I just had a bolt of lightning hit me about the last metaphor in the story, where the spoon handle is jutting out of the can of beans "with an air of comic obscenity." It happened after I woke up from a dream where some things were pictured like cartoons...a television remote, a car, and a drainpipe. They sort of glowed like black lights and had a black outline around them. I realized that these things were not pictured that way to make fun of them or put them down, it was because they were symbolic icons, like drawings on the walls of primitive native caves and temples. What Annie Proulx is doing here is creating or advancing an iconography, and emulating in prose what the artists she admires, like Richard Prince, did for the cowboy, the West, and now our own private story.