Ketchup as Medicine? The Surprising (and Hilarious) Past Lives of Everyday Items

Ketchup – From "Miracle Cure" to Burger's Best Friend

Your Pantry is Full of Lies (and Laughs!)

It is a common scene: a refrigerator door swings open, a hand reaches for a familiar bottle, and a vibrant red condiment is dispensed onto a waiting meal. This everyday act, however, belies a history so peculiar it might cause one to pause mid-squeeze. What if that unassuming bottle of tomato ketchup once held a reputation not as a culinary delight, but as a potent medicinal remedy? This indeed was the case, for ketchup once occupied a place in the medicine cabinet, touted for its curative properties. The story of ketchup's transformation from alleged therapeutic agent to beloved table sauce is a fascinating, and often humorous, journey. Furthermore, this crimson condiment is not alone in its secret identity crisis; many common household items possess past lives that are surprisingly strange and hilariously unexpected. The bathroom cabinet and the toy chest, it turns out, might also be hiding some historical howlers.

The amusement in these historical accounts often stems from the stark juxtaposition of an item's mundane present-day use with its bizarre and often grandiose past. This contrast creates an immediate hook, transforming the familiar into the strange. Such revelations tap into a widespread desire for "secret knowledge" or "things you didn't know," a powerful driver for content that captures public imagination and encourages sharing. Uncovering these surprising truths about everyday objects can make individuals feel as though they are gaining exclusive, shareable information.

"Dr. Bennett's Amazing Tomato Tonic: Cures What Ails Ya (Especially Diarrhea, Apparently!)"

The 1830s set the stage for ketchup's medicinal debut. At this time, tomatoes were regarded with suspicion by many Americans; often considered poisonous nightshades, they were more likely to be found as ornamental plants than on a dinner plate.¹ Into this era of tomato-phobia stepped Dr. John Cook Bennett, an American physician with a revolutionary, and commercially savvy, perspective. He proclaimed that tomatoes were not only safe to consume but were, in fact, a veritable miracle cure.³

According to Dr. Bennett, these vibrant red fruits—or, more specifically, his ketchup concoctions derived from them—possessed the power to combat a host of ailments. His tomato-based preparations were promoted as remedies for conditions such as diarrhea, indigestion, and jaundice.¹ Bennett even went so far as to suggest that tomatoes could prevent cholera, a terrifying scourge of the era.⁵ His enthusiastic promotion helped ignite a "tomato craze" in America.² This surge in tomato popularity was a significant shift, especially considering that just a decade earlier, in 1820, Colonel Robert Gibbon Johnson had felt compelled to publicly consume an entire basket of tomatoes on the steps of a New Jersey courthouse simply to demonstrate their non-toxicity.² Thanks in part to Bennett's efforts, these "love apples" began to be viewed by some as a key to good health.

The power of a figure perceived as a "medical authority" to influence public opinion, particularly in an age with less stringent scientific oversight, cannot be understated. Dr. Bennett, who held a medical degree (though his credibility was later strained by accusations that he sold such degrees for $10 ⁶), managed to sway a segment of the public. His pronouncements tapped into a recurring theme in medical history: the fervent search for panaceas and the public's often eager willingness to believe in "miracle cures"—a phenomenon that persists in various forms even today. Bennett's advocacy for tomatoes, whether genuinely believed or opportunistically motivated (he promoted both whole tomatoes and was involved in pill production ²), laid the groundwork for others to capitalize even more aggressively on the tomato-as-medicine concept.

"The Great Tomato Pill War of the 1830s: May the Best Quack Win!"

