I have settled for cheap dates.
The kind that I love, the kind that is the color of damp cedar bark and chewy like dried apricots, is aristocratically priced. Let’s just say it’s more than $14 and less than $16 per pound.
I eat one date in the evening before bed. Since I only eat one, I want it to be a dazzler. So when I settled for the cut-rate dates, I ate one and was undazzled. Eating two, which I did, didn’t help.
Knowing what’s worth spending good money on is an art, isn’t it? I don’t need swank knives, and Apple associates are under-impressed at how uninterested I am in the latest models (though being able to afford anything there is a privilege). But I do love soft sheets and the feel of a well-made mug in my hands.
The chichi dates are worth it, I’ve decided. I am buying the enjoyment of them. Most enjoyment - cover your ears, capitalism - can’t be purchased; the first morning light after a long, hard night or the pleasure of making and eating strawberry rhubarb pie with our sweetheart.
Our art form is knowing the enjoyments that can be purchased and appreciating, savoring, relishing them as if each were our first and each might be our last.
In other words, dump the cheap dates.
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