Sometimes stories just land in your lap, unsolicited, waiting to be told. So it’s been these last few weeks leading up to the holidays.

First was the unusual gift of bacon that a friend sent me, featured in a well-known upscale catalog. This was no ordinary, store-bought bacon primed with chemicals and hormones. This bacon came from an elite farm where pigs are home-schooled and fed a diet of virtue and self-regard.

Only one problem: The bacon arrived warm, absent dry ice. When I called to report the problem, the sales associate apologized and arranged for a replacement.

Later that week, the second shipment arrived. Again, no ice. Given the nation’s unemployment problem, really, shouldn’t this firm be hiring?

Next came the challenge of finding an out-of-print cookbook. After exhausting several sources, I checked eBay’s media division, Half.com, where I spotted some used copies. I found one in “pristine” condition, but for a small stain on its dust jacket, offered by a dealer with a flawless rating. I placed my order.

When the book arrived, however, I was surprised to find that the meaning of “pristine”” had broadened to include water-stained pages, peeling front cover, and warped edges.

I e-mailed a complaint to the vendor.

Thirty minutes later came this response: “So sorry for the book! I will be refunding you fully! Hopefully you can at least use the recipes. Again I apologize!”

Intrigued by this triply exclamatory reply, I wanted to know more about the dealer. I Googled the shop. The owner turned out to be a prep school English teacher, moonlighting as a bookseller.

Then came the hunt for sweets. Each year at holiday season, I send a dozen or so food gifts to friends and others around the country. This year the search was on for “handmade” candy, as it’s now called, that would offer mouth-watering appeal and great packaging, to boot. I went to Foodzie.com, an artisan food marketplace. There I found a shop that displayed such childhood favorites as peanut butter cups and s’mores, housed in stylish boxes.

Serving as a guinea pig for my friends, I ordered a box. Indeed the confections tasted good; but the packaging was a show-stopper. Cushioned in layers of mauve tissue, the individually-wrapped treats arrived in a simple kraft box, tied with raffia. An elegant message tag and logo hung on the ribbon.

Whatever the actual message may have said, the larger message was clear: This was the essence of a handmade, personalized gift ”“ the antithesis of mass-produced. I promptly placed my orders.

As I e-mailed back-and-forth with the bakery, I learned of its unusual origin. The owner, an out-of-work architect, decided to combine her design skills and love of baking, and open a little shop. Suddenly the graphic style of those gift boxes made new sense.

Nor was that the only unconventional bakery that I found. Roaming around Etsy.com, an online crafts marketplace, I noticed a dealer selling pottery and biscotti. The common link between these two?

“Skilled hands and heat,” the dealer’s profile read.

Is there a lesson in these stories?

Yes, several, in fact. Old assumptions don’t always hold up. In the case of fancy bacon, for instance, even established gift venues can sometimes get it wrong ”“ twice.

The village of old, where you knew the baker, the bookseller, and the candy maker, no longer exists in physical form. Yet variations can be found online. In this challenging economy, savvy folks have re-tooled their skills, or devised unlikely hybrids, and headed straight to the Internet. With their biscotti, books, and s’mores, these bold new entrepreneurs are peddling remarkably old-fashioned wares.

— Joan Silverman’s work has appeared in numerous publications including The Christian Science Monitor, Chicago Tribune, and Houston Chronicle. She lives in Kennebunk.