When I was a kid, we had a heavy metal pot. It was awesome. It had sides about a quarter of an inch thick, and a lid you could use to kill a donkey with (4th Birthday (Don’t ask)) It was the sort of thing that would cause guys in leather jackets to point and yell “NOW THAT’S METAL!” because I knew that kind of metal head. The wooden handle had warped so badly that it just spun around on the shaft, so you could only manipulate the evil son of a bitch with pot holders and nerves of steel. It was a demon for popcorn. A veritable popcorn popping djinn that was so perfect, the gods themselves would weep.
My father foolishly allowed my sister to take it with her when she moved, and I’ve never found anything as good since. It’s hard to look someone trying to sell you a lovely dutch oven and tell them “This is insufficient to mine dark designs” because putting mine in a sentence like that is sort of unwieldy, but you have to do it right. Even the closest thing I’ve found doesn’t match up.
Syd favors the Whirley Pop design, but Syd doesn’t know any better. I’m pretty sure she was raised by wolves. She doesn’t understand my disdain for the aluminum abomination she has brought into our home. At least she doesn’t try to foist some air popper on our household.
I am alone, I am bereft, I am without proper popcorn.
I’d say that cry myself to sleep, but that insinuates I ever sleep…