Popcorn

After last night’s epic post, another epic post would be unthinkable [1. Or rather, unthinkaboutable. ] Instead of me telling you why knitting is as complex and geeky as computer programing or why Princess Leia is my hero (and why all you fanboys who immediately think “Princess Leia = slave girl outfit” can go take a long walk off a short pier), I’m just going to say this: I love popcorn.

Sometimes with butter, mostly with pepper, never with salt. I deplore those powdered toppings you can get that make it taste like sour cream and onion or barbecue because they are partly salt and mostly gross. Any popcorn that’s covered in caramel and nuts is my biggest weakness and I can’t eat just a little at a time, which is why I buy it, at most, once a year.

The pot I make my popcorn in used to belong to my grandfather, who gave it to me when I lived in Halifax. It’s green and the paint is chipping, the lid doesn’t fit properly and it’s stained by the thousands of things that have been cooked in it. It’s also the pot my sister and I used to blow bubbles in when we were little and stayed over at my grandparents, so it’s of huge sentimental value and I won’t be getting rid of it anytime soon. It’s the perfect size and depth for making popcorn, which is the real reason I haven’t/can’t get rid of it.

It’s a great snack if you’re looking for something crunchy but not fattening, and if it’s late and you shouldn’t be eating before bed, a little bit of popcorn won’t hurt you.