Today, the remnants of Tropical Storm Ida wreaked havoc on the mid-Atlantic shore, bringing our short-lived heatwave to a resounding close. Inland, a dark day of wind and rain. Tiny, icy raindrops pelted my umbrella to and from work, mimicking the sound of a thousand needles piercing taut fabric. The wind gusts jerked my brolly and me to and fro, and I was sure that at any moment we'd take off in a Mary Poppinsian adventure across town.
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When Gus and I moved to Philadelphia, only a few accoutrements made the cut and came with, incidental items brought only to beautify and familiarize our new home. One of these carefully chosen items, a hand-me-down Devon Motto Ware plate, hangs above our kitchen window, its butter yellow face decorated with a small cottage surrounded by trees. Painted in an arc on its rim are these words: Enough's as good as a feast.
This simple saying is striking in its quiet contrast to the popular attitude that long prevailed in this country, before being cut short by the current recession. The notion of the bigger, faster and fancier, the better. Countless lives lived far beyond means, greedily consuming and acquiring like so many gluttonous and revelrous Bacchuses. Big cars, big houses and big talk, a pissing match of epic proportion. And now, in the haze of a nationwide hangover, there is something comforting and uncomplicated in the time-tested adage hand-painted on my plate. Just enough means no congealed leftovers, vinagered bottles and foggy memories. No broken banks or hearts or promises. No stomachaches, headaches or pains in the neck. No regrets. Just, enough. Enough to be satiated and satisfied and no more.
Yes, enough is as good as a feast. And in someways, maybe, even better.
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