Now we are done hunting and giving and receiving and probably returning the latest generation of stuff we never dreamed of needing, let us please attempt to divine the meaning of Bob Staake’s The Donut Chef, in which an ordinary baker is driven by the competition to producing such extraordinary confections as donuts laced with kiwi jam and served inside an open clam, some starry or shaped like macaroni or calamari, then others made from spiced rum pears and peanut-brickle buttermilk.
Anybody? Okay, you probably still have thank you notes to get to, and odd size batteries to chase down, yet I can’t be the only one not growing their own turnips and butchering their own chickens and knitting their own sweaters who doesn’t wonder when we’re all going to be able to sit down together and have a laugh at our formerly mesmerized selves.
We never do, though. Almost never. You don’t see so many people around anymore with those stupid Vulcan attachments on their ears that probably cost a fortune a couple of Christmases ago, or at least they’re not talking quite as loudly, so I guess that’s something. Pokemon merchandise. We seem to have stemmed that tide. Last year, iPads and Bakugans, next year something else, and the year after, and the year after that, yet in all of this inexorable progress, I have my sights trained on even the littlest steps backward, temporary maybe, but long enough to consider every fork in the road we may have passed once and never stopped to notice.