Pop Secret

Popcorn and I don't have the best history together. You could compare us to Ike and Tina Turner, popcorn being the abuser and me the victim. If only I could somehow escape its buttery clutches. Somehow no matter how much will power I exude popcorn seems to find its way back in, whether it be the "lite" variety or the extremely buttery kind that leaves my clothes greasy and me feeling bloated.
There really is nothing like a good overdose of buttered popcorn to compliment a summer blockbuster or cheesy romantic comedy. I guess my real love affair with popcorn began as a teenager. I was working at a small movie theater, the kind where the box office staff, ticket-taker and usher were all the same person. It being a mom-and-pop run business, they were proud to provide the most comfortable and "at-home" atmosphere available, while showing foreign and independent cinema. The theater overcharged for a weird movie shown on an old shaky projector that sometimes burnt the movie reel. Even still, people came in droves to eat popcorn, drink cappuccinos and read subtitles. I loved this job because of its ease and simplicity, despite my employer's expecting me to understand how to operate a cappuccino machine (a skill far outside my pay range).
I vowed at the beginning of my employment not to eat the popcorn. My sister warned that once I started I'd never stop and I think I was off carbs at the time. Anyhow, I went a steady 3 months without so much as a kernel when I was told that I'd be taught how to use the popcorn popper. This would ultimately be my demise; how could I be expected to make popcorn without tasting it, the only true validation as to whether I was any good at this?
The instructions were simple: half a dixie cup of oil, a full cup of kernels and one spoonful of popping salt. The ingredients were stored under the box office counter and it was at this point that I learned the truth behind butter, or popcorn topping, as the giant plastic bottle read. The popcorn butter and oil used to pop the kernels were one in the same, and smelled a lot like fish grease. Don't worry, this kept me away from butter for a good 6 months until I realized that it tastes better with this odd yellowish goop. Damn this knowledge, I want some butter on my popcorn!
Making the popcorn became my favorite activity, more so than working at the box office, a pretty cushy gig where you got to sit the entire time. Even still, nothing was as fun as making my own popcorn and tasting the freshly popped kernels hot out of the popper. This would ruin popcorn for me for life. Even to this day, microwave popcorn just won't cut it.
I eventually left this job, but the taste of freshly popped popcorn never left me. I sought it out at mom and pop theaters, stopping by with a giant shopping bag. "I'm not here to see a movie," I'd say, "I just want to buy some popcorn." I'd walk to the concession stand and suddenly feel the weight of the world on my shoulders; medium or large? Maybe I should get two large tubs so I wouldn't have to come back? What if they get cold and soggy, then what? "One large popcorn with butter please," would be my final order. I'd take this popcorn, delicately place it inside the plastic bag so as to not lose any kernels, and walk back out. I always felt like I'd skipped a step, having not seen a movie and all.
It wasn't until later in life that I'd see the awful hold popcorn had on me. One night I went out to get my usual tub of buttery popcorn and the theater had closed early. I pulled really hard on the door, as if my strength would unlock the door AND summon a concession stand worker. The manager saw me outside and motioned that they were closed. I pleaded, explaining via sign language ebonics that all I wanted was some popcorn, and he responded with an apologetic face. "Fine," I decided, "I'll just get some microwave popcorn." I headed to the store and bought the butteriest kind I could find. I took it home and popped it only to feel disappointed.
This would happen to me again and I would remember how the Blockbuster microwavable tubs had a closer taste to movie theater popcorn. I'd rush there and buy two tubs, calming my popcorn demons, but only for a moment.
It wasn't until my parents bought me a bulk-sized pack of extra butter popcorn that I'd realize this had gotten out of hand. One night, feeling lazy and uninspired, I decided to pop some popcorn in the microwave. The bag had been sitting in the pantry a good two or three years and I figured it would alter the taste somehow. No matter, I needed my fix. It was then that I realized how bad it had gotten; popcorn was my heroin. What was I doing, I thought as I pulled the steaming hot bag out of the microwave. And then, like a etch-a-sketch, my brain erased itself and I poured the bag into a giant bowl. I ate the whole thing and it left me feeling like crap. The worst part about eating popcorn was that I couldn't stop until there was none left. I'd dream of myself sitting in a giant glass bowl filled with popcorn, me having to eat my way out, the giant kernels knocking me down.
Around my mid-twenties, my parents got rid of their microwave. They left me home alone during a vacation and I decided I wanted popcorn. I decided, since the microwave was no longer an option, to take the bag of microwavable popcorn and pop it over the stove. "It's probably the same thing," I'd thought. The first batch burned, the second also burned, not sure the kernels, but my fingers too. It wasn't until the third batch that I realized extra buttery popcorn didn't need additional oil. I had been driven mad by my obsession.
After that ordeal, I kept away from popcorn unless it was already popped or I was at the movies. Recently I got a craving, so I stuck a bag in the microwave. I pulled it out, snatched one kernel from the steamy bag and threw the rest away. I was victorious in the battle again popcorn, Robert 1 Popcorn 0. Ok, maybe not 0, but I'd won.