Confessions of a Dish Ho
Sometimes the best way to convince yourself that life is worth living is to go shopping. Shopping is fantasy. Shopping allows the imperfect to reach perfection, to dream, to concoct the perfect life, the perfect kitchen, the perfect bedroom. And, of course, life will be perfect in that perfect kitchen, perfect bedroom. Never mind the notion that marketing controls us, making us robotically purchase things that we have been programmed to buy, never mind that we all spend money we don't have. I know for a fact that I will eventually achieve the total-body-orgasm right there in the Pottery Barn dish sale corner. I just know it. And after that, my life will be perfect. I just know it.
I was a child of divorce back when people whispered mean things about children of divorce. As a matter of fact, and this is hard to believe for anyone under 40, I was the only kid in the whole school that had no father at home. I don't remember it bothering me, honestly, I don't remember thinking that my life was at all different than anyone else's. But it was. There were no family dinners, no reunion vacations, no happy photos marking the years. Family was not really ever mentioned. Family wasn't really thought about.
Single mothers back then had few options. My mother always worked, we basically took care of ourselves best we could. We had little money, and never had a car until I was around 17 and already out of the house. I had my first apartment at 18, and furnished it with the usual hand-me-down crap. Even with tattered furniture not fit for Goodwill (a nine foot long couch made of hideous green, blue, and gold brocade and a fake leather chair that had been clawed by some cat in heat that my mother got during one of her crazy periods) and chipped dishes, I took pride in the little hovel I called home. I slapped some afghans over the rips, found coordinating pillows, covered the chips in the dishes with creative lettuce placement, and marveled in my sudden talent for creating a beautiful home from shit.
When I got married, I got my first matching set of dishes. The Earth shook. Mountains moved. The sun melted in the sky. My life was changed forever. From the dishes, not the guy I married, of course. I didn't have anything pretentious, like bone china or formal platinum edged settings with delicate flower patterns. It simply wasn't that kind of marriage. Instead, I had a setting for four, multi-colored thin stripes around the edges, something that someone absently picked up at Fred Meyer on the way to the wedding. But it was beautiful to me. Sometimes I would just hold a dish and gaze at it, knowing I had three more. That was how it began. If you had noticed, you might have been able to spot the signs: the glazed look in my eyes, the shaky hands, the wandering mind, the new cooking magazines (aka 'perfect wife' porn) that suddenly littered the tiny living room, their lurid pictures of asparagus quiche splayed for all to see. The dishes lasted longer than the marriage, a fact surprising no one.
Much of my life was spent in apartments. Houses were just too expensive in the city. But I always dreamed of the day where I would have a house, where I would have a little yard that I would merrily tend to, growing the most glorious tomatoes that people would come from miles away to admire; where I would be the gracious hostess of family dinners where we drowned in laughter and perfect hor d'oeuvres served on perfect matching dishes that would never be chipped.
When I finally got my house, the first thing I did was plant tomatoes. It was only three bushes of Beefsteak, my city yard being significantly smaller than the one in my fantasies and costing quite a bit more. I watered them, tended them, talked to them, coaxing the little red gems out as if they were my children. When the first child ripened, I plucked it, faint with joy, running into the house to make the most perfect BLT ever known to mankind. I had a fresh $5 loaf from Great Harvest, hand cut bacon from the butcher, lettuce fresh off the farm truck, and my own tediously hand-made mayonnaise. Never mind that the tomato was 2" in diameter, and barely covered a quarter of the sandwich when sliced paper-thin. I had mastered growing my own food, albeit slightly undersized. I could produce life from soil and water! My womb shuddered. I was on the path to Real Woman.
