"The laziest man I ever met put popcorn in his pancakes so they would turn over by themselves."
W.C. Fields
Every once in a while, I get a craving for popcorn. Not just any popcorn. I'm talking about old school Jiffy Pop. You know, the kind you sear over an open flame, holding the flimsy wire handle so tightly that it cauterizes the skin on your palms. You can hear the sizzling of the oil on the bottom of the aluminum pan. Pretty soon, you shake it all, breaking loose the hundreds of kernels congealed together in the now boiling grease. Shake shake. Shake. Shake shake shake.
And then, the first pop. Then another. And another. And another. Soon, the foil puffs up like a big down pillow on the king-size bed of a 4-star hotel. One moment it's flat, the next it's damn near bursting at the seams as it turns into a little steam engine, puffing out little tufts of white smoke as water from the dried kernels of corn super heat and create little explosions of starch.
Pop.
Pop pop. Pop.
Shake.
Shake pop.
And when it stops, you're left with a surprise: either you've gotten a silver-wrapped gift basket of popcorn or you've gotten a burnt casket of corn and crap.
Bon appétit!
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