Anyone who knows me knows that I love popcorn.
I like kettle corn, and caramel corn is alright, but I simply adore air-popped popcorn with the traditional salt and butter as toppings.
I’ve loved it ever since I can remember, and even while working at a movie theatre for three years I still didn’t get sick of the stuff.
And despite a tragic childhood incident involving a hot kernel, it’s still possibly my favourite snack.
I don’t remember how young I was, but I remember the popcorn machine whirring on the counter, and the smell of popcorn filling the kitchen.
I had been warned several times to stay far away from the popper so as to not get burned.
So I stood, waiting in joyous anticipation, a couple of metres away from what would soon become my snack.
Now, I don’t know how exactly the next part of the story was possible: it defied physics itself!
But out of the popcorn machine flew a single burning hot kernel.
It soared through the kitchen, past the popcorn bowl and the counter, and landed right between my fingers.
It burned my skin, but mostly I was in shock: I wasn’t standing close to the machine, and the kernel didn’t just hit me, but wedged itself perfectly between my two fingers.
I learned two things that day.
First, that it is always possible to get hurt no matter how many precautions you take.
And second, that nothing can come between me and my love for popcorn.
I’d like to dedicate this story to my Grandpa, my dedicated blog reader and fellow popcorn lover.