Walking in the rain the other day with my hooded jacket, I was reminded of popcorn. As the raindrops hit my Chinese-made, nylon hood, they went plop, plop and I was taken back to my childhood home in the 50s and to the rec room in the basement where my family gathered on Sunday nights to watch the Milton Berle Show. My Dad had finished off the walls with wood paneling; he’d added a tiny bathroom and, of course, a bar. But in the corner where my family sat, loomed our Motorola TV in a furniture-like console, adorned on top with an artificial floral arrangement in oranges and yellows. Shiny round knobs on the TV turned for adjusting the volume and changing the four channels. A simple button turned it on or off. No remote control.We all looked forward to this regular Sunday night event, as our friends and neighbors also did, I believe.
Looking back on it now, I don’t remember any of the performers or performances on the Milton Berle Show. What I remember most is popcorn. My mother would be the last to descend the stairs to the rec room, carrying a tray with chipped, orange enameled bowls, white on the inside and rimmed at the top with black, also chipped. But the piece de la resistance was the large metal bowl (from the electric mixer) of popcorn. Of course we’d smelled it long before we’d seen it, and we’d heard Mother upstairs in the kitchen shaking the pan from which we’d heard many tiny explosions. Sometimes I’d be recruited to help with the task. We used the pressure cooker pan, without the rubber seal in the lid, and of course, without the rocking metal top piece. The heavy pan was also the only pan large enough. First, we’d pour in the vegetable oil and watch until it began to move ever so slightly, showing it was heated, but not enough to smoke. Then we’d add the kernels, completely layering the bottom. Because we had an electric stove, we’d push the pan back and forth across the heating element as soon as the kernels started popping. Sometimes, the white fluffy corn would overflow the pan and spill onto the counters and stovetop, making us giggle with excitement. It was important not to let it burn while trying to minimize the number of unpopped kernels, called old maids. We’d melt butter in a small pan, used only for that purpose. We’d pour it on, swish it around and shake salt on top.
Now when I want popcorn, as I did the other day after coming in from the rain, I place a sealed bag already filled with the necessary ingredients, into the microwave, hit the “popcorn” button and wait until the noise stops, remove the bag, open it, let the steam escape and pour it into a large transparent plastic bowl. The smell and the sound still please my senses, just as the old pressure cooker method did, but without Milton Berle, the old console TV, the innocence of the 50s, the taste is not as sweet.
