So the girls are at an Andre Bocelli concert tonight. I am chilling at home. I open a bottle of Cabernet, prepare a plate of rye crisp, Gouda cheese, red onion and thinly sliced organic chicken breast I purchased from Sprouts today. Twas a great start to the evening.
I have 4 screens up on my desk. G Mail, Centurylink, World of Tanks and 12 WordPress tabs from websites I am working on. Something is missing. Popcorn.
As I walk downstairs, and then through the kitchen, angling right toward the pantry, I am slightly hesitant as I seek out the implements of my desire. Hesitant at the pain and sorrow I am about to experience within making of something as simple as popcorn.
Max loved popcorn. We called it “poppy corn”. I would grab the air popper and place the popcorn kernels in the tray as Max would run to the kitchen in anticipation of what was to come.
As the air popper occasionally spit out a fully completed, perfectly popped, Orville Redenbacher, white and fluffy goodness onto the floor, Max would always be there for “clean up on isle 2”.
Max became a popcorn snob. I would usually prepare two bowls of popcorn. One with and one without butter. We would sit in bed watching a movie like The Legend of 1900. We would throw pieces of popcorn off the bed and for some reason Max would place a priority on the popcorn I would throw from the butter bowl.
I found Kerrygold, Irish, Organic butter. Who knew you could take buttery popcorn to a higher level. Max recognized this as well. he was his dad’s son.
Tonight, alone in the house, I was sad. Max was not here to hump my leg in anticipation of such buttery goodness. There was no dog to clean up after me. No dog to stare at me, waiting for that first throw of poppy corn. Just sadness as I had to put Max down from a blood disease a couple of weeks ago.
I miss Max. My family misses Max. Making popcorn on a Friday night will never be the same.