Popcorn Elitist

It is a blustery, misted day here in northeast Iowa, with rain and thunderstorms anticipated for the afternoon.  I woke up with one thought for my day: I'm going to make popcorn and watch 'The Hours'.

There are a handful of movies I watch over and over; 'The Hours' is one of those, but it requires a rainy, moody atmosphere to make my experience truly complete.  And it needs to happen in autumn.

But this is about popcorn.

I love popcorn.  I love making popcorn.  My freezer is never without popping corn.  I have eaten popcorn for a meal.  I do not need a movie as an excuse to make popcorn.  Microwave popcorn is the devil; it costs more, it's tasteless, and it's toxic and probably contains beaver anal glands.

I'm a traditionalist.  Popcorn should involve a stovetop, a pan of oil, and a vigilant popper.  And white popcorn, not yellow.  White popping corn has smaller kernels; use yellow popcorn only if your threading it for a Christmas garland.  Better yet, try black popping corn; the kernels are smaller, they don't get stuck in your teeth, and the flavor is an incredibly nutty, wild taste.

We all like salted popcorn, and most like buttered popcorn,. I actually don't care for butter on my popcorn.  Years ago, I started trying different seasonings on my popcorn; taco meat seasoning, a little shredded cheddar or sprinkle it with Hidden Valley ranch dressing mix.  One of my favorite popcorn blends is sea salt, pepper and shredded Parmesan cheese.

Still, this is really about the pan.  A popcorn pan is a dedicated pan, used for no other cooking (my popcorn bowl is nearly as sacred).  I've had two popcorn pans in my adult life, both purchased at thrift stores.

My current pan has been used for more than 20 years.  It is a superb popcorn pan; deeper than the average pan (it was the bottom of a double-boiler, the lid salvaged from another pan). It's light-weight with a long handle, perfect for standing over the pan and shaking it for better popcorn.  My  popcorn pan remains on the stovetop, just as might leave a teakettle standing, ready for use.  The outside is blackened from dripped oil (I don't wash it often, only wiping the inside with a paper towel before I use it) and the bottom has warped from the heat so it tilts precariously on the burner.  If I take the lid off, the pan tips over when empty.  I know it is time to let it go.


Last weekend, I stopped at one of my favorite thrift stores in the little town of Hopkinton, or Hoptown as the natives call it.  It's a mission store and if you're visiting, I'm sure to drag you to Hoptown for the experience of a Saturday morning in the Not-So-Tiny House Mission Store.  In housewares I spied a likely replacement for my old popcorn pan.  It was the right size, not as deep as the old one.  The lid was ill-fitting, but that's okay on a popcorn pan.  Best of all, it was one dollar.  In the sorting room of the thrift store, I know there is a stove and I asked if I could test out the pan.  I stood at the stove, felt the pan's weight in my hand, skated it over the burner, rotated the handle as if I were dumping popped corn.  I happily shelled out a dollar.

I'm not quite ready to let go of my faithful popcorn pan; it's like saying goodbye to your first car.  I popped innumerable bowls of popcorn for Jeff and I during our 21 years together.  I've made my gourmet-flavored popcorn for friends to savor while we watched a movie.  My dog, Joey, loves popcorn and knows the sounds of the pan being readied and he waits patiently at the stove for me to finish, then he sits at my feet in the living room and I toss kernels to him and he catches them in midair.

For now, I'll work with my warped and charred old pan, and hope it's replacement serves as admirably.

A Simpler Kitchen

Five days a week, from 6am to 1pm, I command the grill at a local diner.  Eggs, bacon, pancakes, sausage, hashbrowns, burgers & fries.  During the week, we offer a lunch special - meatloaf, pork steak, scalloped ham & potatoes, chicken & biscuits - and you can always get the hot roast beef sandwich drenched in gravy.  The mashed potatoes are real, the pies and desserts are made in-house, and now that the weather is turning cold, you can get a bowl of chili or ham & bean, or chicken noodle.  Next week's soup is creamy potato.

The grill is behind a service window that looks out onto the dining room and from there I watch the world: the truck drivers, the coffee ladies, the Catholic League, the local businessmen, the dusty farmers and their stoic wives, the young families.  There is talk of the weather (it's been another dry year), crop prices, the government, birth and death, marriage and scandal.

The waitresses are efficient, sassy, and quick with a laugh.

I watch it all from my place behind the grill.  I crack wise.  I nod to the regulars.  I love every minute of it.  It is a far cry from my years as a retail manager.  Maybe I don't make as much money, but the poetry found in a plate of scrambled eggs and toast is worth far more.

I have always enjoyed cooking.  I make a mean lasagna, a firebrand chili, a whiskey-infused meatloaf.  Working in the diner, I have learned the art of cooking simply.  I have memorized farm recipes from stained 3x5 cards.  This summer, I gave up processed foods, went local as much as possible, including growing my own peppers and tomatoes.  I buy honey from the Amish farm a mile up the road.  Last week, I made my own whole-wheat bread.

I revel in this simpler life; the former disco boy clubkid trading the mirrored ball and laser lights for cast iron skillets and a whisk.  I'm in bed early and wake up before the sunrise.  This morning, I'd already baked a loaf of bread, moved the woodpile and washed the windows by 7 o'clock.

A slice of warm bread dripping with butter and clover honey.  That's poetry.