. The fact that we don’t put it in a mug is also troublesome. Isn’t soup just a hot drink? As an important part of the meal, deserving its own course and requiring separate utensils, soup is far beyond a beverage.

Long ago, soup was eaten as an accompaniment to bread, which was used to soak up the liquid. When people started eating the soup on its own, in the 1600s, they adopted the name we know today, deriving from the Latin verb suppare, which means “to soak.”

I’ll be the first to admit that more than a few things frighten me – unleashed dogs, letters from the IRS, taking out my son’s lunch box to pack on Monday morning only to discover the lunch I thought he had eaten on Thursday is still inside.

While everyone is entitled to his or her own individual obsession – such as arachibutyrophobia (the fear of peanut butter getting stuck to the roof of your mouth) or gelotophobia (the fear of laughter) – there is one phobia, called nyctophobia, fear of the dark, that affects almost half American adults today. Triggered by threats that are either real or imagined, it prevents people from going out at night, sometimes just to the car to get a bag they forgot to bring in earlier, and causes panic during power failures.

The dust is swirling in the air, the Pine-Sol is dripping down the cabinets, and the fake brownies are baking in the oven. While all of these are definitely the harbingers of our most intense Yom Tov, if there is one thing that says “Pesach is here” it is potatoes.

As each generation has become increasingly vege-phobic, limiting their weekly intake of green foods to pickles and mint chocolate chip ice cream, families feel lost without flour to fill in most of their meals. During this challenging time when pantries are bare and restaurants are closed, the community faces the threat of starvation, whether real or imagined. After all, there is a limit to how many nights in a row you can eat corned beef. (So I’ve heard; I have not personally reached that ceiling.) Nothing is readily available except baby fingers (which must be somewhat traumatizing for the children) and macaroons, which we buy every year, despite the fact that no one likes coconut. My theory is that we are so disoriented from the late-night arguments with our ovens and the exposure to toxic cleaning chemicals that, by the time we do our shopping, we honestly think that those macaroons will taste like the much-more-fashionable macarons. (They won’t.)

Now that the temperature has finally dropped, we hurry from our homes to our cars to our homes, and we have enough hot cocoa powder to satisfy everyone’s early morning needs. During these winter months, mothers everywhere shudder at the sight of children playing outside on chilly afternoons without their jackets. The sound of laughter and the crunching of dry leaves are knit together with the distinct call, “Go put on a jacket! I’m cold just looking at you!”

For thousands of years, people have erroneously thought that being cold caused one to catch a cold. The true culprit, however, was finally apprehended in the late 1700s by Benjamin Franklin, who, in addition to being a Founding Father, diplomat, and inventor, was a member of the Royal Medical Society of Paris and a few U.S. medical societies. Through his own observation and analysis, he understood that respiratory diseases came from other people and not from spending time in the crisp air without a coat. Franklin recommended that everyone breathe some fresh air each day, and he personally lived a long, fulfilling life taking his own “medicine.

A frozen landscape stretches out before you, empty in every direction. You feel like crying in despair but don’t dare because your tears would freeze as soon as they were formed. The cold claws of the Antarctic winter grip your throat in an unmerciful vice, trapping your voice with its silent strength.

Although this scenario is both literally and figuratively the polar opposite of the scorching Sahara, they have one thing in common: they are both deserts.

A desert is defined as any region that receives less than 10 inches of rainfall per year, which means that the continent of Antarctica is actually the world’s largest desert. Both hot desserts, such as the Sonoran and Mojave, as well as cold ones, like the Atacama and Gobi, are included in this category.