Once Dr. Bennett had effectively opened the floodgates for tomatoes as medicine, it was perhaps inevitable that entrepreneurs—or, more accurately, hucksters—would rush to capitalize on the trend. This enthusiasm quickly escalated into what can only be described as the "Great Tomato Pill War" of the 1830s, a period of intense rivalry and bombastic advertising.¹

The primary combatants in this commercial skirmish were Archibald Miles, who marketed "Dr. Miles' Compound Extract of Tomato," and a Dr. Guy R. Phelps, who offered his own "Compound Tomato Pills".⁵ These two figures engaged in a fierce public battle, plastering newspapers with advertisements, each vociferously claiming to be the originator of the tomato pill and denouncing the other as a charlatan.⁵ Miles, whose claim to the title of "Doctor" was dubious at best (a former neighbor stated he was "as far from it as any thing you can imagine" ⁸), accused Phelps's pills of being a "baseless imitation." Phelps, a Yale medical school graduate ⁶, retaliated by publicly labeling Miles "unjust and unmanly" and alleging that Miles had stolen his tomato pill formula.⁵ This 19th-century equivalent of a social media feud played out in the pages of newspapers, much to the entertainment of readers and the financial benefit of newspaper editors who profited from the advertising revenue.⁵

The critical question, of course, was what these purported miracle pills actually contained. The answer is often a comedic letdown: frequently, they contained no tomatoes whatsoever.⁵ Analyses conducted at the time revealed, as food historian Andrew F. Smith bluntly put it, "Tomato pills were a joke," with many showing "not a trace of the plant".⁵ Instead, a significant number of these pills were simply laxatives.¹ Consumers believing they were treating serious conditions like jaundice might have found themselves experiencing rather different, and unexpected, effects. The claims made for these pills were wildly exaggerated, promising to cure everything from scurvy and brittle bones ¹ to headaches and even syphilis.⁵ The market soon became inundated with imitation products, many making equally dubious assertions and further reducing any likelihood of actual tomato content.⁴

This "Tomato Pill War" serves as a vivid illustration of early, unregulated capitalism, where aggressive marketing tactics and outright deception were common. The absence of consumer protection agencies or robust scientific oversight allowed such extravagant claims to proliferate. The public's fascination with the feud and the pills, despite their probable ineffectiveness (or their efficacy merely as placebos or laxatives ⁵), reveals a human tendency to be drawn to novelty, controversy, and the allure of easy solutions. The drama of the "war" itself likely contributed to the pills' popularity, demonstrating how compelling marketing narratives can sometimes overshadow product efficacy. There was a symbiotic relationship between the pill purveyors and the media; the controversy sold pills and advertising space, and the newspapers provided the platform for the quackery.

Dr. Bennett's Ketchup & Pills: Expectation vs. Reality (The 1830s Edition!)

"So Long, Snake Oil Ketchup! Hello, Heinz!"

Like many fads built on questionable foundations, the medicinal tomato pill craze eventually collapsed under the weight of its own absurdity and the proliferation of ineffective, laxative-filled imitations.¹ By 1850, the "ketchup medicine empire," as some sources term it, was crumbling.¹ It appears there is a limit to how long the public can be deceived, or perhaps consumers simply grew weary of the unexpected gastrointestinal adventures prompted by their "tomato" pills.

This decline, however, did not spell the end for tomato ketchup. Decades later, in 1876, an astute entrepreneur named Henry Heinz entered the scene. Heinz was not making grand promises about curing gout or preventing baldness; his focus was squarely on flavor and quality.¹ He developed his version of tomato ketchup using ripe tomatoes, distilled vinegar, brown sugar, salt, and various spices—a recipe designed for culinary enjoyment, not for balancing bodily humors.¹⁰

Branding played a key role in this transformation. Heinz strategically labeled his product "Heinz Tomato Ketchup," a move intended to differentiate it from competitors and from the lingering oddity associated with the term "catsup," which had been used for earlier, often fish-based or mushroom-based sauces.⁴ Thus, tomato ketchup was effectively reborn, shedding its dubious medicinal past to become the ubiquitous king of condiments. The failure of the medicinal ketchup market illustrates a natural market correction that occurs when products consistently fail to deliver on their promises and are undermined by widespread fraud. This cleared the path for legitimate products, like Heinz's, which offered a different value proposition centered on taste and quality. Heinz's success underscores the enduring importance of strong branding and clear product differentiation, especially in a market seeking to redefine a product and escape a bizarre historical legacy.

You Thought Ketchup Was Weird? Hold My Beer… (Or, Uh, Floor Cleaner?)

Listerine: From Gonorrhea Treatment to Your Minty Fresh Breath (What a Glow-Up!)

