Somehow, every Sunday night I tend to gravitate towards browsing (while weeping) Anthropologie’s online store. It comes somewhere before I head to bed and after I’ve had my last cup of tea. Last week, at the same time,  I was hell bent on ordering the most beautiful quilt cover I had ever seen. I put it in my shopping bag, but fell asleep before I pressed order. The next morning it was sold out. I almost cried. It wasn’t all tears though – the cover reappeared a few days later and I snagged the last one.

Last night, I was doing some usual browsing and whining about how I why why why can’t I just live in the Anthro store and have $5,676,231 so I can buy their entire collection of everything when I spotted these “Kremlin” cookie jars and let out a small gasp.

It’s very odd seeing culturally significant details, like food, that you grew up with, being marketed en masse to the world. Piroshki? There wasn’t a week when these fried potato-filled fried doughy treats weren’t in my house. Halvah? We lived off the stuff, as did any other family from the entire greater Middle East region. Halvah is even used in Armenian culture as a ceremonious offering at funerals.

The jars are made in Italy and are being sold at $198 a pop. “The names of exotic treats from around the world are inscribed on uniquely Russian ceramic structures,” the description says, “but feel free to stuff them full of classic oatmeal-raisins.”

I like how they look, because let’s face it, nothing from Anthropologie can ever look bad, but I still feel…odd. Would the person who buys these (and also the person who CAN afford to buy these) really understand the meaning behind these “exotic treats?” That they’re not really exotic for an entire population of people in the East and how much more lies behind their names emblazoned on a ceramic jar sold at a retailer that is selling not just clothes, but a lifestyle?

This is what I mean when I say that food is always so much more than just food. It is joy and pain and familiarity. It is family gatherings, recipes passed down by immigrant families whose cultural heritage means so much to them, comfort at funerals and hot pita sandwiches eaten on cool summer nights next to the grill with the smell of coal in the air.

Maybe I’m thinking too much and going too deep. And who am I kidding, if these were $19 as opposed to $198, I would have probably bought one or two. But, it still feels a little odd.