Long, long ago, on one early Sunday morning, I made tracks with my husband through the empty streets of Minneapolis. On the pristine white of a newly stretched snow canvas, we took turns making snow angels and carrying our infant child in a front pack en route to the Walker Art Center’s Sculpture Garden. The Garden’s gigantic cherry had a thick layer of icing dripping from its round, red head while the tantalizing curve of the spoon scooped up all that was extra.
Finishing our walking tour, refreshed, we came to a standstill at the streetlights. Suddenly, the unusual and decadent void of silence was broken by a roaring European sports car with an overly preoccupied driver (on a now very antiquated portable phone) careening near us with a spray of fresh powder. The new mother in me became indignant when the driver fishtailed dangerously close.
The new father, a biologist by training, observed with complete calm, “There must be something in our DNA that makes us want the next best atlatl.”
What drives our seemingly insatiable wanting? This is the question to take on every outing.