Snow days always bring to mind Mama’s cozy pine-paneled kitchen and the familiar wintertime aromas of roasting peanuts, beef stew and cherry pie. Being cooped up in the house (except for outside chores and feeding) meant Mama had to get creative to keep us from driving her up the wall.
She had a surefire way of getting our attention. She would drag out her heavy two-handled skillet from the lower cabinet and casually say, “How about some popcorn?”
That old pan was like a portal into a magical world; just add some oil and those rock-like corn kernels and we practically had a carnival in our own kitchen. The anticipation of waiting for the first explosion was almost more than we could stand. That, combined with Mama’s risky habit of constantly lifting the metal lid to check the progress, made us circle the stove like a bunch of worried mama cows protecting their calves. We wanted to make sure a stray kernel didn’t escape to the floor, rendering it inedible.
Sometimes, one would fly out when Mama lifted the lid and streak past our heads. If somebody caught it, they would get a congratulatory high-five or a “good catch.” Once the action picked up, it was imperative that Mama moved that heavy pan back and forth or else it would burn. Nothing tastes worse than burnt popcorn when you’ve got your mouth all set for some fluffy, buttery goodness.
My older sisters sometimes manned the popping pan, making me and my brother long for the day when it would be our turn. Unfortunately for us, Jiffy Pop came on the scene and we thought the days of doing popcorn the old way were numbered. The commercial made it sound like an adventure – “As much fun to make as it is to eat!” – but it just didn’t have the same mystique.
I’ll never forget the first time Mama brought a package of Jiffy Pop home. It was on a Friday and it was cold – perfect popcorn weather. I thought she had bought a new brand of popcorn kernels not realizing the entire process was encapsulated in that strange flat, shiny pan. Our meaningful ritual of getting out the skillet and arguing over who would get to shake the pan was suddenly usurped by this store-bought thing. It made me a little sad.
We all crowded around as Mama read the instructions. It didn’t seem possible that enough popcorn for all seven of us could rise out of that dinky pan. Just remove the paper cover, place over heat and shake till done. At least there was still shaking involved, I thought. I wasn’t sure I’d like this new-fangled way of doing things, but I had to admit the novelty of it was intriguing.
What happened next was hilarious (at least to me). Mama turned on the stovetop burner and set the weird little pan on it, gently moving it back and forth over the flame. It didn’t weigh hardly anything – not like Mama’s heavy skillet that required you to be able to bench press a pig to operate. One minute, we were all staring at the Jiffy Pop pan; the next minute we were afraid for our lives. It started to grow, resembling an aluminum alien head rising out of that small flat pan. It just kept growing until it reached epic proportions. Mama wasn’t sure how big it was supposed to get and she couldn’t hear if it was still popping because we were all talking at once.
I was afraid it would explode, sending hot white missiles to the ceiling, raining scalding butter and who knows what else down on us. Mama was standing as far away as she could while still keeping a one-handed grip on the flimsy handle. Just about that time, the top of the shiny alien head split and a couple of kernels puffed out. It was rather anti-climactic after my vision of explosions and white rain.
After we calmed down and Mama divvied it up into bowls, we conducted our taste test and review. We found it was buttery, but tasted sort of fake. Not all the kernels popped uniformly, and even though it was initially exciting, we decided we liked our family’s traditional method better. Not only did we build more muscle and develop patience doing it the old-fashioned way, but we made a lot of sweet family memories we enjoy to this day.
One in particular still gets my sister teased mercilessly – the popcorn ball debacle. Sherry’s always loved trying new recipes, but for this one, she had to enlist my brother and me in her scheme. First, she popped a ridiculous amount of popcorn, then concocted a boiling hot syrup mixture on the stove. Positioning us at the table with Mama’s big roasting pan between us, she instructed us to “butter our hands.” We looked at each other and smiled. We were going to make a big mess, but we knew we wouldn’t get into trouble. Sherry would.
We each grabbed a stick of softened butter and proceeded to squeeze it for all we were worth. It oozed out between our fingers as we slathered our hands. It was fun until she poured that hot syrup concoction over the popcorn and told us to “scoop it up and press it into balls.” We looked at her like she was nuts, but being dumb kids, we did what she said. After the first two or three, it didn’t hurt too badly and we managed to get most of it rolled up before it cooled off.
The kitchen was a greasy, sticky mess when Mama came home from town. Sherry spent the rest of the evening cleaning the kitchen. My brother and I spent it eating the fruits of our labor and watching “Bonanza.”
by Tamra M. Bolton
