Transdisciplinary Design

Re: Reusables

Posted on December 18, 2013 | posted by:

A personal mission to live without producing any trash has rendered me something of a reusable container connoisseur. Shrinking landfills and thickening plastic gyre soups in the oceans signify a crisis. Increased acknowledgment of this worsening condition has led to a push to sever our love affair with disposables and rekindle our relationship with washable durables. Market demand for enduring vessels to transport and store our food and hygiene products has given way to the term “green ware”. Reusable container companies and online distribution sites were born out of this demand. The conscientious consumer can choose from a legion of containers that vary in size, shape, color, and material. I have sampled many of these products and from my collection I have come to develop a favorite: a small rectangular, watertight, stainless steel box.

The inclination to select this particular container from my pile has primarily to do with its functionality. Measuring 6x5x2 inches, it is large enough to hold a substantial snack or a mini meal, yet it is small enough to be thrown into a bag without adding much weight or bulge to the carrier. Unlike comparably sized circular bowl containers, the rectangular object is particularly well suited for refrigeration storage. The flat-sidedness and fairly shallow depth also qualifies it for backpack transport as the box can rest atop or beside books and a computer. There are no sharp edges to snag fabric or scratch a wood surface. Rounded corners make it comfortable to hold and carry. The durable stainless steel withstands the abuse of being smushed in a bag and dropped on the ground or in the sink. Steel is also easier to clean than plastic (especially when it comes to the removal of oily foods) and it does not hold odors as Tupperware-type containers tend to.

But the little to-go box is my go-to for more reasons than it’s durability and functionality. In the chapter ‘Making The World’ in Natural Capitalism, the authors describe the importance aesthetic value plays in determining how long an object will last. [1] Overtime, as my lunchbox exhibits dependable performance for its intended use, I grow fonder of its other qualities. In its efficiency, the utilitarian form is beautiful to behold. The shaped steel harkens back to a time before the word “reusable” prefixed quotidian objects. Before the age of disposables, a container was simply a container—a usable. In the context of today’s plastic dependent residential and commercial kitchens and dining spaces, the glinting object feels modern again, even though the fresh out of the box mirror finish is now brushed and muted by utensil scratches, scrub marks from cleanings, and other contact abrasions. The wear patterns on the still perfectly operational clamps suggest innumerable openings and closings. The edges of the small, once angular cutout metal components have been smoothed over where the thumb grips to release and presses to close the lid and where the index finger braces to stabilize the container to assist the thumb in its work. It is impossible to list the different kinds of foods the box has carried to serve as fuel or a source of pleasure (usually both) at all hours of the day, throughout seasons and across continents.

The little vessel possesses the ability to produce a bounty of great sounds. The obvious, thoroughly enjoyable percussive quality of the hollow steel invites the strumming of fingers across all six sides. And an array of clangs, dings, clinks, and pings result from interactions with the varied items and surfaces the container comes in contact with on any given day. An extended relationship with the object has given way to the discovery of a more nuanced instrument. When closed, punctuated pressure exerted on the slightly bowed bottom surface generates a muffled thump, resembling that of a beating heart. A wonderful ffffop! sound is produced by undoing the fastened clamps and releasing air from the suctioned gasket. A similarly satisfying hiss can be heard when pulling the pea-sized silicone plug from the punctured steam vent located on the lid.

In addition to the pleasures of the user-experience, a more profound satisfaction comes from the pride I take in wielding the little steel prop. Its specific function is to hold food, but its comprehensive purpose is to sustain a waste elimination effort. Caring for the object so that it may continue to support me requires a shift in my sense of time and responsibility, away from fast convenience back toward stewardship. When I first present the container at a deli counter as an interruption to the paper, plastic, or foil order-wrapping system in place, I am usually met with raised eyebrows. But an explanation of my intent most often leads to understanding and a willingness to accommodate my special request, and on occasions when there are no lines behind me, conversation about the resurgence of reusables. Still I daydream about being able to walk into any deli and insert the word “unpacked” into the string of terms I use to place my order as quickly and uneventfully as saying the words “with mustard” or “on rye”. The skilled sandwich maker across the counter would nod casually and then get to work slicing, spreading, stacking, and toasting ingredients. Once my sandwich was assembled the craftsman or craftswoman would raise their eyes from the task, signaling for me to do my part. I’d lift my stainless steel container within the reach of the maker and my order would be placed over the counter into the little vessel without it ever having to touch the prep surfaces. Then I’d carry my meal to the register and tell the employee there the contents of my sandwich for pricing, the same way I would if it were wrapped in foil or paper, or both. No one would bat an eyelash at my personal sandwich protector and with that I’d be on my way to enjoy a desktop or park bench picnic.