the sultry voice of Master Wegman

Wegmans’ Menu magazine is the worst kind of food/home pr0n there is. Worse than Food Network, worse even than Williams-Sonoma, this magazine caters to every dirty, middle-class, giant-kitchen, china-pattern-choosing, mistress-of-the-manor fantasy I have. Oh sure, Food Network shows me how the other half lives, and Williams-Sonoma provides the retail outlet for the accessories of my obsession, but it is Menu that makes it all seem attainable.

“Look!” my tormentor says. “Look how simple it is to throw a fabulous dinner party! Your plates will be color-coordinated with your table linens and you shall have a set appropriate for every season!” It whispers sweet nothings in my ear about slow-cooked beef stew and delicate baby vegetables served on shining, jewel-toned dinnerware and I am powerless in the face of such persuasion.

*sigh* It’s almost enough to make me forget the tiny apartment kitchen and utter lack of dining facilities for more than two people that is the lot of a single twenty-something in DC.

Damn you, Wegmans. Someday the kitchen island and cavernous dining room shall be mine. And then I will throw the fabulous dinner parties, the big family holiday gatherings, the sumptuous brunches that I’ve already planned in my most private of fantasies. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” will be a weekly institution, you’ll see.

(cross-posted from

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