Key West is not a Tupperware town.
That fact shouldn’t come as a surprise. Especially nearly 50 years ago, Key West and Tupperware were as incompatible as corn flakes and champagne.
Back then, Key West waitresses thought high fashion meant using a purple Crown Royal bag as a purse. Fancy dress-up attire was a baby-doll top with jeans and spike heels, or a carefully preserved pair of “formal” flip-flops.
Our only airline was called Air Sunshine, and its 28-passenger planes operated on a timetable so erratic it was nicknamed “Air Sometimes.” The power grid had an equally whimsical schedule, with brownouts and blackouts occurring at random.
We did not use Tupperware. When the power was on, we refrigerated leftover food in old takeout containers from La Bodega or Uncle Garlin’s. When it wasn’t, leftovers became a feast for the neighborhood dogs and cats.
We didn’t have TVs or air-conditioning. My friends were pot-smoking bartenders, outlaw artists and fellow 20-something escapees from the “real world.” As self-identified tropical hippies, we scorned the trappings of middle-class suburbia, which definitely included Tupperware.
For me, the hippie mindset was paired with a deep appreciation for the absurd. One day in the late 1970s, that appreciation overruled my common sense: it inspired me to plan a tongue-in-cheek Tupperware party — a parody of the ladylike gatherings staged by Middle American housewives.
To set the proper satirical tone, I invited my boyfriend’s shrimper buddies as well as my female cohorts, plus the owner of a scruffy bar where we all hung out, who helped lead the Outlaws motorcycle gang, and a couple of suppliers of illicit substances (just for fun).
Somewhere I acquired a bunch of Tupperware catalogs and price lists, in case anyone actually wanted to order anything.
After deciding hash brownies weren’t an appropriate menu item, I found a recipe for a quintessentially clichéd appetizer: cheesy sausage balls.
The pre-party food preparation, however, involved a few glitches — mostly because my hyperactive puppy, Calico Jack, decided sausage balls were the world’s most perfect dog treat. Named after the Caribbean pirate Calico Jack Rackham, he staged a raid on the ingredients that would have made the pirate proud.
While cleaning up the resulting mess, I recalled that Rackham had been hanged for his crimes at a relatively early age. Hanging seemed extreme in this case, but the sausage ball incident proved I couldn’t inflict the puppy on my guests.
So I did what any 1970s hippie would do: after checking with Jack’s vet, I gave him a valium and locked him in the bedroom.
The first guests arrived moments later, bearing high-octane liquid refreshments, and my memory of subsequent events is somewhat hazy.
I do recall that the sausage balls were a hit (especially with the shrimpers, who surprised us all by showing up). Jack stayed quiet, except for some wobbly howls from his bedroom prison.
Enjoying the spirit of absurdity, two or three women friends did order Tupperware. The shrimpers did not, despite my pointing out how useful the larger containers would be on their boats.
After everybody left, I freed Calico Jack and the two of us shared the few remaining sausage balls.
In its own satirical way, the party had been a success. Yet it didn’t change my mind about a fundamental truth.
“You know, Jack,” I said, wiping sausage grease off the puppy’s paws, “Key West just isn’t a Tupperware town.”
