Yesterday I consumed my last mini-bag of microwaveable popcorn. It was with a tear in my eye that I savored the last kernel, resisting the urge to lick the bowl.
You must understand that popcorn has been my favorite snack since the beginning of time. I fondly remember my dad making huge amounts of popcorn on the stove, armed with butter-flavored cooking oil and movie-theatre-butter salt. He went through a brief air-popping phase, which luckily didn't last very long. His popcorn always came out perfect; never so much butter as to give you the greasy feeling you have when you leave a movie theater, yet never so bland as to leave you parched.
I have thusfar been very lucky that most things I'm used to can be easily bought at the grocery, but the problem here is that the french prefer their popcorn with sugar.
That's right. Sugar.
And I'm not talking about with caramel and peanuts; that's something else entirely.
So don't bother sending me rice (thanks Dana, for offering), but if you have an extra mini-bag of microwaveable popcorn lying around, then God Bless You.
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