Christmas is coming, and the New Yorker is getting fat. So are Martha Stewart Magazine and a whole lot of others that are crammed with ads for things to buy as gifts. Unlike some people, I don’t get depressed when I look at pictures of merchandise I can’t afford. I’d feel silly in a diamond-studded wristwatch, and I don’t think I could pull off the swagger one needs to step out of a Ferrari. When I’m watching TV, I find I get used to the size of the screen and concentrate on the ball game, the movie, or the news.
I was looking at a picture of a 9 ½ inch tin-lined copper sauté pan that can be mine for $329 and will last forever so long as I keep sending it back to be re-tinned. They say it gives you great control over your cooking. It heats evenly and quickly and cools promptly when you take it off the flame.
I’m pretty good at sautéing, but with this tool I could be better. Usually, if I’m paying attention, I get good doneness. But apparently it could be better doneness – maybe perfect doneness. I try to imagine the ecstasy of eating food that is perfectly done, and it doesn’t come to mind. Marilyn Monroe complained that the men she made love to were disappointed when she turned out to be just a woman, and not the sex goddess they expected her to be. I think it might be the same for the perfectly sautéed flounder filet – nice, but still fish.
It seems to me that some of these electronic devices people are buying are mostly for showing off. They always want to demonstrate what the bright little things can do. During intermission at the opera someone offered to make on-line dinner reservations. Of course it was nearing evening on a Saturday, and none of the restaurants the gizmo selected as being nearby had available tables, but it performed excellently other than that.
Somehow I don’t feel left out when I pass signs in stores or look at ads in magazines that have those coded targets you can read with your pocket phone. I suspect what the electronic marvel would show me would be more advertising, and I get enough of that. If I were offered something that would shield me from ads, I might be interested.
It’s not that I hate expensive things. I like to drive down Washington Street in Duxbury and look at all those big sea captains’ homes with their lovely gardens and lawns. I’m glad I can admire them, but I don’t want to live in one. I’d rattle around in all that space. If I had the home, I’d need the money to pay for lawn care and appropriate furniture, and I’m able to imagine having that. What I can’t envision is being any happier. Even maid service has to be managed.
I’m afraid I have that condition dreaded all up and down Madison Avenue – contentment. It’s something that can’t be bought. If you get the enormous house, someone, somewhere is liable to have a bigger one. There would be smarter devices, more glittery watches, and faster cars. Only the calm satisfaction that the stuff you have will somehow do eases you into happiness.
Perhaps that’s a subversive thought at Christmas time when the economy needs a boost, and I do like nice things up to a point. But what I get from the fat magazines is a comfy feeling that there are a lot of possessions I can get along without.
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