She had a particular way of cooking popcorn. She put both oil and a huge pat of butter in a deep pan and then put the kernels in. Deep-fried popcorn, served up with a side of farmland.
Eyes wrinkled from years of laughter and scoldings, she puttered around the kitchen, swimming through the hot aroma of popping popcorn. Steam whistled from the pan; It was a special pan for popcorn, with a small flap that rotated open. She gave one to my mother as a gift way back then, when housewives wore yellow.
Hair curly and white, she poured the popcorn in a huge bowl. Then in the greasy pan she melted more butter. The stove didn’t even have to be on, it was hot enough from the residual heat. Then the frothy, almost burnt butter is trickled over the popcorn. Finally there is salt, plenty of it, sprinkled. On top.
It isn’t a proper bowl of popcorn if your hand doesn’t shine after grabbing some. Passing by the old microwave (with a rotating dial for the timer) she would thump the bowl on the table. Time to dig in. With a laugh and a scolding finger, she would walk back into the kitchen. Where she still is, was, and always will be.
