When I was a child, Santa left a popcorn machine under the Christmas tree. By today’s standards it was charmingly primitive. By the standards of a seven-year-old, it was the height of technological sophistication.
It consisted of a heated plate and a plastic cover shaped like a classic popcorn cart. Once the popcorn was ready, the cover doubled as the serving bowl. There may have been more engineering involved than I appreciated at the time, but from my perspective it was little more than a hot plate wearing a festive hat. I loved it.
What eventually happened to it remains one of life’s unsolved mysteries. Perhaps it succumbed to old age. Perhaps it was sacrificed to a garage clean-out. Perhaps it now resides in the same alternate dimension as missing socks, Tupperware lids, and every pen that ever worked perfectly five minutes ago.
Whatever its fate, my parents never replaced it. We simply returned to making popcorn in a pot. Kernels, oil, heat, popcorn. For generations this method had worked perfectly well, and astonishingly, it continued to work perfectly well in our kitchen.
Years later I experimented briefly with microwave popcorn. The convenience was undeniable. The flavour was less convincing. The ingredient list often read like a chemistry experiment conducted by someone with unresolved issues. Before long I returned to the old ways: popcorn in a pot, melted butter in a saucepan, and occasionally homemade caramel when I was feeling ambitious.
For anyone seeking my personal recommendation, use a properly seasoned cast-iron pot. Add the salt to the oil and kernels before the popping begins rather than sprinkling it on afterwards. The seasoning is more even, the flavour is better, and there is a certain satisfaction in watching a method perfected generations ago continue to outperform increasingly expensive alternatives.
At this point, one might reasonably assume that humanity had solved the popcorn problem. One would be wrong. Somewhere along the way, we collectively decided that popcorn required innovation. Popcorn machines began multiplying. Some resemble miniature cinema carts. Others feature built-in butter melting systems. Some separate unpopped kernels from the finished product. There are machines with warming trays, measuring systems, serving dispensers, and enough controls to suggest that popcorn preparation has become a branch of aerospace engineering.
One recent creation that caught my attention was a Hogwarts Express popcorn contraption, complete with steam effects and enough decorative detail to qualify as railway memorabilia. Apparently, modern consumers are no longer content to eat popcorn unless it first arrives aboard a magical locomotive.
Another machine melts butter from an upper compartment and drizzles it over the popcorn below, presumably for those who find pouring melted butter manually an intolerable burden. Similar models proudly advertise their butter-melting capabilities as though they have solved one of civilization’s great challenges.
The truly committed enthusiast may purchase commercial popcorn equipment costing several thousand euros, complete with enough stainless steel, lights, and moving parts to suggest a small-scale industrial operation. Meanwhile, I continue to place kernels in a pot. The kernels continue to pop. The system remains stubbornly effective.
This pattern extends far beyond popcorn. We have developed coffee machines that require software updates, refrigerators that send notifications to mobile phones, and toasters with instruction manuals thick enough to qualify as light reading. Simple things are no longer allowed to remain simple because someone, somewhere, is always standing by to improve them.
Popcorn, however, has resisted these efforts with admirable determination. No matter how elaborate the machine, the process remains unchanged. You apply heat to a kernel and the kernel pops. Congratulations. You have recreated a process that people mastered generations ago.
My own great leap forward occurred when I discovered that an electric paella pan can produce exceptionally large quantities of popcorn. This innovation required no software, no companion app, no Bluetooth connectivity, and no Hogwarts-themed transportation network. The popcorn remained popcorn, the world continued turning, and everyone survived.
Perhaps that is why I find modern kitchen gadgets so fascinating. They often solve problems that nobody remembers having. Their advertisements promise convenience, precision, automation, optimisation, and enhanced user experience. I just wanted a bowl of popcorn.
One day, decades from now, some future inventor will undoubtedly unveil an artificial-intelligence-powered popcorn ecosystem capable of monitoring kernel performance in real time while generating predictive popping analytics. People will line up to buy it. I will still be using a pot, or at least that is the plan.
My end-of-life plans are similarly uncomplicated. I wish to be cremated and have my ashes scattered across several cities where I lived, loved, worked, learned, and occasionally made questionable decisions.
Before that happens, however, I am considering one final contribution to family folklore. I would like the mortician to discreetly fill my cadaver with popcorn kernels. An NDA would, of course, be required.
At the appropriate moment, as family and friends gather for a dignified farewell, I would make one final argument in favour of simplicity. No expensive machinery, no advanced technology, and no complicated operating instructions. Just heat, kernels, and one last surprise.
The fact that this plan is unlikely to survive either legal review or professional ethics standards is beside the point. A lifetime spent watching humanity overcomplicate everything eventually inspires a person to dream of the simplest possible protest. Besides, if the popcorn actually worked, I suspect it would be the most memorable funeral anyone ever attended.
As I write this, a black cat has just knocked over several containers in the kitchen and succeeded only in terrifying himself. There was a tremendous crash, followed by a look of absolute horror. A black streak shot across the kitchen and disappeared through the open window. Unlike modern popcorn machines, some things require no improvement whatsoever.
What you may have missed:
From The Esoteric Frog:
Pearls At The Threshold: Mourning & Protection
Pearls At The Threshold: Love & New Beginnings
From The Marie Balustrade blog:
Castle Whiskerton: Cultured Vultures (finale)
