Betsy McCall, What a Pal

I don't buy magazines very often. I only subscribe to one—Gourmet—and sometimes I just flip through it and set it aside because the recipes are unapproachable or not likely to be liked by the people I cook for. There is never a surprise in Gourmet, and besides the occasional great recipe in the Everyday section, there are few things I tear out.

I would enjoy my issues of Gourmet more if they had fewer ads and something like Betsy McCall, a paper doll with a set of clothes and accessories to cut out and play with under the dining room table. My mother subscribed to McCall's when I was a kid, and I was allowed to read the Betsy McCall adventure and cut out the doll and clothes. If Betsy went camping in the story, she would come with a set of khakis, a tent, and a canteen. If she went to the tropics, she would come with a grass skirt, a swim suit, and a beach ball.

Paper dolls were the thing to play with when I was a kid. They were cheap or even free, and they provided hours of imaginative play. It was easy to change their clothes, and making their accessories—houses out of shoe boxes and odds and ends cut from catalogs—was part of the game. Creating their flat world under the dining room table assured that no one would accidentally step on them or shatter the pretend paper town I could live in for a time.

The only problem with paper dolls is they are one dimensional. You've heard the phrase "a mile wide and a foot deep." That's my old friend Betsy. No matter what she was wearing, turn her over, and she's an article by Heloise about removing carpet stains. She was just what you could see on the face, and even when wearing a hula skirt and dancing to the ukulele, there was nothing else going on. She didn't cast a shadow, and if she'd had skin, she'd have been only skin deep.

I know people like that, and I'm inclined to start referring to them as Betsy McCall. Not mentioning any names here, but I could say "that man is such a Betsy McCall. I bet his clothes have tabs to keep them on." Or, "turn that woman around, and she's probably got a Lysol ad plastered across her shoulder blades. She is such a Betsy McCall." I suppose if I did that, I would tarnish the memory of my paper doll friend. Maybe being one-dimensional wasn't so bad. If there had been more to her, her depth might have inhibited my imagination, or she might have asked to play on top of the table instead of underneath it. Imagine the consequences. And imagine if Gourmet started offering a paper doll, something like a paunchy Emeril with a clip-on apron and an ad for Viking ovens on his reverse side. He would have a speech bubble filled with irritating catch phrases like "BAM!," and then I'd want to rip off his little head.

I guess I should just be happy with the memories of Betsy and accept Gourmet for what it is. And I should let shallow people be shallow and not mix them up with the concept of being paper thin. If only I could still fit under the dining room table without bumping my head, though. There is a fascinating world that goes on down there if you let it.