Home & Garden 66 products

Go cordless from room to room, then return everything to one convenient cleaning station.

A stick vacuum that comes apart into a handheld, which is how the stairs and the car finally get done.

Most humidifiers get hidden in a corner. This one glows from inside its tank and asks to be left in plain view.

It heats a full circle, which means the table no longer has a bad seat.

Fifteen hundred watts from an ordinary outlet. No tank to haul home, and a remote so you needn’t leave the chair.

Thirteen woven baskets in five sizes, all with handles. Clutter, promoted to décor.

Eight liters, a dozen hot washcloths, and tongs to fish them out — the barbershop treatment, brought home.

Two tiers on rollers, retrieving whatever you banished to the back of the cabinet and never saw again.

Frosted glass under an embossed metal lid, in a gift box you may or may not end up passing along.

Four watts, no cord, weighted so it won’t tip. Put it where you have always wanted a lamp and never had an outlet.

Four sides of intake, four stages of filtration, and no evidence of its work beyond a room that stops bothering you.

True HEPA at 99.97% across 334 square feet, with a night mode you can sleep through. It decides the rest for itself.

Six pounds, cyclonic, HEPA-filtered — for households where the shedding is a daily matter rather than an occasional one.

The shorter pillars, for mantels and windowsills where eight inches would be showing off.

Three tall pillars that light themselves at the same hour each evening and give 600 hours from a pair of C batteries.

A hammered metal finish that catches the very flicker it is pretending to have.

Two smooth, two glittered, in mixed heights and eight color sets. Festive in December; perfectly at home in March.

Set it the night before and the towels are hot when you are. The scented discs are the part nobody expects.

Your slush fund will be well-stocked with all the smoothies, slushies, frappes, and frozen cocktails you can drink.

If you’ve ever tried to make shaved ice by brutalizing a bag of cubes with a blender, you already know the outcome is mostly noise and disappointment.

One extra heat source might not seem like much, but it might just save a meal.

Pizzeria temperatures on a countertop, with a lighted window for supervising the crust.

Eleven hard-anodized pieces, attentive to the small courtesies: measuring marks, straining lids, pour spouts.

Chip-resistant stoneware that bakes, serves, and keeps dinner warm while the table lingers.

A pound of fresh pasta in twenty minutes, in your choice of six shapes. Bread dough, too, when the mood turns.

A single-bevel blade in the Japanese tradition: nine and a half inches, rosewood handle, bamboo box. Right-handed, and unapologetic about it.

One of these is destined to be borrowed; hence the pair. Twelve insulated hours, with a straw lid and a flip lid for each.

Fourteen cups and 720 watts, for cooking at family scale. The chopping is delegated; the credit is not.

Stainless where the table can see, nonstick where the eggs land, copper at the core. Eleven pieces in all.

Holds the water to a tenth of a degree while you attend to other matters. The steak won’t notice you left.

Honeycomb stoneware in two sizes, presentable enough that no serving dish need intervene.

Three square stoneware bowls in descending order. Mix in the largest; the small one will find its calling.

Five stainless tools on long wooden handles. The spatula alone moonlights as fork, tenderizer, scraper, and bottle opener.

An eleven-cup bowl, two slicing discs, and an industrial-grade motor that expects to be worked.

Two well-balanced chef’s knives: one for you, one for whoever insists on helping.

An insulated carrier that holds both lidded casseroles, so the potluck receives them warm and you arrive composed.

One pot for the household, one cup for the early riser — the argument settled.

Twenty bars and a frother, on a footprint that forgives a small kitchen.

Fifteen bars of pressure, set the night before — espresso that beats you downstairs.

Water to the exact degree, and cordless — a kettle that earns its place on the counter.

For beans, spices, and nuts alike — the small machine that earns its keep.

A gooseneck for the deliberate pour — pour-over done properly.

Drip, single-serve, or froth — four mornings’ worth of machine in one.

A bamboo magnet for your blades — a small daily thrill we won’t apologize for.

Steak knives that arrive as the point of the set, not an afterthought to it.

It won’t rescue a poor loaf, but it lets a good one slice with dignity.

A boning knife that cooperates with the anatomy rather than fighting it.

A chef’s knife that rather expects your skills to improve at once.

Eight knives chosen on purpose, rather than accumulated a stray blade at a time.

The kiritsuke — once the master’s alone, now yours without the ceremony.

The knife they apprentice years to earn. You may simply add it to the cart.

A Damascus set kept in full view — some tools are meant to be seen.

For the cook whose knives travel. One suspects the stories do too.

A fillet knife that asks a little skill of you — and repays it.

An end-grain board handsome enough that you’ll leave it out on purpose.

Eight Japanese blades, keen enough to remind you the knife does the cutting.

The eight knives that end the reign of the one that sort of works.

Nineteen pieces, each in its labeled berth. The stabby drawer is hereby retired.