I set out to find the perfect dishes for my perfect house. I can't even recall those first dishes. Like so many addictions, it is all a blur now. But the first set was replaced with a second set. Then I needed something for the perfect "formal" dinner, even though I hated formal dishes. So I got white, with a silver trim, followed by coordinating silver chargers and silver wine glasses. And silver and white napkins, with real silver thread, and thirty silver metallic candles that, when simultaneously lit, would worry even the most casual of Fire Chiefs. Then came the Thanksgiving "informal" dishes, the sage green ones with the raised grapes on the edges to evoke an autumnal harvest motif, complete with matching sheaths of wheat to place on the table next to the turkey-shaped cranberry holder, matching cranberry candles (I will skip the harrowing story of the hand painted grape candles that actually caught on fire one year...) and miniature soup pumpkins with coordinating turkey butter plates. And the hand stitched turkey linen napkins. And the matching sage green wine glasses. Forgive my shocking lapse of judgment following a particularly rousing pre-holiday shopping trip, where a friend had to talk me out of the matching pilgrim hats to complete the theme. Thank you, Annie.
Then the everyday dishes, the ones with the art deco Italian posters on them. That was followed by the sunny yellow dishes, to keep us from getting Seasonal Affective Disorder in the winter. And the winter white dishes, when the yellow ones got to be too fucking cheery. Then the white cabbage majolica bowls with matching plates, to better accent brilliant summer vegetables in all their simple glory. Then the Guy Buffett plates with scenes from rustic Italia, along with rare matching paper napkins (kind of the Guy Buffet lifestyle, where if you just close your eyes you can imagine sitting in the outdoor cafe, sharing intimacies over a bottle of Barbera). Of course this is paired with coordinating black chargers. And black wine glasses. In four sizes.
For summer, there was the sea theme: white platters with red lobsters on them. And matching bowls. And coordinating with another lobster pattern, picked up on sale two years later. And little seashell, oyster, clam plates, saucers, and serving pieces to finish it out. Oh, and then the orgasmic Italian soup tureen with matching platter and four delicate shell serving pieces, the one with the beautiful handpainted sea creatures in bas relief. The one I first saw in Santa Fe in 1996, nearly dying when I saw the price. I stalked her, and years later, she was mine.
For Asian food, there is the complete set of blue and white fish theme dishes, with coordinated chopstick holders and matching teapot. And clear fish shaped dishes with matching fish bowls. And an entire ocean of various fish-shaped accessories. For Mexican feasts, there is the chile pepper theme, with matching chile pepper napkins and playful red candles, of course. And about three dozen cazuelas of various sizes, shapes, and functions. For Spanish food, the pale yellow paella plates, with matching giant yellow serving plate and yellow condiment bowls. And matching yellow striped napkins. For casual country dinners (on my .06 acre estate), there are the olive plates, some square, some round, with matching olive platters, sunflower table cloth, olive pitchers, and seagrass chargers. Yes, seagrass. Shut up.
The fact is, I can't stop. I am a dish ho. I would do anything for the perfect table, to create that happy family memory, that one moment where my womb shudders and I reach that elusive pinnacle of womanhood. The one where people weep and fall to their knees the room is so beautiful. The one where all the food looks like the cover of Gourmet. The one where they gasp at the matching accessories, color coordinated and perfect, just like my life is not. I nearly reached it once, a summer dinner with friends in 1998. When they entered the dining room, one of my dear friends exclaimed, "Chargers!!! My God, you have matching chargers!!!" I swooned with delight, feeling a slight womb shudder, which could have been a full-on knee-buckling orgasm if it hadn't been for her idiot husband at the time interrupting our rictal gazes with, "What the fuck is a charger?"
