The entire advertising industry is based on the idea that some spotless, shiny, pristine whatever it is suddenly materialized at just the right place, at just the right time. Cars zip along shadow-dappled country roads, down hills past fields of wheat. Pats of butter melt on stacks of “hotcakes,” steam rising ever so gently. Women eat salads and laugh. It’s not that driving on a country road, breakfast, or salad-bonhomie is fake or false. These are three real-life pleasures.