My mom would buy a whole chicken for dinner instead of packages with segregated  parts. It was my job to clean and cut up the bird. After removing the giblets, I would choreograph a chicken dance holding the bird by its wings and flapping it around, moving its legs into different positions, dangling the neck in inappropriate places—it was a fun job for a goofy kid. Then I would get down to business, imagining myself a surgeon with a steady hand and penchant for grossness. I’d skin the bird as taught to me on some TV cooking show. Like an orthopedic surgeon, I cut along the joints of the wings, thighs and legs. Then, I’d free the back from the breast taking care to keep the wishbone intact. I knew that wishbone would make someone’s wish come true—that’s why everyone would say, “I call the wishbone.” Now I buy chicken thighs so there aren’t wishbones to wish on anymore. But when I see a little wishbone pendant on a necklace, a Jack Russell Terrier that looks like the dog that played Wishbone on PBS or the real thing on a holiday turkey, it’s still a sign of good luck. And I wonder how many wishes have come true from wishing on a wishbone.