Missing Tupperware tips us over the edge

Some of our biggest marital arguments involved Tupperware. Or rather, my failure to return a container that had been placed in my care. And whereas I never truly understood the magnitude of my offence, I always had a notion that this was about something other than the piece of plastic.

There’s a very real possibility that the next generation will be forced to live in a world devoid of Tupperware. That our children and their children won’t know the joy of the closing sound of a perfectly matching lid, as well as the frustration of a missing one. Our grandchildren won’t know what it means to be trusted with their container, and the horror of losing it.

Much like the White Rhino, but arguably more concerning, is that Tupperware is on the verge of extinction.

This should be a big story, but one could easily have missed it. Especially if we consider other events that have dominated the news. In that context, it could be contended that the Tupperware demise is of no consequence.

I would argue that the very opposite is true. The death of Tupperware might well signal the death of old-world family values.

Consider the history of the brand. Tupperware was born into a post-world war world. The company is named after Earl Tupper, a chemist in the 1940s who created lightweight, non-breakable plastic containers inspired by the seal-tight design of paint cans. The purpose was to help families save money on costly food waste.

They never sold well in stores because consumers were unsure how to use them. That conundrum led to the idea of demonstrating the product, which then evolved into the famous Tupperware house parties.

The practice dove-tailed brilliantly with the rise of suburbia: women had bigger homes, bigger kitchens, more money to spend, more children to feed, and more responsibilities to keep house.

For the generations that followed, Tupperware became a measure of love and responsibility. More favourite and trusted children were rewarded with the honour of taking Tupperware to school, while those lower in the pecking order were given then “cheaper” alternatives. Mothers in many cases, given the choice, would rather that the container returned home, and not the kid. And many a domestic squabble would begin with husbands not bringing one home from the office (been there, done that).

Unlike the rhino, or abalone for that matter, Tupperware is a symbol of the home. It metaphorically “contains” and preserves food, which is the embodiment of nurture and sustenance. It allowed children to carry a slice of home with them and husbands (or wives) to be reminded why they were working. This possibly being the reason why moms across cultural lines turn into monsters if that piece of plastic is deemed to have been treated with disrespect.

There are many reasons that the company might fail. The inability to adapt and appeal to a new generation, the sales process, as well as the product pricing might all be factors.

One thing is certain, whereas I might be saddened by the extinction of any species, I will miss the missing Tupperware lids, the responsibility it entails, and even the arguments that my carelessness might have caused. There’s no doubt in my mind that the void created by a post Tupperware world will have a much more significant impact on us than any missing abalone ashtray ever could.