I come from a family of serious popcorn makers. My memories of childhood are tied to the rattle of corn kernels hitting the pan. The ping-ping-ping of them bursting. The alluring fragrance of popped corn wafting into the room. The deliciously greasy fingers that had to be licked.
On Saturday nights, my mother would pull out the 3-quart Revere Ware pot -- the one with a few vestiges of burnt kernels -- and pop up our treat while we, freshly scrubbed and smelling sweetly of Lux soap and Prell shampoo, watched "My Three Sons" and "Hogan's Heroes."
Occasionally, there were private popcorn moments to which I was not invited. Hours after my appointed bedtime, I would be buried in blankets in a darkened room, tossing and turning as only a night owl does, when I would hear the telltale kernels as they clattered into the pan. It meant only one thing: Mom and Dad were eating popcorn. Alone.
That always posed a late-night dilemma. Should I give in to temptation and tiptoe into the kitchen to let my folks know I was awake and wouldn't mind having some popcorn? Or would I risk a bad-tempered "Get back to bed!" if they didn't want me around? Some nights the siren call of popcorn was worth the prospect of a little danger.
We took our popping seriously, my mother comparing notes with her sisters on the best technique: lots of oil or little, salt before or after, shaking the pan or not, white, yellow or any of the gourmet versions of popcorn. ("Can you believe it?" my mother would exclaim when she saw the newfangled oddities. "Popcorn comes in colors these days.")
When it came to eating from the overflowing bowl, the Svitaks had a distinct style. Well, at least two of us did (that would be my father and me). There are those who eat their popped corn delicately, kernel by kernel, as though they could nibble all day without fear that anyone else would finish the bowl. There are others who grab small handfuls and, again, take their time.
Then there are those who can only be called "woofers." (And yes, that would include you-know-who and you-know-who's father.) We would grab huge handfuls, from which more than a few kernels would fall to the floor or our laps. With heads tilted backward (the better to catch the popcorn), we would toss back the fistfuls of popcorn at one time with gustatory relish. Not a pretty sight, I know. Like wolves tearing apart a carcass, we would devour the bowl of popcorn while the others cavalierly nibbled away at theirs.
By the mid-1980s, when microwave popcorn appeared on the shelf, we had packed up the old pan. The sheer novelty of almost-instant popcorn had us transfixed in front of the microwave as the small bag expanded in front of our eyes, even though we heeded the urban rumor to "stand clear of the microwave." Never mind that the bags often burned. It was magic.
