My dad makes the best popcorn on planet Earth. In his scorched and broken popcorn popper he pops red kernels while standing over the stove in his girl's AAU sweatpants, knitted slippers, Detroit Red Wings sweatshirt, and knit cap. Usually he hums as he retrieves the set of variously-sized metal bowls to fill for each family member watching a different television show simultaneously. The Dodd family has never done the Friday night TGIF family line-up together. Years ago, it may have been tried, but was quickly abandoned due to remote controls hurled across the room at siblings' heads and wet sobs saturating the popcorn. Thus we occupy all five televisions. However we do all share a common fondness for freshly popped popcorn...my Dad's freshly popped popcorn.
When the the popcorn popping in the popper becomes a weaker pop, he pulls the pan from the burner and distributes the white puffs into the variously sized metal bowls. He sprinkles salt and sometimes pepper or Parmesan cheese onto the corn and distributes it amongst the television viewers. Crunch.
Often my Dad surprises me with a metal bowl full of freshly popped popcorn and I unfailingly have just brushed my teeth. Unfailingly he says, "You can brush 'em again. Eat your popcorn!" I miss my Dad's popcorn. I haven't lived at home for sometime and thus have not tasted his popcorn for sometime. I haven't even talked to my dad in awhile. We don't have much of a phone call relationship, but more of a road trip across country relationship.
I hadn't thought about my Dad's popcorn in awhile, until I was laying in bed watching the season premiere of Glee on my computer. There was a knock on my room door and I soon found it to be John, the farmer I work for. He apologized for not making dinner, which I found to be ridiculous. I usually fend for myself and welcomed the chance to tonight. Usually the stove top is brimming with stockpots and cast iron pans cooking enough food to feed an orchestra. Looking at all of the cooking food day-after-day makes me tired. Occasionally I just want to put some peanut butter on bread and call it a night. Tonight was my night. I sneaked in from the library to an empty stove top, grabbed a bagel from the cupboard, some pesto, and bott.a.bing bott.a.bang - dinner! I scurried upstairs, typed hulu.com into my search engine, and started watching Glee. My Glee addiction started in Texas during my second season at TOS. My "sister" Jess, K, and I would stay up late in the office watching every episode diligently. Tonight, as I watched from a lonely room in Chimacum, WA, I remembered those days fondly-the beginning of everything, before the sleepless nights of worry mixed with the frolic of new countryside.
Glee had just begun when John came into my room to apologize for the lack of dinner. I told him that I had found something to eat and was quite content. "Would you like some popcorn?" He said in a caring voice. I thought about it for a moment and decided that popcorn would make an excellent compliment to my Glee viewing and said, "Sure." About ten minutes later John came up the stairs with a metal bowl filled with white, puffed kernels. Popcorn in a metal bowl...but not my Dad's.
I guess before this ramble commenced, I wanted to reach a moral. I tried to think of a metaphor that compares popcorn to life, but it didn't sound decent. I suppose my moral is this: Enjoy your Dad's popcorn, because you never know when the Pop will stop!
