The Great Popcorn Diet

My computer died yesterday afternoon.  I am using Alex’s computer until this weekend, when we are going to buy a shiny, new macbook.  In the meantime, here is something I wrote for my food writing class to tide you over until I get set up on a new machine: 

 I once dined on only popcorn for an entire week.  It was my junior year of college, during the most brutal type of Ohio winter storm, where the days stubbornly maintain a somber shade of gray despite the excessive outpouring of white snow.  As if this weren’t reason enough to completely withdraw into my tiny apartment, I was also recovering from an unexpected breakup with a boyfriend I never really liked in the first place.  With scarcely enough fortitude to brave the elements and attend class, trekking across campus to the grocery store was entirely out of the question.  I would have forgone food altogether, in the manner of many dejected lovers, if it weren’t for the mammoth jar of popcorn that I had just purchased.

I bought the jar to make popcorn for movies and lazy nights on the couch with a book, but quickly realized that I had underestimated the food’s potential.  The first few meals of my great popcorn diet were modest, unadorned affairs.  The light, crunchy snack food proved a satisfying fare, especially when accompanied with a romantic British period film.  Sometimes, I would daintily eat the popcorn one piece at a time, letting it dissolve fully in my mouth before biting into the core.  More often, I greedily shoved in handfuls. 

Equal to the pleasure of eating was the joy of preparation.  As I gently shook the pot over my ancient stovetop, a great symphony would occur, commencing with the slow sizzling of the kernels when they first hit the hot oil.  Next, came a few tentative pops of the first eager pieces, leading up to a cacophony of explosions.  When the crescendo subsided, I would remove the pot’s cover and delight in the bounty that emerged like white butterflies coming out of their cocoons.

Boredom soon led to the discovery of the food’s tremendous versatility.  Popcorn and milk made a perfectly delicious breakfast, provided that you could eat your fill before the kernels turned into mush.  Fennel seeds, chili powder, and grated Parmesan cheese were all welcome adornments.  I found myself preparing multi-course meals: popcorn with sundried tomatoes and basil; exploded maize with saffron aioli; chocolate-caramel snowballs.  Curried popcorn with crunchy fried onions was a great success, while the popcorn-vodka martini was an epic failure both shaken and stirred, all of which I learned one drunken night.

Who knows how long my popcorn diet would have continued had a friend not unexpectedly dropped by to check in on me.  “It smells like a movie theater in here,” she exclaimed, taking note of the nearly empty Orville Redenbacher jar.  “Have you been eating?”  I excitedly explained my new recipes, boldly claiming that I had elevated popcorn to unimaginable heights.  She remained unconvinced, even after I offered to prepare her a full popcorn tasting menu.

And so it was that I allowed my friend to take me out for a dull but sensible meal, followed by a trip to the grocery store.  I reluctantly went back to a balanced diet, relegating popcorn to its usual spot, and yes, as the occasional dinner.  It was a fine way to bid adieu to a bad boyfriend.