I can only dream of my dishes now, as my life consists of beige food served on plastic plates with plastic utensils. I have pictures of them with me, my precious dishes, and I peruse them when I am feeling particularly low. Their pristine beauty beckons me in shades of white, yellow, green, silver, brown, black. Truthfully, my time in Iraq is really just a thinly veiled excuse to buy more dishes: the huge wheat harvest platter in Toledo, the three (don't ask) Turkish tea sets from Istanbul, the coffee pot from Dubai, the tea pot from Izmir. And Christmas this year will be my very own agnostic hajj, the very pilgrimage to the Mecca of my illness: Italy. Merely purchasing the tickets made my heart flutter, with visions of pottery, glassware, and larger than life ceramic platters dancing in my head (really, if the truth be told, it was more like spinning my head a la 'The Exorcist'). It was fucking k-a-r-m-a that the hotel I booked in Venice came with a free tour of the Murano glass factory (cue angelic humming in the background...).
With each dish is the potential of perfection, of a life that is rapturous in female domestic bliss. Each dish holds the fantasy that my life will be happy, positively shrieking with familial joy. With each dish is the invitation to my friends, to my family...the vision of my domestic ecstasy being consummated as I float into the dining room, smiling, every hair in place, perfect serving platter in hand, looking out to see them needing me. The obvious problem with my vision is that my family has never accepted a holiday invitation to my house, and probably never will. And while I was busy working/schooling/shopping/fighting world injustices/emasculating every man I knew, I somehow forgot to have children. Did I tell you about my tomatoes?
Again, it is no coincidence that, following my rather declivitous spiral into daveland, I spent the next forty-two consecutive hours online purchasing dishes. I found a matching pumpkin soup tureen for the Thanksgiving dinner that I won't even be home for this year. I found a white majolica cabbage serving dish to match the majolica bowls and plates I already have. And I found a positively amazing, really expensive Italian fully automated espresso machine that makes my current one look like a training bra. You know, for after dinner, when I serve the picture-perfect homemade dessert on the stunning dessert platter. And people gather around, smiling and laughing, drunk with witty, intelligent banter, and I serve the perfect latte in little matching Italian espresso cups, complete with a heart design lovingly etched with the perfect latte foam-etching tool from Williams Sonoma by your charming hostess in the just-the-right-amount of foam. And we have endless scintillating conversation, and I relish in my beautiful friends, and I can finally believe that I have the perfect life.
"Good evening everyone. I am akantha. I am a dish ho."
"Good evening, akantha."
"Tonight I want to speak to you about the fourth step: made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves and our dishes..."
I was a child of divorce back when people whispered mean things about children of divorce. As a matter of fact, and this is hard to believe for anyone under 40, I was the only kid in the whole school that had no father at home. I don't remember it bothering me, honestly, I don't remember thinking that my life was at all different than anyone else's. But it was. There were no family dinners, no reunion vacations, no happy photos marking the years. Family was not really ever mentioned. Family wasn't really thought about.
Single mothers back then had few options. My mother always worked, we basically took care of ourselves best we could. We had little money, and never had a car until I was around 17 and already out of the house. I had my first apartment at 18, and furnished it with the usual hand-me-down crap. Even with tattered furniture not fit for Goodwill (a nine foot long couch made of hideous green, blue, and gold brocade and a fake leather chair that had been clawed by some cat in heat that my mother got during one of her crazy periods) and chipped dishes, I took pride in the little hovel I called home. I slapped some afghans over the rips, found coordinating pillows, covered the chips in the dishes with creative lettuce placement, and marveled in my sudden talent for creating a beautiful home from shit.
When I got married, I got my first matching set of dishes. The Earth shook. Mountains moved. The sun melted in the sky. My life was changed forever. From the dishes, not the guy I married, of course. I didn't have anything pretentious, like bone china or formal platinum edged settings with delicate flower patterns. It simply wasn't that kind of marriage. Instead, I had a setting for four, multi-colored thin stripes around the edges, something that someone absently picked up at Fred Meyer on the way to the wedding. But it was beautiful to me. Sometimes I would just hold a dish and gaze at it, knowing I had three more. That was how it began. If you had noticed, you might have been able to spot the signs: the glazed look in my eyes, the shaky hands, the wandering mind, the new cooking magazines (aka 'perfect wife' porn) that suddenly littered the tiny living room, their lurid pictures of asparagus quiche splayed for all to see. The dishes lasted longer than the marriage, a fact surprising no one.
