SMUCKER'S SPREAD THIN IN PATENT SPAT.

Byline: Stephanie Becker Local View

IT'S always good to know that justice has been served. Now a federal court has left food manufacturer J.M. Smucker Company in a jam. It started as a food fight over a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Smucker's wanted to preserve and protect its patent on a very special PB&J combo.

The trouble began four years ago when Smucker's accused a Gaylord, Mich., catering company of copying its product, the ``Uncrustables'' and selling it to school-lunch programs.

Well, Albie's Foods wasn't going to swallow that. In a move that's as American as apple pie, Albie's and Smucker's went to court. At stake? Nothing less than Smucker's claim of a ground-breaking innovation. Not just a crust-less and circular sandwich, but one with sealed edges - crimped, sealed edges. And there's more - the peanut butter is used as a protective sealant on each piece of bread, thus preventing the viscous jelly from soaking through and destroying the taste treat.

Ah, remember the good old days when Edison was patenting things like the light bulb and the phonograph?

The patent further notes that ``some individuals do not enjoy the outer crust'' and expend time and effort ripping it off. The crust ``is then thrown away and wasted.'' OK, I'm no scientist, but in my experience the ``individuals'' in question are usually about 4 years old and tend to see the crust more as a repugnant bread scab. So, those crusts aren't ``wasted,'' but are usually consumed by hungry mommies, with whom, coincidently, the crusts do go to waist.

The Smucker's patent seems to imply there is a more altruistic reason for the commercial stripping off the offending crusts. It creates less waste.

So, I ask, how is Smucker's salvaging those orphaned bread remnants? Is there a landfill in Wisconsin where hungry birds are in a feeding frenzy gorging on crust scraps? Or are they being pulverized into some sort of tasteless Norwegian cracker sold at Ikea? Or is the company secretly re-purposing the bread debris by recycling the bits into bread crumbs and then clandestinely using it for Thanksgiving stuffing unbeknownst to feasting children?

Oh, the humanity!

In presenting its case, Smucker's used the original 1995 patent that it bought from a couple of guys in North Dakota. One is an ice salesman who didn't have much work in the frigid months. I wonder if he's the one who drew the four illustrations in the application. Figure 4 makes the sandwich look like a flying saucer. The drawings contain dozens of arrows and footnotes diagramming how to build a better PB&J sandwich. There are notches and sleeves and an outer perimeter.

It reminded me of the recent annual Rube Goldberg competition for complicating a process. Purdue University's engineering school won for creating 125 steps to replace two batteries in a flashlight. A glance at those sandwich plans would make a NASA engineer run for cover.

In hearing the case, one concerned judge seemed worried that his wife might be hauled in by the food police if she crimped her sandwich. A verdict came just one day after the court hearing. The justices wouldn't bite. In fact, the Patent Office is now taking a second look at the 1995 patent. It might be a bit stale. About 4 million patents ago and a half a century back, the patent people approved a device for making sealed, crust-less sandwiches.

It seems that the Smucker's folks are now in a pickle, and could see a $27 million market eaten away by competitors. I wonder how they feel about grilled cheese.