YES WE CAN

YES, WE CAN

My son has been buying frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the grocery store. I am hooked on the stupid things and I now have to hide them in the downstairs freezer behind the Healthy Choice dinners. If my wife finds out what I have been paying for this rip-off, she may never microwave anything good for me again.

Now, another innovation has hit the shelves: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a can. It’s called a Candwich, a product name that was tested with thousands of potential consumers and produced the fewest number of people sticking their forefingers in their mouths, pretending to gag.

Mark Kirkland from Utah is the creator of this idea. He claims that one day he was eating a cookie and chugging a Coke and when he put his hands together, it suddenly dawned on him that you could put peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a can. Say what? Sorry, I don’t think this has quite the lasting charm of the story of Sir Isaac Newton and the apple.

So instead of buying a ready-made peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a vending machine, or purchasing the separate items in a supermarket, Kirkland puts all the stuff in a portable kit and charges four times as much money. Consumers are also unhappy to discover that—like their new deck chair—some assembly is required. And there are no instructions included.

Inside the container is a hot-dog-like bun wrapped in cellophane. Next to it is one squeezable packet of jelly and one of peanut butter. Dispensing ketchup and mustard this way has always been a hassle, so why not try it again with the world’s two slowest moving foods?

Included is a utensil for easy spreading. Sales for Candwich have been brisk, but not without some drawbacks. Prisons and airlines will not offer the product to their diners. “We’re not sure why,” said one of the company investors, “but we think it might be because there’s a knife in the can.” There is also a piece of taffy for dessert, an ill-advised choice because along with the peanut butter embedded in your palette, the company has pretty much eliminated any chance of word-of-mouth publicity.

Busy parents looking for an easy lunch for the kids applaud this meal in a can, although some are concerned that their six-year-olds might not be able to negotiate the pull-tab. “But I think they’ll figure it out,” said one mom, “and it will be a good learning experience for when they start drinking beer.”

And there’s a new treat soon to be launched, a BBQ Chicken sandwich in a can. Why chicken? Well one day Mark Kirkland had a piece of KFC in one hand and a...never mind, you get the idea.

Americans may soon buy sandwiches pretty much the same way they purchase Quaker State Motor Oil. Kirkland says there is no limit to where he may go with future product development. Pizza in a Can and Thanksgiving Dinner in a Can are both on the table—not that you really need a table to enjoy the contents. Of course, when you ask true food lovers what Mark should consider canning next, there’s a unanimous response: How about the entire concept? 

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DICK WOLFSIE: FAILURE TO LAUNCH

DICK WOLFSIE: FAILURE TO LAUNCH: "j FAILURE TO LUNCH ..."

FAILURE TO LAUNCH

j                                                 FAILURE TO LUNCH

                                                                            By Dick Wolfsie

During 30 years of marriage my wife has made dinner for me 6,700 times. This is just an estimate. I’m not some weirdo who keeps careful track of things like this, although it is interesting that I’ve cleared the table 6,692 times. Now, how many times has Mary Ellen made me lunch? Zero. Nada. Never. We do have our Thanksgiving meal around noon, but I refuse to call this Thanksgiving lunch because it makes it sound like we’re already digging through the leftovers.

So last week Mary Ellen decided to take some vacation days and just bring home a few files to work on. Because I have a home office, I was willing to assist her with some basic needs. She asked if she could borrow my computer in the afternoons.

“Not a problem, Dear. Sharing is what marriage is all about.”

“And the fax machine?”

“What’s mine is yours.”

“Oh, this will be so much fun. And we can finally have lunch together at home.”

Suddenly, the blood drained out of my head.  I started to perspire. A twitch developed in my right eye and I doubled over in pain.  She was bound to know I was not happy with that suggestion.

How do you tell someone after 30 years that you really don’t want to have lunch together?  When you are a man and you’ve eaten that second meal of the day alone most of your entire married life, you develop a few habits that are hard to break.  And my wife, who shares a significant DNA strain with Emily Post and Miss Manners, would never understand.  This was a recipe for trouble.

That first day, Mary Ellen wanted to have lunch around noon.  I usually sit down sometime between 10:30 and 4:15. Actually, I’ve never sat down for lunch at home in my life.  I make something while standing at the fridge, then eat it on the way upstairs to watch CNN.  By the time I reach the TV, I’m pretty much done eating. I just have to wipe the mustard off the banister.

Mary Ellen made it clear that a healthy meal includes a green vegetable.  But you can’t effectively walk up a flight of stairs eating spinach salad without a plate and a fork. Heaven knows, I’ve tried.

She also said she looked forward to having a conversation while we dined. I love my wife; I enjoy talking to her. But not on a Wednesday in broad daylight. And I’m sorry, but no real man has ever picked up the phone at home at 12:30 p.m. and said: “Can’t talk now, Elliot, I’m dining.”

Mary Ellen prepared a nutritious meal—a sauteed chicken dish with fresh broccoli. Once we were seated, she said, “Bon appetit,” which is considered an affectation even in France if it’s said before six at night.  Then she noticed what I was wearing.

“I can’t believe you have on sweats and a dirty T-shirt.  Please don’t sit down for a meal with me looking like that.”

I was hoping she would say that.  I stood straight up, grabbed my plate and headed for the stairs. A few minutes later, I heard Mary Ellen scream for me. She wasn’t angry. It was my turn to clear the table.