I hate gifts. I hate giving them. I hate getting them. I hate watching people open them. I hate unwrapping presents and having to pretend that I like them. “Wow! A vegan cookbook! I’ve been wanting one of these!”

Not only do I not want any kind of cookbook, but all our available shelves are crammed with rare books for Benni’s resale business. This little baby is going right back to Barnes and Noble to be exchanged for something useful, like a Bette Midler CD – which I will play while dining on non-vegan take-out.

I have very specific tastes, and I’m much happier picking out my own presents. My poor husband has learned, after many years of hearing “Is this some kind of a joke?” when I open his gifts, (like a toaster for Valentine’s Day) that the safest thing is to just take me out to dinner. Most of my friends also respect my preference for events over things-wrapped-in-boxes, so around my birthday I get a bunch of dinner invitations which stretch the celebration out to a couple of weeks. What could be better?

One present I always do appreciate is a houseplant. Some people say “You can’t be too rich or too thin.” I say “You can’t have too many flowering cymbidiums.”

I live in Los Angeles, where plants are cheap. I was staying with a friend in New York, and went to a florist to buy her a house gift. The potted orchid that I can get in L. A. for twenty-five dollars was sixty bucks. When I pointed out the price difference, the florist explained that the plant, like me, had also flown in from California, and I was paying its air-fare. As with food, I guess it’s better to buy plants local.

One of the loveliest and most original gifts I’ve ever gotten was a birthday present from my friend, Rowena. She paid in advance at my local florist for four lavish bouquets that I could order at any time during the year. How luxurious to be able to just walk around the corner at Thanksgiving and get a pre-paid centerpiece!