The wife of a friend of mine is a very talented artist. She’s one of those crafty people who is always making things — pillow cushions, Christmas ornaments, sourdough loaves, you know the type. They’re very annoying, of course, up until the moment they bake a delicious apple pie with a lattice-style crust and serve it with homemade vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce or weave something out of what looks like twigs and dryer lint that you could easily frame and hang on your wall.

Crafty people, in other words, are a mixed delight. On the one hand, they’re immensely gifted with their hands and eyes, but on the other, they tend to be earth-loving recyclers and dour pessimists. They’ll make you a delicious pie, sure, but it’ll come with a lecture about how most apples these days will give you deadly cancer and that the reason there’s no cinnamon is because cinnamon is factory-farmed by nonunionized indentured migrants. Sort of takes the deliciousness out of it, to be honest.