THE SONIC BOOMER
Remember Tupperware, those plastic storage containers that you “burped” to close, supposedly to lock in freshness?
They never really left, but now even the old ones are back. Freshness-seeking shoppers are descending upon antiques stores, Etsy and eBay, trying to complete their collections of vintage Tupperware in every size, shape and color.
I have to admit that Tupperware was (and is) fun. It’s not just the burping. It’s the colorful array of pantry products that look a lot like toys once you get them all lined up. Of course, it’s a pain in the neck to come home from the grocery store and “decant” everything you’ve just bought into these specialized containers but, once that’s accomplished, your pantry does look kind of cool. And I miss the Tupperware parties. Back in “the day,” people (mostly women) would invite their friends over for soda, snacks and a presentation by an independent contractor who was an expert in all things Tupp. This “Tupperware lady” (again, mostly women) would bring out the latest in boxes, bins and bowls created by her parent organization and show us all the unique and interesting features of these things that were, in reality, merely boxes, bins and bowls. Those of us in the audience would ooh and ahh and be envious of whomever it was at the party who could afford to go hog wild with her checkbook. The hostess, for her efforts, would receive a particularly neat Tupperware item, usually in a color reserved only for hostesses.
I still have my compartmentalized snack tray in the rare red color, although its lid and snap-on handle are long gone. I use it whenever the grandkids are over, parked like zombies in front of the TV, because then they eat veggies without even realizing what they’re putting in their mouths.
As hostesses go, however, my friend Cooky was the queen. Cooky grew up in the hills of Tennessee, using her wits to survive in a family with eight brothers and, as a result, had mostly male friends. She simply knew how to talk to men.
Cooky hosted a Tupperware party about once a month, and they were the best. Every eligible bachelor in the area was there, not because of the Tupperware, but because of Cooky. You just liked her. She was real, and she knew how to cook, hence her nickname.
Cooky’s parties started about an hour before the Tupperware lady showed up. She’d have a barbecue out in the yard, complete with all the fixin’s, and then we’d all go inside for cake, punch and the presentation. The punch was key. Its main ingredient was grain alcohol. I know this because she once sent me to the liquor store to get some when she ran out. I didn’t know anything about any alcohol, but the cashier did. “Someone’s trying to get somewhere in a hurry,” she mumbled. I think a quart cost $3.
By the end of the night, men were virtually hurling cash at the Tupperware lady, ordering double sets of canisters and cake takers they would never use, buying things for their girlfriends, aunts and sisters, and complaining that they would have to wait a week for delivery. It was something to see.
As for Cooky, she owned every specialty hostess item ever invented. I bet when she dies, the Tupperware company donates her coffin. She’ll go out with a burp.
