I have a shiny little Mac that slips into my leather briefcase like a pistol into a holster. I like the soft clickety sound of its keys; I like its sleek shell; I like its blue-white back-lit keyboard. The operating system and commands feel right to me. Working it isn’t a struggle. In fact, it’s a pleasure. I even like the way it smells — kind of new car mixed with ozone. But what I really love is that it’s the essential tool of my trade — the hardware that enables me to wrestle with the universe as I feed my family.