The Peanut Butter Jar Has a Security System

Opening a jar of peanut butter should involve removing the lid and making a sandwich. Instead, you remove the lid and find a foil seal stretched across the top. Fine. I understand why it’s there. I’d just like to know why getting past it requires the sort of patience normally reserved for defusing something.

Some seals say “Lift Here,” which sounds helpful until you try to find the part that lifts. The little tab is pressed flat against the rim, practically laminated to the jar. You run a fingernail around the edge, hoping to catch it. Nothing. The jar has provided instructions but neglected to provide access to the instructions.

So now you’re at the kitchen counter negotiating with peanut butter.

You could stab through the middle of the foil, but that feels like admitting defeat. There’s a tab. It says lift. I’m going to lift it, even if I have to take the afternoon off.

Eventually a corner comes up. Victory lasts about half a second. You pull, and the corner tears off between your fingers. The rest of the seal stays put. You are now holding a tiny silver souvenir from the opening ceremony.

Out comes the knife. Not to make the sandwich. That can wait until the jar has been breached. You work the blade under the foil and peel it back in pieces, leaving a shiny ring around the rim. By the time the opening is big enough for a spoon, the lid is on the counter, the knife needs wiping, and you’ve got foil stuck to one finger. The peanut butter remains perfectly calm. It has all day.

I’m not against a seal. I’d prefer to know my food hasn’t been opened before I buy it. But if the package is going to print “Lift Here,” it ought to offer something I can lift without first locating a tool. Give me a tab big enough to grab. I’m opening lunch, not attempting a delicate repair on a watch.

Then, after you’ve scraped the stubborn bits off the rim, you put the lid back on. It screws down easily. Suddenly the jar knows how to open and close like a normal container. Interesting timing.

Tomorrow’s sandwich will take about two minutes. Today’s required a knife, a fingernail, and a brief disagreement with a piece of foil that said “Lift Here” while refusing to go anywhere.