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And While We’re on the Subject of Popcorn
April 28th, 2012
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There is a moment of weighty silence after the movie has ended. This fierce moment that punctures that so-called “suspension of disbelief” and lands us with a thud back into a dark, cold room. The lights haven’t come back on, and it is a terrible, wonderful moment where you are alone with your simmering thoughts.
In the dark theater, I hear you bite down on a piece of popcorn from the bottom of the bag. I turn around to the sight of your plump lips closing around a stubborn, half-popped, salty kernel. It resists you, but finally gives up in a crackling heap.
I know the sound well because it’s usually the one I’m making.
The sound of you, a stranger, biting on a raw kernel, causes me to think of the third Cassavetes film I saw. I was 19 and living in Hungary, and the theater near the Opera House was playing a week of Cassavetes. I had seen Shadows by myself earlier in the week, then Killing of a Chinese Bookie the next day. On Thursday, I slipped out of a raucous, after-work drinking affair to catch the 9:30 showing of A Woman Under the Influence. Somebody—he reminds me a little of you—followed me out.
He couldn’t bear another shot of Pálinka. He needed more smokes. He didn’t want to get in another conversation with Iren from the desk. Besides, he’d been wanting to see Cassavetes. When we got onto the crowded subway car, Hungarian men, sour with sweat and cheap gasoline-canister wine, pressed against us and we moved closer together. He grabbed my hand, and held it all the way to the Oktogon stop.
Dark silence in the theater that day was excruciating. A small carton of popcorn sat in my lap, but remained there, uneaten. The piercing sound in the dark theater of kernels caving loudly and crumpling under the crush of my teeth was intolerable. Every time he moved, I hoped he might take my hand again. He smelled faintly of snow and bitter peach pits that lingered from the alcohol. As the untethering of Gena Rowlands came before us on screen, he slumped further down into his chair. When he looked at me, his eyes looked sorrowful. Even in the dark, I saw the little brown spot punctuating his ice-blue eyes. When we left the theater, he asked if I’d go with him to visit his girlfriend near the Astoria. Her name was Adrienne, and she had been working second shift as barmaid. I had seen her once, ruddy cheeks and tousled hair.
We walked up to her together, and her impenetrable brown eyes made me nervous. He looked at her with an expression that could have been hatred or desire. I couldn’t tell the difference. They started an immediate fight where she shattered into a million shards of anger and hurt. He accused her of fooling around with the bartender, and became ever-more distant. It was the middle of winter, but the room was steamy with the pipe furnaces pulsing and sweating. I backed away, meeting his eyes.
When I got home, I pulled out my carton of popcorn in the dark and finished eating it, alone. It seemed that each once-hardened kernel had taken a terrible risk bursting forth into these starchy, flowering maidens. Only then to disintegrate back into sheaths of leftover hull, wedging themselves into the hidden spaces of my teeth. I was annoyed with them stuck there, too salty on my tongue, but I couldn’t stop taking bites for their creamy disintegrating texture and their bitter floral overtones. Bite after bite, I swallowed them down wondering why so many exquisite things in life end up being so frustrating, too.
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How to Pop Popcorn and Have a Cheery Day
April 17th, 2012
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It seems strange that I should be gone for so long, then come back to you with popcorn. But that’s where I find myself. Such is the stuff that busy lives are made of.
Besides, I have yet to meet a day that can’t be improved by a big, buttery bowl of popcorn. It’s not the same kind of cure that, say, a pot of tomato sauce can dole out, but popcorn takes such little effort, and it’s the kind of merriment you can wedge between school pick-up and endless errands. Not to mention, it makes a pretty good companion when your husband is out of town and you collapse on the couch to watch Mad Men. Popcorn can fit squarely into any part of the day, and I won’t let a week go by that doesn’t see at least one batch.
Here’s how I do it:
Put a generous slick of oil in the bottom of a pot and throw in three kernels. I do this solely because that’s what my mom did. It isn’t entirely clear whether it’s a necessary step or just a relic from my childhood, but I love this part of the process. For a brief moment, each time I make popcorn, my mom is forcing me to listen and smell and take a breath before the three chubby kernels explode. At that point, I lift the lid and fill the bottom of the pot with sunny yellow kernels that sizzle and dance in the oil the minute they hit the heat.
Popcorn is so satisfying that way. They make their own party.
First, a few kernels burst alive in their creamy debutante organza and start dancing. Soon, all those boisterous kernels are laughing and crowding together, cheerily filling your pot. If the kernels seem to be sputtering, shake and agitate the pan a little. They’ll wake up. When the popped kernels are having so much fun they start pushing the lid off the pot, remove from the heat and gather them in the largest bowl you can find. In my kitchen it’s an oversized, stainless steel bowl that takes both arms to wrap the circumference. I like to make popcorn in the biggest batches I can muster.
I douse it in real melted butter, watching the golden liquid trickle into all the cracks and crevices. A quick sprinkling of garlic powder rounds it out, then sweet paprika, grey salt, and if you’re feeling especially festive, a generous grating of parmesan cheese, as well.
Don’t feel like you have to measure any of this. Popcorn really is like a good party—the less you try, the better it seems to turn out. Rely instead on your own superior taste and high spirits. Your day will thank you for it.
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