In the winter of 1969, the Neiman Marcus Christmas catalog offered to computerize your kitchen.

Cooking up a gourmet holiday meal will be a snap, the department store promised. Push a few buttons, and – presto! – a shiny orange-red, white, and black machine will compute the perfect five-course meal. No more silly culinary errors. The days of your wife slaving away in her Chanel apron will vanish into memory, and all those blinking lights will add to your holiday cheer.

The Neiman Marcus ad. Image: Computer History Museum

All you needed was space for this 100-pound machine. And about $10,000. And a teletype. And a paper tape reader. And some serious engineering skills.

Needless to say, Neiman Marcus' male-topian fantasy never materialized. The department store didn't sell a single Honeywell Kitchen Computer, and it may never have intended to. The ad was no more than a publicity stunt, just like the store's ads for your very own Noah’s Ark and His-and-Hers airplanes in Christmas catalogs past.

The computer did exist. It was based on one of the Series 16 minicomputers from Honeywell, an early computer maker that would later help power the Arpanet, the forerunner to the modern internet. It's just that this machine didn't quite live up to the image of the modern computer that so often turned up in the popular imagination in the late '60s and '70s. It's a bit like the talking Honeywell that appeared two years earlier in the Michael Caine spy flick The Billion Dollar Brain.

The Neiman Marcus ad was "a brilliant idea" and "wonderful publicity," says Gardner Hendrie, who served as program manager for the Honeywell machine at the heart of the Kitchen Computer and is now a trustee of the Computer History Museum in Mountain View, California. "But I thought the packaging was probably a waste of time and wouldn’t sell."

The Honeywell Kitchen Computer was really a 16-bit business machine called the H316 minicomputer. The H316 was available as a table-top machine or a machine you could mount on a rack, but the Kitchen Computer was based on a version that was shoehorned into a futuristic, Jetsons-like pedestal. People did actually buy this machine, but not very many people.

"I don’t think it was a very popular style. Ninety-five percent of people wanted to build it into a [larger] system.... They were sticking them in racks," says Dag Spicer, curator of the Computer History Museum, which is home to the only Kitchen Computer in existence. "The people buying these are engineers. They don’t care what it looks like."

What they cared about were machines that could manage industrial, military, aerospace, research, and scientific projects – not sleek ines and a built-in writing desk. They wanted a minicomputer that could connect to a teletype and a paper tape reader.

An engineer would type a program in human-readable form, and the teletype would spit out the program on paper tape, translating the code into a series of punched holes and spaces. The paper tape reader could then read the holes and spaces as ones and zeros. The paper tape was "like a floppy disk, circa 1960. It’s a personal means of data storage," Spicer says.

Without a teletype, a programmer would need to enter software into the Honeywell using the 16 buttons on the front panel, each of which corresponds to a bit. A pressed button represented a one, and un-pushed button signaled a zero. "The chances that you would get a program right doing it one bit at a time like that were so low," Spicer said. "The first peripheral people bought for [the Honeywell] was a teletype so they could speak to it."

The Honeywell with a teletype. Image: Computer History Museum

Now try to imagine all that in late 1960s kitchen. A full H316 system wouldn’t have fit in most kitchens, says design historian Paul Atkinson of Britain's Sheffield Halam University. Plus, it would have looked entirely out of place. The thought that an average person, like a housewife, could have used it to streamline chores like cooking or bookkeeping was ridiculous, even if she aced the two-week programming course included in the $10,600 price tag.

If the lady of the house wanted to build her family’s dinner around broccoli, she’d have to code in the green veggie as 0001101000. The kitchen computer would then suggest foods to pair with broccoli from its database by "speaking" its recommendations as a series of flashing lights. Think of a primitive version of KITT, without the sexy voice.

"What that means is you have to be able to decode the lights in your brain,” says Spicer of the Computer History Museum. Or at least remember the pattern and look up what it meant. At that rate, dinner might be ready next week. "The reason this is such a joke, a gag item, was that there was no real human-readable I/O [input/output] for it."

It may not have worked in a practical sense, but at least it got people thinking about computers as consumer products. The concept of kitchen and home computers had already been circulating in popular culture by the time Neiman Marcus’ kitchen computer graced its Christmas catalog. In The Jetsons, which aired in the early 1960s, humans lived in a tech-happy world alongside robots and computers. In 1966, Westinghouse Corporation engineer Jim Sutherland built the Electronic Computing Home Operator (ECHO IV) to automate storing recipes, controlling home temperature, keeping track of household inventory, and conserving energy.

A year later, Philco-Ford Corporation released A.D. 1999, a short film that portrayed what life would be like at the end of the century. A scene in the kitchen of the future shows a family teleconferencing while mom plans dinner with the help of a flat-screen computer that knows how many calories dad is allowed to have. And after seeing the Neiman Marcus Kitchen Computer, Gordon Bell of Digital Equipment Corporation, a leading company in the minicomputer industry, sent out a congeries on the computer-in-the-home market in which he called the trend "inevitable." And he was right.

The dedicated kitchen computer never quite happened. Since the Honeywell, there have been several attempts to revive the idea, like Electrolux’s Screenfridge and the HP Touch Smart, but none have really caught on. "In a way, the technology is in search of a problem," said Spicer. "There is just this persistent meme of having computers in the kitchen, and somehow that’s going to create more leisure time."

That said, this holiday season, so many of you will cook our meals with the help of iPads and laptops and smartphones, as you told us just last week. They're smaller than the Honeywell. They're cheaper. They don't require a teletype. They're not attached to your fridge. And you can take them outside the kitchen and use them for so many other things. Sometimes the future isn't what a catalog tells us it will be. Sometimes, it's better.