Today my dear mother very patiently coached her youngest daughter on how to make that notorious culinary impossibility: popcorn. Yes, it's true. Prior to this afternoon I had never made popcorn on the stove top. With a recipe that pretty much goes, "heat oil in a pan, add popcorn kernels, wait for them to pop," you'd think that I could figure it out, but halfway through (that would be at the "add kernels" step) I panicked and speed dialed my mom to talk me through it. Good news. All was well.
She has years of popping experience, it being a treat in regular rotation throughout my childhood. The clink of the tiny kernels as she poured them in the pressure cooker, the heaviest-bottomed pan we had. The quickly accelerating pop-pop-popping of fluffy white that lifted the enamel lid with the line of red around the rim. A giant white Tupperware bowl perched on my dad's lap from which we all scooped our portions. Saturated in butter and generously salted, it is the taste of autumn nights at home.
Silas picked each kernel up pinched between his thin, slender fingers. He was hesitant at first, as he is with most new foods, but it only took three bites for him to be won over. I am grateful to share this simple, magical food with him and look forward to movie nights, stringing garlands, and fingers sunk deep in communal bowls.
This is the season of giving thanks. In an attempt to keep my daily gratitude practice at the forefront of my mind, I hope to post here a daily simplicity for which I am grateful.