Exotic Tastes
Making popcorn, when I was a child,
wasn’t simply putting a bag in a microwave
and waiting a minute and forty-five seconds.
It involved a thick pot with a snug lid
and a broken handle, some popcorn, oil
and carefully shaking it over an electric
burner.
Mom always made the popcorn.
She fixed two pots of it for the seven of us.
I liked the pieces with extra butter.
I didn’t worry about getting fat since I ran
all over those Pennsylvania wooded hills.
After filling our bowls, Mom would take the
last
and put it back in the pot and burn it.
She liked it that way. She said it tasted
exotic.
I thought it just tasted burnt. But now, on occasion
when I burn popcorn, I’ll eat it, thinking of
Mom.
