Illustration by Alex Siklos
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Every time I see a vintage tin lunchbox for sale, my heart leaps a little: these compact armoured vaults still hold a thrill and a promise. I have forgotten which character adorned my own long-lost box, but the businesslike snick-snap of the latches remains vivid in my mind. Opening the lid was a crapshoot: leaked milk souring in the corners and sopping waxed paper was a constant peril. Unlocking it was also a treasure hunt: would I find what my mother had prepared, what I dreamed of - or even what I dreaded?
To my young mind, the contents were an indicator, not just of budget or season, but of philosophy or mood. My mother was rigorous in serving her domestic duties and we were fortunate that she was a gifted cook. However, the late 1960s and early ’70s were the heyday of processed food, which was queen to kids then - and now. Another unfair contest for motherhood.
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My glinty eyes took in other lunchboxes stuffed with Oreos and Pop-Tarts, bologna on Wonder bread with the thinnest margins of margarine and neon mustard. Why couldn’t I get that kind of lunch? Were my tidy, carefully prepared lunches meant to teach me about nutrition or were they about minding my elders, not my appetite?
Food envy simmered in me when we visited our cousins’ renowned fruit and vegetable farm, where - ironically - Kool-Aid, Froot Loops and Kraft dinner glowed like gems on shelves.
No rainbow chemicals crossed our threshold. Instead, homemade bread was a constant in my lunchbox, often topped with meatloaf, salmon salad, cheese with relish and lettuce or liverwurst (ugh!). It seemed a kind of childhood torture not to have a lunchbox peppered with popular foods. My professional mother regularly baked cookies and cakes, a fact not lost on me; I did appreciate what was provided, but dazzling processed product lines played aggressive defense in my head. Life without Twinkies seemed bleak.
I’m not the only one to assess the value of classmates’ food. During nearly 40 years of teaching, I’ve witnessed lunchbox envy in every grade. My current six-year-old charges love showing off a new box, and oohs and aahs rise and fall when someone spots a coveted foil-wrapped treat or congratulates a friend on the healthy bits in their Bento box.
The lure of lunchboxes explains a slice of my enchantment with the 1964 children’s book Bread and Jam for Frances, by Russell Hoban. This chestnut has remained a staple in my reading pantry for almost 60 years. It entranced me when I was small, so what a delicious treat to find its sustenance alive and well when my own children were tiny, with hearty appetites.
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Although I dream of reading this classic someday to grandchildren, for now the book makes an annual appearance in my Grade 1 classroom. I justify reading it as part of our healthy food unit, but really, I am captivated by the charm of the animals, the hypnotizing effect of the menu and the valuable lesson. My students might be infatuated with Pokemon or Super Mario, but they listen, rapt, to the chatter of two quaint primary-school badgers discussing their lunchbox contents, including a lobster-salad sandwich and a little vase of violets on a paper doily. How exciting and exotic this was – and is – to a six-year-old! It’s a beautiful thing to watch the reaction of the little learners in my care. They, too, feel the joy as Frances discovers that even spaghetti and meatballs might get old, and that raw vegetables are desirable.
As a child, I identified with the rebel in Frances, whose enemy - slimy egg whites - seemed as villainous as the lima bean horror I had to face down. The marvel was that the pint-size badger was allowed to stick to her choice until she tired of it. Rather than punishing her taste buds, her wise parents first lovingly indulged Frances and then rewarded her return to sensibility. I longed for that kind of grace and understanding, so as an educator, I extend these daily to young people.
When lunchbox lids zip and snap in my Grade 1 classroom, I wonder whether this will be the last year I hear this soundscape. The sweetness of conversations at our round tables will stay with me in retirement, just as I hope that my reading of certain children’s books will be cherished alongside memories of my warmth and kindness.
The yearning for a vintage lunchbox still tugs at me but indulging nostalgia takes up space. For now, as I pack my lunch, I think about the trust that parents place in me to guide their children to a better understanding of themselves and the world around them - and that I can best do that by allowing them the dignity of choosing what is comfortable, while gradually helping them toward what might be safer, healthier or kinder.
Maribeth Adams lives in Kamloops, B.C.