I love popcorn. Not that microwaved, yellow, imitation butter-flavored crap that leaves a film in your mouth that brushing with sandpaper won’t get out. Real, Pop-It-Yourself-in-a-Pot-Popcorn.
My love affair with fluffy, white corn began when I was young. My daddy would make enough popcorn to fill a huge metal pan we called the “popcorn pan”. We’d had that pan had for years and it was SO big that the only other times we used it were Thanksgiving and Christmas for the turkey and dressing.
We ate popcorn in my house so often that as soon as I was old enough to get near a stove Daddy taught me how to make it so he wouldn’t have to do it anymore. My little sister and I fought over who was closer to the popcorn pan while we were laying on the floor watching television– one centimeter off-center and we were going at it like Michael Vick’s dogs.
I still eat popcorn A LOT (almost every night for the past few weeks now), and there’s not much better than the taste of ridiculously salty popcorn and a giant icy Coke. The only thing that’d make it better now would be serving it in that huge, beat-up, metal popcorn pan.
And while we’re on the subject of popcorn, it makes me sad that Dave will never taste the movie theatre popcorn of my youth. I know that it’s healthier making it the new way, but I don’t go to the movies often enough for it to hurt. The new stuff with the healthier oil tastes like burnt plastic and reminds me of Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun” video (you know, it’s the one with Barbie melting on the barbeque grill). I want my delicious old movie theatre popcorn back.