If the medicinal misadventures of ketchup provoke a chuckle, the early history of Listerine is likely to elicit a full-blown guffaw. Today, Listerine is synonymous with minty-fresh breath and oral hygiene. However, its original résumé was considerably more varied and, in some respects, startling.

Invented in 1879 by Joseph Lawrence, Listerine was initially conceived and sold as a surgical antiseptic, intended for cleaning wounds and sterilizing surgical instruments.¹¹ This was a respectable, if not glamorous, application. But the product's ambitions did not stop there. Listerine was also marketed as a floor cleaner.¹¹ Indeed, the very same formulation that might later be used as a mouth rinse was once promoted for scrubbing Victorian-era floorboards. Perhaps most astonishingly, Listerine was even pitched as a cure for gonorrhea.¹¹ One can only imagine the marketing meetings that led to such a claim.

Despite these diverse (and dubious) applications, Listerine did not achieve widespread success by cleaning floors or treating sexually transmitted infections. Its true ascent to market dominance began in the 1920s when the company executed a brilliant, if ethically questionable, marketing strategy. They effectively created a medical condition out of a common social inconvenience by popularizing the term "chronic halitosis".¹¹ Bad breath was transformed from a minor personal issue into a devastating affliction that could prevent individuals from finding love and happiness, as lamented in advertisements asking, "Can I be happy with him in spite of that?".¹² Listerine was no longer just selling mouthwash; it was selling social acceptance and a solution to a newly minted medical problem. The audacity of claiming a single product could serve as a surgical antiseptic, a floor cleaner, and a gonorrhea cure speaks volumes about the lack of scientific scrutiny and the "anything goes" attitude prevalent in early 20th-century advertising.

The company also attempted to market Listerine as a preventative and remedy for colds and sore throats. This claim proved so unfounded that in 1976, the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) intervened, ruling the assertions misleading and mandating that Warner-Lambert (the owner at the time) run corrective advertisements stating that Listerine would not, in fact, help prevent or lessen the severity of colds or sore throats.¹² Listerine's story is a prime example of how marketing can manufacture a perceived need by medicalizing a common issue. Its evolution also reflects changing societal norms and the eventual rise of regulatory bodies to curb misleading advertising.

Play-Doh: Before It Was Fun, It Was… Wallpaper Cleaner?

The brightly colored, malleable substance known and loved by children (and many adults) as Play-Doh also has an origin story that is less about "miracle cures" and more about a mundane household chore that unexpectedly morphed into a beloved children's classic.

In the 1930s, long before it became a staple of toy chests, Play-Doh existed as a wallpaper cleaner.¹³ During this period, many homes were heated by coal, a practice that left a pervasive layer of soot and grime on interior surfaces, particularly wallpaper. The original product, a pliable, clay-like putty made from flour, water, salt, and, initially, some ingredients considered toxic by modern standards, was highly effective at lifting this coal residue from wallpaper.¹³

For two decades, this wallpaper cleaner enjoyed considerable success. However, the 1950s witnessed a significant shift in home heating technology, with gas heating becoming increasingly popular.¹³ Cleaner walls and improved air quality were welcome developments for homeowners but spelled trouble for the wallpaper cleaner company, which faced declining sales and the threat of bankruptcy. Salvation arrived from an entirely unexpected quarter: the inventor's sister-in-law, a nursery school teacher, mentioned that she had been giving the cleaning putty to children in her class to use as a modeling compound.¹³ This serendipitous observation sparked a moment of inspiration. The company reformulated the product, removing the toxic components, adding vibrant colors, and incorporating a pleasant almond scent. And so, Play-Doh, the iconic toy, was born from the ashes of a nearly obsolete cleaning product.

Play-Doh's journey is a remarkable illustration of product adaptation and the ability to pivot in response to changing technological landscapes and fortuitous discoveries. It highlights how a product's original purpose can become outdated, thereby necessitating innovation or risking failure. The company did not invent the idea of children playing with the putty; rather, it observed this unintended use and astutely capitalized on it, demonstrating the importance of being receptive to how consumers actually interact with a product, even if it deviates from the original intent.

Coca-Cola: The Original Pick-Me-Up (Now With Less Cocaine!)

