Safety Popcorn

By Sarah Thieman

When I was a young child, once a week and sometimes more, my father cooked homemade popcorn in the WhirleyPop then seasoned it with garlic powder, Parmesan cheese, and sea salt. He divided it into two separate bowls -- one big blue bowl and another white square bowl with red stripes, a gift from his mother. 

Most days we never got along; he was angry and wasted and I was quiet and hidden. There was usually yelling, crying, and slamming of doors. After all the ruckus there were a few silent hours when no one would be seen or heard. My three older siblings and I hid together in the bedroom my two sisters shared, one of the only two bedrooms in the house. The other bedroom belonged to my parents, while my older brother and I shared the living room, alternating which one of us got the couch each night. The nighttime silence was broken with the delightful pitter-patter of ricocheting kernels in a WhirleyPop. The sound of surrender and sorrow. 

One such night, I slowly crept out from under my sister’s bed and quietly made my way to the kitchen, where the blue bowl was left sitting on the counter. I took it into the living room where my father sat on the end of the couch, watching TV. Avoiding eye contact, I sat on the other end. The faint crunch between us let us know we were going to be okay.

Image provided by cyclonebill via Flickr's Creative Commons licence.