The Iron Chef.

I almost forgot to mention the awesome Christmas present that my brother got me: an iron skillet. I can cross #15 off the list now, just by making an omelette! This thing is great... at least, it will be, once I use it.

You see, I did a foolish thing -- I told people that I got one. Instantly, I was overwhelmed by culinary experts ready to caution me on the proper care and handling of a skillet: Don't use water/use water, don't use soap/use soap, don't use salt/use salt... and yet, throughout all of these meticulous directions I received, everybody summed it up by then saying, "basically, just leave it alone." In conclusion, I figure that if I recognise that it's a big slab of iron, and treat it accordingly, it should be fine.

And a fine skillet it is. I haven't made a single breakfast with it yet, but I've already been swinging it around like it was a Wiimote, honing my combat cooking skills for any would-be intruders. In fact, I almost decided to give it a name, like all proper weapons, except that its handle was about an inch too short.

Actually... that's perfect.