The Generous Bachelor: Earl Tupper with the Homeless

About author / Josh Gunn

Bachelor chef; southern cooking; mixologist; university professor. Josh's recipes will delight (and sometimes terrify) you.

Owing to the climate, my home of Austin, Texas is also the outdoor home for a rather large number of homeless people. There are approximately 3,600 homeless people in the city of Austin, and about half of them are members of families, some of which with children. According to Austin's Community Partnership for the homeless, only about 62% of our homeless population receive the services that they need. Although this is good when compared to other cities, it still leaves about 1,300 people without adequate food and shelter. Perhaps it is for this reason that on just about every major highway intersection, you'll see a homeless person with a makeshift sign asking for food or money for food.

In fact, there's so many homeless on the street corners that, if you focus too much on that fact, driving around town can be a depressing experience. There's so many asking for help that you start trying not to make eye contact (once you've emptied your pocket of change at one intersection, there's another person at the next also desperate for change you no longer have). Since moving to Austin about four years ago, I've discovered a generous act that seems to please the homeless I encounter just as much—even more so, at times—than money: food.

And this is where Earl Tupper comes into the picture: in the early 1940s a new kind of pliable plastic was invented. Tupper worked with DuPont, and had an idea after working with this plastic: what about easy to clean plastic house ware? He first designed plastic cups in 1942, and then moved on to the more familiar storage containers. After hooking up with some businessmen who sold their products at house parties, by the late '40s Tupper began to distribute and sell his products living-room to living-room. "Tupperware Parties" became all the rage for decades until, finally, disposable storage ware began to be marketed and sold within the last decade for a fraction of the cost.

Tupper's invention, however, has led to inexpensive food storage. Now, many products are sold today in flexible, plastic containers that you can wash and re-use: yogurt and sour cream packages, as well as deli-meats and a bunch of other products, are sold in reusable plastic containers. You can also purchase Tupperware-like containers in multi-part packaging for relatively cheap (and thus don't need to feel guilty if you have to throw one away or it never comes back to you after loaning some to a buddy). I scored a bunch of discontinued containers a few months ago for under ten bucks---enough to last me a year!

One thing about bachelor cooking is that you tend to make more than you would ever care to eat. Most recipes call for four servings, and if you're a bachelor, that leaves three more for the "leftovers." And if you're like me, leftovers are not so good the third time in a row. What I now do after I've prepared a large meal for guests or for myself is that I give the leftover food away. For example: if I make my famous Jambalaya recipe and have four people over for dinner, there is still about four to six servings left. Since I don't like leftovers at all, I package the Jambalaya in old sour cream containers, put them in a grocery bag with some plastic utensils and napkins and a bottle of water, and set them in the fridge. When I head out for work the next day, I grab the bag and give it to a homeless person that approaches me at intersections.

Never have I given someone food but to have them turn it down. What I see happening, instead, is the person eating the food as quickly as they can, and giving some to their friends (the homeless seem to panhandle in teams here).

I have no illusions about the very small impact I am making in addressing homelessness in Austin. If I had more disposable income, I would likely donate money to one of the many, marvelous programs and shelters in Austin. Instead, I participate in my Masonic lodge's annual food drive and distribute my leftovers when I can. This is modest, I know, but it helps me to avoid feeling like a heartless jerk waiting at red lights around town. What if we all did this, however? This is something to think about, now that the holiday season is over and the commercialized "spirit of giving" has ceased.