Much of my life was spent in apartments. Houses were just too expensive in the city. But I always dreamed of the day where I would have a house, where I would have a little yard that I would merrily tend to, growing the most glorious tomatoes that people would come from miles away to admire; where I would be the gracious hostess of family dinners where we drowned in laughter and perfect hor d'oeuvres served on perfect matching dishes that would never be chipped.
When I finally got my house, the first thing I did was plant tomatoes. It was only three bushes of Beefsteak, my city yard being significantly smaller than the one in my fantasies and costing quite a bit more. I watered them, tended them, talked to them, coaxing the little red gems out as if they were my children. When the first child ripened, I plucked it, faint with joy, running into the house to make the most perfect BLT ever known to mankind. I had a fresh $5 loaf from Great Harvest, hand cut bacon from the butcher, lettuce fresh off the farm truck, and my own tediously hand-made mayonnaise. Never mind that the tomato was 2" in diameter, and barely covered a quarter of the sandwich when sliced paper-thin. I had mastered growing my own food, albeit slightly undersized. I could produce life from soil and water! My womb shuddered. I was on the path to Real Woman.
I set out to find the perfect dishes for my perfect house. I can't even recall those first dishes. Like so many addictions, it is all a blur now. But the first set was replaced with a second set. Then I needed something for the perfect "formal" dinner, even though I hated formal dishes. So I got white, with a silver trim, followed by coordinating silver chargers and silver wine glasses. And silver and white napkins, with real silver thread, and thirty silver metallic candles that, when simultaneously lit, would worry even the most casual of Fire Chiefs. Then came the Thanksgiving "informal" dishes, the sage green ones with the raised grapes on the edges to evoke an autumnal harvest motif, complete with matching sheaths of wheat to place on the table next to the turkey-shaped cranberry holder, matching cranberry candles (I will skip the harrowing story of the hand painted grape candles that actually caught on fire one year...) and miniature soup pumpkins with coordinating turkey butter plates. And the hand stitched turkey linen napkins. And the matching sage green wine glasses. Forgive my shocking lapse of judgment following a particularly rousing pre-holiday shopping trip, where a friend had to talk me out of the matching pilgrim hats to complete the theme. Thank you, Annie.
Then the everyday dishes, the ones with the art deco Italian posters on them. That was followed by the sunny yellow dishes, to keep us from getting Seasonal Affective Disorder in the winter. And the winter white dishes, when the yellow ones got to be too fucking cheery. Then the white cabbage majolica bowls with matching plates, to better accent brilliant summer vegetables in all their simple glory. Then the Guy Buffett plates with scenes from rustic Italia, along with rare matching paper napkins (kind of the Guy Buffet lifestyle, where if you just close your eyes you can imagine sitting in the outdoor cafe, sharing intimacies over a bottle of Barbera). Of course this is paired with coordinating black chargers. And black wine glasses. In four sizes.
For summer, there was the sea theme: white platters with red lobsters on them. And matching bowls. And coordinating with another lobster pattern, picked up on sale two years later. And little seashell, oyster, clam plates, saucers, and serving pieces to finish it out. Oh, and then the orgasmic Italian soup tureen with matching platter and four delicate shell serving pieces, the one with the beautiful handpainted sea creatures in bas relief. The one I first saw in Santa Fe in 1996, nearly dying when I saw the price. I stalked her, and years later, she was mine.
For Asian food, there is the complete set of blue and white fish theme dishes, with coordinated chopstick holders and matching teapot. And clear fish shaped dishes with matching fish bowls. And an entire ocean of various fish-shaped accessories. For Mexican feasts, there is the chile pepper theme, with matching chile pepper napkins and playful red candles, of course. And about three dozen cazuelas of various sizes, shapes, and functions. For Spanish food, the pale yellow paella plates, with matching giant yellow serving plate and yellow condiment bowls. And matching yellow striped napkins. For casual country dinners (on my .06 acre estate), there are the olive plates, some square, some round, with matching olive platters, sunflower table cloth, olive pitchers, and seagrass chargers. Yes, seagrass. Shut up.
