Years ago, in a former life, I was an assistant to Gayle King. Gayle is a gifting perfectionist; as part of the job, I spent many hours in her glass-walled office helping her think up the just-right present for someone or other. Her ability to track something down that felt totally them, whoever they happened to be, was unparalleled. But to me, her real prowess was the less-personalized gift. She kept a list of unusually excellent standby options on hand; a phone number I got to know by heart, for example, was to a now-shuttered Midwest shop called Nonnie Waller’s, which made southern-style pound cakes. Topped with a fresh bouquet of flowers and packed inside a hatbox, they could be shipped out the next day to anybody she wanted to thank or congratulate or celebrate on a whim.
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I saw the value in this concept of having a go-to, one-size-fits all item to help you automatically check off people on your list. But still, back when I was working for Gayle, I’d spend the better parts of November and December exhaustively shopping on a case-by-case basis for the many members of my extended Italian family. The masochistic Catholic in me feared it would defeat the spirit of Christmas to give the same gift more than once.
Then COVID happened. We would not be seeing any family members in person for Christmas of 2020, but I still wanted to buy them things. I came upon a pair of pale Eberjey slipper socks—sizeless and under $50— that seemed ideal for quarantine. Everybody could use some cozy footwear right about now was the basic thought. So: I ordered not one but three pairs for a trio of aunts in the 60-plus age range.
The feedback come January was enthusiastic. But even had it not been, I knew that forevermore I would be shopping for these women in multiples. It suddenly became clear that some gifts were actually worth repeating.
So how do you find the worthy ones? Again, I channel Gayle. One year when she took a trip to Australia, she brought me back a fringed handbag made of brushed olive-green suede; another year for Christmas she bought my future husband and me pure cotton bathrobes. Yes, these pieces were picked out especially for me—and, no, most people cannot afford to buy someone a Pratesi bathrobe—but they still point to a general and overriding quality that Gayle’s gifts also always had: one of deliciousness.
By delicious, I mean satisfying—and by satisfying, I mean the gift feels good in your hands. That, I now see, despite how ridiculously obvious it may seem, is the key to a repeatable gift. I suggest you simply ask yourself when shopping, Is this something I want to touch? If you do, you can probably assume that others will, too.
Last Christmas, I got the aunts a cuddly Nordic beach robe, each in a different neutral shade, and their responses were yet again overwhelmingly positive as compared to previous years, if only in the sense that they actually texted me a response in the first place. (During my individual-gifting years—when I carefully picked them out an Ole Henriksen sampler set, a coral costume necklace, and monogrammed Scotch glasses—I received no messages at all.)
This year, I’m mulling giving a long “Sherpa” vest from QVC—Bethenny Frankel’s a fan of the line. I may even get it for a fourth aunt, on whom I usually spend the most. Why deprive her? Plus it’ll be all the more satisfying to click add to cart (x4).
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