The Good Plates

On a recent trip to Monterey Bay, celebrating the publication of my very first non-business book, I spent more on a set of four plates than I used to spend on rent.

Before you judge me, it’s not like I had a choice. Look at them. Hand painted. Smooth. No weird texture and scraping. Heaven to eat from.

 

One look, and I knew I was destined to be their steward. I wasn’t leaving that store without them. I knew it, the shopkeeper knew it too.

I do this at times.

But rarely.

I dislike shopping, abhor it, really. Exceptions are made for art galleries (of course). Local boutiques (of course). Bookstores (come on, of course). It’s here, in these magical places that I encounter that one thing meant for me.

I don’t immediately recognize it as mine, at least not consciously. So I tend to ignore its siren song as long as possible. I’m a practical person and can talk myself out of any purchase…unless I really want it, in which case, I can talk myself into any purchase.

Especially those that call out to me.

They are destined to be in my possession. Not owned, and not forever. It’s different, beyond the legal definition of chattels. Yes, I own them, once purchased, but none of this stuff comes with me when I die. I’m but a steward, a temporary caretaker of goods on earth. Beyond me, and let’s be real here, most of this treasure will be my heir’s trash, destined for a thrift-store-find that might, at best, be worthy of a TikTok reel long after I’m gone.

Still, these relics, for whatever reason, seem to be meant for me here, right now, drawn by some force I have no power to dispute. Even if I apply logic, even if I ignore temptation, certain things linger in my brain. I can’t stop thinking about them, long after I leave the shop.

I become obsessed with them. I lose sleep. I change plans. I forego friendships. I’m in a craze!

One such occasion, in Santa Fe, on a solo trip basking in the creative energy of that city (which, if you have not yet experienced, I highly recommend), I was strolling through the galleries of the plaza, and I happened across a colorful, textured painting in a window.

I’d never seen anything like it. Rolling hills. Colorful brush. Flowers and weeds. I felt like I had to touch it. But that’s a no-no in most galleries. Staring would have to suffice. And I moved on, certain I could not afford that painting in the window.

But it lingered.

That painting had a hold on me, and it wouldn’t let go. That’s how I know.

And still, I ignored the call. Cut the signal. I went back to my hotel, certain I could never afford that beautiful painting in the window.

But still, it beckoned.

This painting disrupted my sleep.

It would not be ignored.

No price was too steep…right?

So, to the shop I went the next morning, unsure what to do. Its price, I was sure, was much too high for me to afford.

I arrived too early, hoping to be on the road for my six hour drive. So I sat there, tapping at his gallery door, like that old Target commercial, “Open, open, open.”

And he did.

This gruff & friendly gallery owner, famous for sitting on his stoop, finally opened his door, and I said, “Good Morning sir, how much is that painting in the window?”

He recognized me from the day before. He knew where that painting belonged, too.

Rather than blurt out a price, he insisted I hold it in my hands, and hear its story, and that of its creator. No easy feat, as his cluttered gallery required the shifting of many other great works to even get close to my painting, the one in the window.

I learned how this painter used special strokes to create the textured brush, grass, and flowers, and with all those colors (wait until you see it). I heard how he lives nearby, hopeful his art means something to someone.

How I long for the same thing. Yes, this painting was to be mine.

How much? I asked.

I don’t remember the next fifteen minutes after asking that question. I was in a fugue state, half alive, half dead.

Growing up middle class, barely, I’d say closer to poor than the middle, art was not something we ever wrote a check for. In our house, art that didn’t come with the frame, or from Goodwill on Super Sabado, was made exclusively by my sister and I. We were the in-house artists, and our work was what only a mother would hang.

No, we didn’t spend that kind of money on things that hung on the wall. No, not in this house.

But again, I had no choice.

The art itself had made its decision. Its home was with me. I was to be its steward and yet, I had not comprehended my ability to do so. Despite having more money in my bank account than I had ever earned in my lifetime before, I still believed I was broke.

Instead of just paying for the painting, I asked that gruff old cowboy in his rocking chair on the stoop, if he would take payments.

“Sure,” he said. “Write me a check for four equal payments, post-dated.”

Checks?

That part was unexpected. But his kindness and willingness to work with me, a fledgling entrepreneur and appreciator of art, was worth the walk to the bank to acquire four counter checks.

I shook that man’s hand, and thanked him for one of the grandest purchases of my life. I just paid him more than I had ever paid for any one material thing in my life.

And I felt gratitude for it.

With no regrets!

And now, that painting hangs on my office wall. Sometimes I study it so close I can nearly taste it. I draw the line there, at licking art. I’ll sniff books and paper all day long, but I won’t be licking my paintings. That’s an expensive popsicle. And, hey, if I do, I won’t be telling you about it.

 

Should I divide the price by my days of pleasure, I’ve surely made a steal. It was an investment in my future, maybe not in dollars, but certainly in joy. Which , by the way, is precisely why I choose to eat on my precious, beautiful plates. For what, are we waiting for?

Every meal is worth the good plates.

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