Scene: A Beautiful Housewife, resplendent in sensible heels, pearls and perfectly-tied apron, thuds her head against the white kitchen cabinets as she slides to the floor, her crinoline-stacked dress ballooning out around her like a cloud. A single tear drips a wobbly line of mascara down her pink cheek.
“I’ve done it again,” she moans. “Ruined another expensive piece of cookware with my clumsy, foolish ways. How can I even make a simple pot of spaghetti sauce for Bobby and Susie? My husband will be so furious when he gets home from another grueling day of tense meetings and three-martini lunches.”
Enter: Mr. Suave and Dashing Telly-vision Announcer, teeth and hair gleaming.
“There, there, little lady. Straighten yourself up and put on your cleaning gloves. Haven’t you heard of Bar Keepers Friend?”
“Why, Mr. Announcer! How did you get into my ruined kitchen? And how dare you insinuate that I’m some kind of lowly barkeep? I’m simply a failure to housewives everywhere, useless to my family. Look at this burnt sauce! And these skillets with baked-on chicken Kiev! I can’t throw another set of pans away this week!” She collapses into another round of weepiness.
Mr. Announcer places a reassuring, manly hand on her shoulder. “My dear, I have the solution to all your woes. Look at how I shake a little powdered Bar Keepers Friend into your pot with a splash of water. See how it scrubs away the burnt-on food while keeping your enameled cast-iron casserole intact? The husband won’t even know what happened!”
“Oh, Mr. Announcer, this is a miracle! But will it work on all of my pots and pans? I’ve been stockpiling stuck-on grease since the Eisenhower era!”
“Never fear—a shake of the can, a little elbow grease and a washcloth are all you need to make these stainless steel skillets as shiny as my hairdo. Those drips, drops and drabs on your stovetop? Those spills and stains marring your beautiful Formica counters? Whisked away with the power of Bar Keepers Friend.
“It’s been scouring out schmutz since 1882. I promise you it won’t scratch a thing, and can even make little Bobby’s muddy soap rings disappear from your ceramic bathtub.”
The Housewife jumps to her feet without wobbling for a second on her sensible heels and quickly smoothes the wrinkles out of her apron. She throws her arms around Mr. Announcer’s muscular neck.
“How can I repay you for this treasure? You’re keeping us out of the poorhouse and keeping me off the shrink’s couch!”
“Don’t mention it, my angel of the kitchenette. Just doing my job. Here’s a can of Bar Keepers Friend with my compliments—this should last you for a long time.” And with a chiming ding! and a poof of cigarette smoke, Mr. Announcer vanishes.
The Housewife beams, pours herself a big glass of Chablis, starts to whistle “Put on a Happy Face,” and snaps on her gloves to tackle the mess in the sink.