How Uncrustables Reinvented the Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

The radical reinvention of the sandwich began with two dads who wanted to appease their kids.

It was 1995, and David Geske had invited his friend Len Kretchman over to his home in Fargo, North Dakota. It was lunchtime, and their children wanted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the bread crusts cast aside.

Geske’s wife, Kristen, and Kretchman’s wife, Emily, witnessed the meal preparation. They suggested—perhaps jokingly, perhaps not—that their husbands start a crustless sandwich business.

Had it been anyone else, the idea might have been dismissed as a brief moment of levity—a kind of observational humor about the picky appetites of children. But Geske and Kretchman took it seriously. In a short period of time, they would revolutionize the sandwich, sparking a chain of events that would result in success as well as controversy. Their sealed, crustless lunch became a litmus test of the limits of trademark law and prompted an audacious gambit—an attempt by a corporate food giant to patent the peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

A Circular Theory

The origins of crustless sandwiches are as ill-defined as the invention of the sandwich itself. But serving up bread without the crust is hardly unusual. The triangular tea sandwiches served in the UK for centuries are usually sans crust to make for a pleasing and portable snack. In Japan, pre-made sandwiches, or sandoicchi, are often sold with the crusts severed, a cultural preference that may harken back to the distaste for the chewier, harder bread crusts of the past as well as a more aesthetically pleasing presentation.

The gastronomic genius of David Geske and Len Kretchman was in recognizing that the crustless sandwich didn’t need to remain the purview of accommodating and patient parents. By packaging and mass-producing a crustless option, kids would be able to grab one whenever and wherever they wanted.

The idea was simple; the execution was not. Trimming excess crust from bread and serving it immediately is one thing. Preparing it for storage and transportation posed a number of logistical challenges, mostly related to leakage. To prevent peanut butter and jelly from spilling out, the edges of the circular bread needed to be crimped together in a manner resembling ravioli. While this provided a seal, Geske and Kretchman discovered that the jelly was perpetually trying to escape, soaking the bread. After much trial and error, they concluded that sealing the jelly between two layers of peanut butter kept everything in place. Once frozen, the sandwich could be thawed and enjoyed, no adult laboriously trimming off brown crust needed.

A friend’s son gave it a name: the Incredible Uncrustables.

The target market was children, and it was here Kretchman proved to be the right person for the job. Both were familiar with food service—at his day job, Greske sold packaged ice—but Kretchman had knowledge of food distribution to school districts, which gave him key access to decision makers. The Incredible Uncrustables were met with a warm reception by administrators who found the idea perfect for lunchtime: $7.38 would buy them a dozen sandwiches—an incredibly thrifty model for feeding students.

By 1998, Kretchman and Geske were producing roughly 35,000 Incredible Uncrustables a day in Fargo, distributing them to schools in eight states. They also sought out and received a patent for their unique method of sandwich preparation, which quickly drew the attention of one of the biggest food manufacturers in the world. And if they had their way, there would be no room for competition.

Sealing a Deal

Jerome Monroe Smucker started selling cider and apple butter in 1897: His storefront was a horse-drawn wagon. Throughout the 20th century, his company, Smucker’s (or Smucker), enjoyed success with fruit spreads and jellies. “With a name like Smucker’s, it has to be good” became one of advertising’s best-known slogans.

The Incredible Uncrustables were an ideal addition to their portfolio. In 1998, the company reportedly paid Geske and Kretchman $1 million to acquire their business, Menusaver, including the soon-to-be-approved patent that was granted in December 1999.

It was a bargain. While Geske and Kretchman were content to distribute to schools, Smucker had grand ambitions for their new sandwich project. The 2000 release of Smucker’s Uncrustables—now without the Incredible—landed at retail with a splash. Over 50 million sandwiches were sold that first year, demonstrating that consumers did indeed want an even more convenient version of an already-convenient sandwich product.

Albie’s noticed it, too. The business, which had been operating since 1987 selling “pasties,” or meat-filled pastries, decided they wanted to expand into the pre-made peanut butter and jelly space. They started marketing E.Z. Jammers, a square sandwich. And within months, they received a cease-and-desist letter from Smucker alleging their product was infringing on their patent—one of many Smucker dispensed to similar crustless offerings.

Regan Quaal, who owed Albie’s, was incredulous. After some back and forth, he sued Smucker in 2003, charging that the patent had been too liberally applied and that it wasn’t possible for someone to patent a classic sandwich made by tens of millions of people around the country. (Smucker countersued on the patent infringement point, marking the high point of peanut butter-related litigation.) It also sparked conversation that the U.S. government, which once declared patented ideas must be the result of a “flash of genius,” were now too generous in granting them. Roughly 75 percent of applications were approved, including this unique take on peanut butter and jelly.

But Smucker resisted the criticism. They sought out additional patents for Uncrustables, including ones covering the manufacturing and packaging of the sealed sandwich. Attorneys for Albie’s countered that such “sealing” could be accomplished by commercially-available food crimpers and was not patentable. Attorneys for Smucker retaliated, charging use of such sealing products resulted in poorly-sliced bread in their experiments. But patent judges reviewing the case felt the cutting device had not been used properly or that too much jelly had been inserted, unfairly bolstering Smucker’s case. It was the sealed sandwich equivalent of O.J. Simpson struggling to put on gloves.

The case dragged on through 2005, when the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit finally ruled against Smucker on the two additional patents. The sealed bread, Judge Arthur Gajarsa found, was hardly different from the encasement found in pasta or pie crusts. He also took a swipe at the original idea. His wife, he said, had just been making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

“I’m afraid she might be infringing on your patent,” he said.

Smucker has not backed down. In 2022, they sent another cease-and-desist to Gallant Tiger over that company’s round peanut butter and jelly sandwich product, this time on trademark infringement grounds. A sealed sandwich? Arguably not original or patentable. A sealed, circular, crimped sandwich? Smucker will probably find you.

Toward a Billion

Copycats abound, but Smucker has something almost as good as a patent: brand recognition. Even though the company rarely pursues television advertising or major marketing campaigns, Uncrustables are the first name in frozen sandwiches. By 2019, Smucker estimated 4 billion Uncrustables had been produced. In 2024, the company expects to hit $1 billion in annual sales, and in a wide variety of flavors (strawberry, grape, raspberry, wheat).

The company claims to have exacting standards. Each Uncrustable is photographed coming off the assembly line to check for excess filling or crust; the bread, which is flash-frozen, is purportedly fresher than loaves off the shelf, with none of the preservatives found in shelf-stored breads.

The sandwich has also become an indispensable part of sports. In 2024, The Athletic crunched data and concluded NFL teams eat upwards of 4300 Uncrustables per week. Players find they travel easily, can withstand getting knocked around in luggage or bags, and provide a quick infusion of protein, carbs, and fat to fuel physical exertion.

But one lingering question remains. All baked bread winds up with crust. So what happens to the miles of unwanted edges? According to Smucker, they’re shipped off to be repurposed as animal feed. This unique method of crust disposal does not yet have a patent.

Read More About Your Favorite Snack Foods: