Popcorn

When my sister and I were still in elementary school and Seinfeld was still on the air, once a week my parents would tuck us into bed early so they could catch Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer at their antics. Because the two of us shared a room, we had our own little routine: we’d giggle and tease each other about our puppy-love crushes then talk late into the night (well, until 9:30, at least) about our hopes, dreams and what scared us.

We’d be mid-discussion (I’d be expressing terror over blue whales and snakes) when we heard it: the microwave’s tell-tale pop-pop-poppity-pop. Seconds later, the scent of butter would wind its way up the staircase and we’d stop, mid-sentence, staring at each other with wide eyes and open mouths. Her lips would turn into a wicked grin as she held up her fingers: One, two, three!

“SAVE SOME FOR U-US!” we’d holler, dissolving into shrieks of laughter. Through our gasps, we could hear Mom and Dad groaning and chuckling to themselves.

And we wouldn’t forget, either. Early the next morning, we would leap out of bed and run to the kitchen to see: had they saved us any popcorn? Sometimes they had, but as we munched, we realized with disappointment that it was never quite as good the next day.

When I moved to New York City last year, I lived in a dreary little apartment without a microwave. As a self-righteous chef, I pretended not to mind much – though the truth was I really did miss making popcorn and snuggling into bed with a big bowl of it. Hit late one night with a craving and no way to zap up a snack, I did what any cook worth her salt would: I improvised. A quick scour of the grocery store left me clutching a bag of kernels, and when I got home I began heating up oil in a large stockpot used primarily for soups. I poured in the kernels, cracked open the lid and shook the pot back and forth a little. And there, in the smallest, loneliest apartment in Manhattan, without a microwave or a family to share it with, I made popcorn.

Nowadays, when my sister and I get together at the house we grew up in, we stay awake much later than our parents – though we still swap dating stories and laugh ourselves to sleep. I can’t wait to make her a batch of old-style popcorn; we might even save a few handfuls for Mom and Dad.

 

Popcorn

  • 1 cup olive oil
  • 2 branches rosemary
  • 1/4 cup popcorn kernels
  • Kosher salt

In a saucepan, submerge the rosemary in the oil and heat gently. Do not bring the oil to its smoke point (about 375 degrees) – it should be just pleasantly warm to the touch.

Remove from the flame and let cool. Store the oil in an air-tight bottle (you won’t need all of it for this recipe, and it’s excellent to use as a dip for bread).

In either a popcorn popper or a large stockpot, heat about 1 tablespoon of oil. Add the kernels and cover, leaving the top slightly askew. Shake the pot by its handles (use a towel or potholders!), or turn the crank as the kernels pop up. Kill the flame as soon as the popping slows to one kernel every 2 seconds. Pour into a bowl and top with salt and, if you desire, a splash more oil.

 

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