A discussion of everyday items with surprising pasts would be incomplete without mentioning Coca-Cola. This globally recognized sweet, fizzy beverage, an icon of refreshment, also has early days that were considerably more… stimulating than its current image suggests.

In the mid-1880s, Coca-Cola was introduced and marketed not primarily as a beverage, but as a patent medicine, a "tonic" purported to alleviate a variety of ailments.¹⁴ Sufferers of headaches, depression, sinusitis, lethargy, alcoholism, and even impotence were encouraged to turn to Coke for relief.¹⁴ The product was readily available, even appearing in Sears Roebuck catalogues, and did not require a doctor's prescription.

What provided this "medicinal" brew with its distinctive pep? Among its original ingredients was cocaine, derived from the coca leaf.¹⁴ This now-illicit substance was a key component of the early formulation. The popular advertising slogan, "The Pause That Refreshes," takes on an entirely different connotation when viewed through this historical lens. Ironically, and perhaps alarmingly, some of the side effects associated with cocaine use—such as sleeplessness and depression—were the very conditions Coca-Cola claimed to cure.¹⁴ By 1902, it was estimated that there were around 200,000 cocaine addicts in the United States alone.¹⁴ Eventually, growing awareness of cocaine's addictive properties and harmful effects led to its regulation, with the Harrison Narcotic Act of 1914 effectively outlawing its widespread, uncontrolled distribution.¹⁴

Coca-Cola's early history vividly demonstrates the once-blurred lines between medicines, tonics, and recreational substances during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Ingredients that are now strictly controlled and recognized as dangerous were, at that time, commonplace in consumer products. This reflects a vastly different societal understanding and regulatory environment concerning such substances. The story also presents a profound irony: a product marketed for health and vitality was, in part, contributing to addiction and other health problems. This serves as a cautionary tale about unregulated "wellness" products and the potential for unintended negative consequences when potent, poorly understood substances are widely disseminated.

Optional Quick Hits: More Everyday Oddities!

The list of everyday items with bizarre backstories extends beyond condiments and cleaners.

• Bubble Wrap: The Wallpaper That Wasn't. That immensely satisfying, poppable material known as Bubble Wrap was not initially conceived as a protective packaging solution. When it was invented in 1957, its creators, Alfred Fielding and Marc Chavannes, originally intended it to be a textured, three-dimensional wallpaper.¹⁵ When the wallpaper idea failed to gain traction, they pivoted to marketing it as greenhouse insulation before its true calling as a cushioning material for shipping was realized.
• High Heels: Fancy Footwear for Dodging… Medieval Poop? Those often elegant, sometimes torturous, fashion statements known as high heels have a rather less glamorous origin. In medieval Europe, streets were notoriously filthy, often serving as dumping grounds for waste, including animal droppings and sewage. High-heeled shoes, or "pattens" which were overshoes, served a very practical purpose: they elevated the wearer's expensive shoes and clothing above the muck and mire, helping to keep them clean.¹³

These brief examples further reinforce the central theme: many objects integral to modern life have undergone significant transformations in purpose and perception. The shift in the function of high heels, from practical street-wear to a symbol of fashion or status, demonstrates how objects can be recontextualized and imbued with entirely new meanings over time, often driven by evolving cultural norms and societal changes.

The journey from a purported medicinal panacea to a humble hamburger companion, or from a surgical antiseptic to a breath freshener, reveals that the history of everyday objects is often far stranger and more entertaining than one might assume. The ketchup bottle, the mouthwash, and the children's modeling clay all possess these "double lives" within the annals of history.

The next occasion one casually uses one of these everyday items, it might be worth taking a moment to appreciate their bizarre, baffling, and frequently hilarious origin stories. It appears the pantry and the bathroom cabinet can be unexpected historical hotspots. History, it seems, is not confined to dusty old books and solemn monuments; it resides in the weird, wonderful, and sometimes downright quacky evolution of the common items used every single day. The stories behind these objects offer a unique lens through which to view the ingenuity, gullibility, and ever-changing priorities of past societies. Readers are often eager to share their own discoveries of everyday items with surprisingly strange past lives, further uncovering historical hilarity and demonstrating that curiosity about the mundane can lead to fascinating revelations.