Want to know what I’m really positive about? What really fills me full of optimism? Popcorn. Yep. Popcorn. Love it. Could eat it every day. In fact, I think I may have tried for a couple weeks back in the early 90s.
When I got sick a decade or so ago and the docs told me that popcorn would be a no-no for the rest of my remaining years, I contemplated whether life was worth still living. I’ve since defied doctor’s orders, and I’m still alive to tell about it. So, get bent, Dr. Killjoy. Popcorn is the miracle drug.
As strange as it seems, I have tremendous respect for the power of popcorn. The smell floods my mind with memories of being a kid on early Sunday nights, waiting for the Disney Sunday night movie to come on the tube, and hanging on for dear life as my dad made the long walk from the kitchen to living room to bring my sister and I our own bowl of his white gold. My dad made the best popcorn, and it pretty much became his duty.
My aunt Teri made terrific popcorn. The secret ingredient was bacon grease. Sure, if we knew then what we do now . . . but we didn’t, and I’m the better for stuffing that crunchy magic she popped up into my big mouth by the handful. My cousin Margie cooked the stuff up by the loads, and it was outstanding. Perfect salt-to-butter ratio, and the only thing that bested her popcorn was listening to her beautiful, cackling laugh echoing from the kitchen as she lifted the lid off the pan and a defiant kernel or two would escape the pot and go soaring into the air. I can still hear that laugh.
Plenty of Friday or Saturday nights, my mom would pop a big grocery bag full of the fluffy stuff before we’d head off to the drive-in near 84th & Vine in Lincoln and devour the stuff over the course of a twin-bill. My mom made magnificent popcorn, and talk about coveted childhood memories. Few are better.
My college roommate Doug and I played gin rummy nearly every night for the longest time right at 10 p.m. watching the news. Best three-out-of-five hands with the loser making the popcorn we’d eat while watching “MASH” starting promptly at 10:30. He always lost, and he always made a tasty bowlful (begrudgingly).
When I lived on my own for the first time after college, I commonly skipped supper and substituted a bowl of popcorn instead. I couldn’t have been happier for being lazy and being challenged in the kitchen. When I got married, my wife showed me her secret popcorn weapon (preheat the oil with several dashes of salt added in), and life was never the same.
I eat microwave popcorn today, but it’s not the same. It’s too easy. It’s too instantly gratifying. There’s no toil involved. The payoff is too immediate. There’s not anticipation. There’s no aroma slowly filling the space. There are fewer lingering old maids to pick and choose among. There’s only an empty bag as an afterthought. No bowls. No butter on the countertop. No salt under the fingernails. It’s too easy. But it’s still popcorn, and I marvel at its simplistic beauty.
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