By Christina Abt
Buffalo, NY – As I have again celebrated one more December birthday (number 51 for those enquiring minds who need to know) and yet another New Year has dawned, I find that I am oddly concentrated on people, places and things that previously have been taken-for-granted, parts of my life.
Now I'm not talking about items such as family, friends and health. I've always inherently understood their value and appreciated them to the fullest extent. Rather what I'm referencing here are things more along the lines of incidental, secondary-in-importance stuff... like my popcorn pot.
Now this particular pot is no ordinary popper. For starters, it came into my family's possession long before my personal hard drive was even downloaded. It is best described as a four-quart aluminum pan with a matching lid, topped off by a black plastic knob and side handle. That's it. No fancy copper bottom, no stick-free coating, no see through glass lid and definitely no high priced chef-endorsed logo. Yet truth be known, this pan was never designed to be a generator of the salty, buttery, snack food treat.
I can't remember my mother's original use for this pan. She really wasn't much of a cook so odds are it was pretty pristine when she willed it to me, some thirty years ago. Further, I'm not even sure why I initially decided to use it for corn popping. All I can clearly remember is that the first time I poured oil, salt and kernels into that shiny aluminum kettle, I was immediately distracted... for a substantial time period.
When my brain finally re-entered the earth's atmosphere and I remembered that I had popcorn on the stove, I flew back into the kitchen fully prepared to deal with billowing black smoke and that one-of-a-kind burnt corn smell that can taint a kitchen for days. Yet to my surprise, when I reached the stove, there atop the blazing red burner sat a perfectly popped kettle of corn.
Needless to say I was shocked and amazed. So much so that I emptied the pan and immediately set it up to pop again, this time resolutely standing by to witness the event. Within minutes, the sizzling oil set the kernels slam dancing against the pan's shiny silver interior. Soon the popping noise was a concerto of rhythm releasing that undeniable taste-tempting aroma with each successive beat.
As I stood enraptured by the smell, I realized that the popcorn was overflowing and raising the lid of the pan, pop by pop. Soon the top was distanced from the bottom by almost two inches...and not one kernel of corn had fallen out. I never shook the pan, I never adjusted the heat, I simply stood by and watched. Which apparently was exactly the way my popcorn pan wanted it.
Since that magical moment, I have continued to pop corn in that exact fashion and, as old Orville himself claims, every batch turns out perfectly every time. The pan is now completely blackened on the outside while the inside is permanently oiled, despite the many ways I have tried to scrub it clean and clear. It has become a legend in my family as much as for how it pops, as for the tasty treat it produces.
My kids have grown up, my family has expanded and contracted, my friends have dealt with life-changing events, all while being mesmerized and nourished by my enchanting popcorn pot. It's become a tradition, a treat, and a little bit of magic in our lives and whenever I pull it out of the cupboard I am reminded of the long chain of popcorn kernels intertwining the people, places and events that continually define my life.
It's funny how that old pot becomes more significant with each passing year.
Commentator Christina Abt is a free-lance writer from Eden.