Tupperware lunchbox (week-old sandwich not included). Photo / Kenny Rodger
The idea that Tupperware went bankrupt because its products were simply “too good” is one of those ironic little truths doing the rounds online.
I’m no economist, but I do know that, like the Tupperware salad bowl lid, it’s gone.
And much like the lettuce that once lived inside it, I’m left a little wilted.
Tupperware wasn’t just plastic. It was a lifestyle. A promise. A commitment to leftovers.
A symbol of suburban sophistication in shades of avocado, peach and pale mustard.
In its heyday, a Tupperware container was like the Holy Grail of the kitchen cupboard.
You could stack them, burp them, freeze them or drop them down the stairs, and they’d still click shut like nothing had happened.
They sat proudly next to your Arcoroc cups.
I can still picture our cupboard at home. There was an actual Tupperware hierarchy.
The fancy salad bowl and the salt-and-pepper set were on the top shelf, reserved for “special occasions”.
The middle shelf was for the workhorses, the containers that held everything from leftover casserole to half a tin of peaches.
They were a kind of purgatory for leftovers, waiting to learn their fate: rubbish or reheat.
The bottom shelf was chaos.
Lids without bases, bases without lids, and that one mystery rectangle that fitted absolutely nothing known to man.
And who can forget the Tupperware Party … no, I’m not talking about a North Shore “keys in the bowl” situation.
These were good, honest Kiwis gathering in lounge rooms across the country where people were wowed by airtight storage.
People in their best cardigans, hair and makeup done, sipping instant coffee, absolutely fizzing over the latest innovation in modular plastic.
Someone would inevitably marvel at the mustard, salt and pepper shaker set, because who knew dispensing condiments in a mustard-coloured vessel could feel so futuristic.
The demonstrator would line everything up like treasures on display and then, with a flourish, press down a lid until it gave that famous little burp.
The crowd would gasp, genuinely impressed.
It was science, style, sausage rolls and snack storage all rolled into one glorious suburban spectacle.
Bigger than the infamous party at Tony Brown’s.
Tupperware was the social media of its time.
News travelled via parties. People swapped recipes, gossiped about what neighbours were up to and shared secrets.
Deals were done. And for the hosts, usually the ones with the most, it brought a sniff of enterprise and a sparkle of capitalism to the suburbs.
I also remember the picnic kit.
Every family had one, that iconic round container with smaller containers inside, like Russian dolls for coleslaw and boiled eggs, even mini saltshakers.
You’d lift the lid and there’d be beetroot stains from last summer.
The picnic set gave you peace of mind, knowing your potato salad was safe from seagulls, spills, sand and Uncle Steve, who was “just taste testing”.
And then there were the lunchboxes.
Every school kid had one or two, or even three if they hadn’t returned from a School Tour of Duty.
You’d write your name on a plaster, stick it to the lid and trust that your Marmite sandwich would survive the week at the bottom of your bag.
That airtight seal was a small miracle, giving off that faint plasticky smell that somehow made sandwiches taste like 1978.
It had character. Even if the lid warped a little over time, it did its job, keeping smells in and chaos out.
Of course, there were pretenders.
Cheap knock-offs that looked the part, but warped at the slightest hint of heat. The lids never quite clicked.
Who knows, there might even have been an underground party market for these fakes, traded in whispers behind closed doors that opened with a secret knock.
The trained Tupperware eye could spot a Fakerware from across a town hall, in the dim glow of a potluck dinner, or even at a sun-drenched beach picnic.
But Tupperware’s fate felt a bit like the lid snapping shut on one of its iconic green lettuce bowls … secure, final and impossible to pry open again.
It wasn’t just a loss for the company, but for everything it represented.
A time when parties were events, people actually dressed up to talk about salad storage and airtight perfection was cause for genuine excitement.
This was long before everything came in a “set of three” or bundled with a free set of steak knives that looked like they couldn’t even cut butter.
Tupperware said, “I will keep your leftovers safe.”
And when I say safe, I mean Fort Knox safe.
Tupperware wasn’t just plastic that outlasted most of our appliances.
It was, and still is, part of Kiwi DNA, the plastic-storage equivalent of Nek-Minit.
I wouldn’t be surprised if, one day, you stroll into an antique store in Ponsonby Rd and find a pristine green lettuce bowl displayed next to a Crown Lynn vase, both treated like the Kiwi icons they are.