The Day the Music Died

The Tupperware Cemetery

There is a place in every Southern kitchen where good intentions go to die.

It's called the Tupperware cabinet.

Open that door too quickly and you'll find yourself in a plastic avalanche that could qualify as a natural disaster.

I don't know who first decided that every leftover green bean deserved its own container, but somewhere along the way we all became curators of colorful plastic archaeology.

I have lids.

Lots of lids.

They just don't belong to anything.

But I still have them…you know, just in case a get a naked bowl that needs a top.

Speaking of those containers, they apparently have entered the witness protection program because their matching lids disappeared sometime during the Bush administration. (the old one)

Every few months I become convinced that this is the day I'm finally going to organize them.

I stack.

I sort.

I match.

Then I discover eighteen identical round containers with nineteen square lids and one mystery piece that looks like it belongs on the International Space Station.

How does this happen?

Nobody steals socks anymore.

They're after Tupperware lids.

The older I get, the more I realize every kitchen has its own Bermuda Triangle.

But for every Tupperware lid that goes missing, I seem to have three of everything else in the utensil drawer.

Apparently I prepare Thanksgiving dinner every night based on the inventory in there. How many potato mashers does one girl need?

And why do I own so many knives? There's one that looks like it could fillet a shark and another that resembles a medieval weapon. Meanwhile, I still use the same little knife to cut everything from tomatoes to Amazon boxes.

If you ever want to know how much someone loves you, don't ask them.

Lend them your favorite casserole dish.

If it comes back, that's friendship.

If it comes back washed...that's family.

If it comes back with banana pudding still in it...

Well, marry into that family.

Southern women don't really own Tupperware.

We just temporarily foster it until somebody else needs it.

Somewhere in Huntsville—or maybe back in Mississippi—there's probably a sweet lady opening her cabinet wondering why she has my container.

And I'm wondering why I have hers.

It's a plastic exchange program that's been operating for decades without government funding.

Do they even make Tupperware anymore?

If you are as old as me, you remember when we had parties all to the glory of the magical plastic containers.

 I've finally accepted that I'll never conquer the Tupperware cabinet.

It's like trying to fold a fitted sheet or understand the television remote.

Some mysteries just aren't meant to be solved.

But every time I hear that familiar crash when I open the cabinet, I'm reminded that life is a little like those mismatched containers.

We spend too much time trying to make everything fit perfectly.

Some of us got run through the hot section of the dishwasher. Our lids don’t quit fit anymore.

Maybe God isn't asking us to have perfectly organized cabinets.

Maybe He's just asking us to be thankful there's still enough food—and enough people around our table—to need leftovers.

Because one day the cabinet will be neat.

The shelves will stay organized.

Funny how the things that drive us crazy today become the very things we'll miss tomorrow.