The fact is, I can't stop. I am a dish ho. I would do anything for the perfect table, to create that happy family memory, that one moment where my womb shudders and I reach that elusive pinnacle of womanhood. The one where people weep and fall to their knees the room is so beautiful. The one where all the food looks like the cover of Gourmet. The one where they gasp at the matching accessories, color coordinated and perfect, just like my life is not. I nearly reached it once, a summer dinner with friends in 1998. When they entered the dining room, one of my dear friends exclaimed, "Chargers!!! My God, you have matching chargers!!!" I swooned with delight, feeling a slight womb shudder, which could have been a full-on knee-buckling orgasm if it hadn't been for her idiot husband at the time interrupting our rictal gazes with, "What the fuck is a charger?"
I can only dream of my dishes now, as my life consists of beige food served on plastic plates with plastic utensils. I have pictures of them with me, my precious dishes, and I peruse them when I am feeling particularly low. Their pristine beauty beckons me in shades of white, yellow, green, silver, brown, black. Truthfully, my time in Iraq is really just a thinly veiled excuse to buy more dishes: the huge wheat harvest platter in Toledo, the three (don't ask) Turkish tea sets from Istanbul, the coffee pot from Dubai, the tea pot from Izmir. And Christmas this year will be my very own agnostic hajj, the very pilgrimage to the Mecca of my illness: Italy. Merely purchasing the tickets made my heart flutter, with visions of pottery, glassware, and larger than life ceramic platters dancing in my head (really, if the truth be told, it was more like spinning my head a la 'The Exorcist'). It was fucking k-a-r-m-a that the hotel I booked in Venice came with a free tour of the Murano glass factory (cue angelic humming in the background...).
With each dish is the potential of perfection, of a life that is rapturous in female domestic bliss. Each dish holds the fantasy that my life will be happy, positively shrieking with familial joy. With each dish is the invitation to my friends, to my family...the vision of my domestic ecstasy being consummated as I float into the dining room, smiling, every hair in place, perfect serving platter in hand, looking out to see them needing me. The obvious problem with my vision is that my family has never accepted a holiday invitation to my house, and probably never will. And while I was busy working/schooling/shopping/fighting world injustices/emasculating every man I knew, I somehow forgot to have children. Did I tell you about my tomatoes?
Again, it is no coincidence that, following my rather declivitous spiral into daveland, I spent the next forty-two consecutive hours online purchasing dishes. I found a matching pumpkin soup tureen for the Thanksgiving dinner that I won't even be home for this year. I found a white majolica cabbage serving dish to match the majolica bowls and plates I already have. And I found a positively amazing, really expensive Italian fully automated espresso machine that makes my current one look like a training bra. You know, for after dinner, when I serve the picture-perfect homemade dessert on the stunning dessert platter. And people gather around, smiling and laughing, drunk with witty, intelligent banter, and I serve the perfect latte in little matching Italian espresso cups, complete with a heart design lovingly etched with the perfect latte foam-etching tool from Williams Sonoma by your charming hostess in the just-the-right-amount of foam. And we have endless scintillating conversation, and I relish in my beautiful friends, and I can finally believe that I have the perfect life.
"Good evening everyone. I am akantha. I am a dish ho."
"Good evening, akantha."
"Tonight I want to speak to you about the fourth step: made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves and our dishes..."
posted by akantha at 7:35 AM
1 Comments:
Diclivitous spiral into daveland? Sounds sort of like Lost Horizon.
You absolutely crack me up. Where are you storing these dishes? How are the dish cupboards and floor joists handling the load?!!!
I take the TSA computer test on Friday.
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