My obsession began 30 years ago when my mother-in-law served up a tin of beetroot in a Tupperware classic. My recent arrival into the family already had me nervous.
Now I had a pale blouse, ironed damask tablecloth and the high probability of spilt juice to contend with. That container though! The clever oblong shape and cleverer lift-up plastic strainer! Look Mum, no spills.
From there I got to know her old array of 70s mustard and olive-coloured containers. Mock all you want, Tupperware has always been on point with colour trends.
Here, a cake container and some thin thing made especially for slices. There, a plain measuring cup that shape shifts into a mayonnaise shaker. Everywhere, cup and bowl sets with matching lids.
And then there’s the “Watts” in marker pen on the bottom of everything. Named! These must be special, I thought.
I was about to find out that a Tupperware container is worth one gold bar, or half a week’s wages if you’re a cadet anything at the turn of the 90s.
First, I was initiated into the secret society that is a Tupperware party.
There was no secret handshake, but there were twee games with knick-knack prizes, demonstrations resulting in little eats, and cocktails with alcohol levels designed to loosen the credit card limit.
I now found myself the ridicule of my growing family. As a mother-in-law I’ve had to put up with this:
“It’s nothing but a pyramid scheme,” one son-in-law declares.
“An MLM,” I reply, self righteously although Wikipedia and me have never got our head around the difference.
“Also, I’m not selling it, just buying it!”
This son-in-law shakes his head, while his wife hits check-out on an enormous set of cheap Sistema containers on sale at a stupid price. “They won’t last,” I offer sagely.
The second son-in-law is in a quandary. His wife, my eldest, was in the midst of building up her own pantry full of Tupperware before the Kiwi company folded.
It’s true that bad habits run in families.
Here’s the thing. I’ve tried the box store substitutes. They’re simply not in the same league. My over-priced, over-hyped plasticware is really good, and really lasts. I’m using stuff my mother-in-law bought 40 years ago.
My collection sits in her own special drawer and I jealously guard who gets to use her, and how, so back off sticky grandbabies.
They last as long as they’re not lost.
As a teen, my youngest daughter was grounded until she turned 30 for bringing home a snack cup, sans lid, from school.
Somewhere in the grounds of Taradale Intermediate lies buried a 5cm round diamond which I’d like back.
One day, lost in the man shed, I found a beautiful peach-coloured cup, one of a set of four. It was full of house paint.
Hub had used my Tupperware as a paint pot. The outrage! He’s grounded for life.
