During the holidays you need every weapon in your personal arsenal: the fancy new cranberry chutney recipe, your grandmother’s gravy, an increased credit card ceiling, a bottle or three of wine, a strong stomach, and the knowledge that January 2nd, when life returns to normal, isn’t far off.
“There is almost nothing as reassuring as having some stock up your sleeve.”
—Fergus Henderson, The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating
Yesterday the mail brought the first thick Christmas catalogs, pages full of glossy, wealthy, healthy white families. The outdoor shots feature these American dreams gamboling in the snow, decked out in expensive sports gear. There’s the mandatory shot of the man of the family, schlepping a freshly whacked Christmas tree through the snow, leading me to wonder where the fellow is (Iceland? Antarctica?), or if the snow he was gallantly slogging through was manufactured. The indoor shots involve immaculate, beautifully furnished homes, the model standing thoughtfully in a velvet dress, a seemingly forgotten gift in hand. The gift is also an exercise in perfection, exquisitely wrapped, gold ribbons corkscrewing like Shirley Temple’s hair. The two blond children, a girl and a boy, are naturally adorable, as are their drowsy puppies. All, I’m certain, are housebroken.