It is one of the many mystifying events associated with getting married: in exchange for agreeing to enter into a lifelong commitment with another person, people buy you cookwear and sheets. If they’re loaded or want your father to continue awarding them defense contracts, they give you really nice cookwear and sheets. But I was initially reluctant to register. I’m an avid cook and I’ve already got a bunch of great kitchen equipment, I inherited china sets from my grandmothers, and the whole thing seemed a tad unseemly. However, I was convinced otherwise by my sister. By not registering, she said, I would create a phenomenal pain in the ass gift-buying scenario for my guests.
I am nothing if not accomodating to my nearest and dearest, so I trotted off to Macy’s. The point of this post is not to talk about the registering experience, as that’s been documented roughly 3,628 times in the bridal blog world. Even if you’re not the marrying type you know the drill. They hand you a scanner gun, you walk around and point it at stuff, bingo bango, you’re done. (And suffice it to say that I navigated this path alone, as my fiancé issued only a blank stare when I asked if he wanted to join me in the housewares department. Then he thought a moment and asked, “Can I register for a plasma flat screen?” When I said that I didn’t think they sold them, he ambled off in the direction of the nearest overstuffed chair in the shoe department for a nap.
No, what piqued my interest is that when you register at Macy’s, they load you up with catalogues that have even more stuff you might have missed while wandering around the store with your Acme PU-36 Explosive Materialism Modulater. What emerged to me as the most ridiculous part of this whole process (and that’s saying a lot) is that these catalogues of pots, pans, and something called the Flavia Fusion Drink Station are chock full of pictures of couples making out in the kitchen.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to take away from this. Because of all the times my fiancé and I may have had a dalliance in the kitchen (a lady neither confirms nor denies), I can assure you that not once did it actually include any attempt to whip up a duck confit with port wine reduction. With such helpful page headings as “Work Kitchen Magic,” “Dream Machines,” “Stir Up Some Excitement” and “Heating Things Up,” I’m assuming that I am none-too-subtly being encouraged to draw a link between a $280 5-quart Le Creuset roaster and a long life of “May I have seconds please?” sex.
Food porn at its best.