Ouma: Come to my room! I made you a present.
Me: What did you make me?
Ouma: Come, I’ll show you.
(Pulls out clay pineapple).
Ouma: I painted this for you. Isn’t it lovely? I think it looks damn nice.
And now that pineapple is sitting on my dresser because isn’t the whole point of presents the love with which they were given?