Popcorn Perils
It was in the kitchen that I learned that flour explodes. My younger sister, Kathy, and I were home alone one Saturday night. I have long since forgotten why my parents were gone, perhaps bowling, but absent they were. I do remember the kitchen though, painted bright enamel yellow, and the popcorn popper.
I don’t see that kind of popper in the stores anymore. It had a bottom-heating element, sort of like a mini-hot plate for heating the oil. There was also a deep pan with a close fitting lid. The pan had a line marking the level needed for the oil, much like the measuring lines on an old metal measuring cup. The process was in theory very simple. Pour the oil into the pan to the oil line. Place the pan on the bottom-heating unit and then plug it in. Wait a minute or so to let the oil heat up. When a couple of corn kernels in the oil begin to sizzle, then it was time to pour in a carefully pre-measured amount of popcorn, place the lid tightly on the pan, and wait for the sound of popping corn. Timing was critical, and only experience would teach you to recognize when the corn had just about finished. Removing the pan too soon from the heating element resulted in a lot of old maids, or unpopped corn kernels, and leaving it on too long meant burnt popcorn.
Kathy and I were experienced popcorn makers. Popping corn was not a forbidden activity. All we wanted was some popcorn to go along with out cherry Kool-Aid and Creature Feature movie. To this day, I don’t know what went wrong. Kathy was supposed to be watching the two kernels in the oil for signs that the oil was hot enough for the rest of the popcorn.
Suddenly Kathy was screaming, “Call the fire department!” and “Get the neighbors!” Clouds of greasy, black smoke were billowing from the popcorn popper, filling the cheerful yellow kitchen. Kathy danced around the kitchen floor, ineffectively waving her hands at the smoke, and yelling for the neighbors or the fire department.
Because I was the oldest, I knew I was responsible for whatever happened. Quickly sizing up the situation, I realized it was not yet a matter for the fire department. Our family was having an on again, off again feud with the neighbors, and I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of coming to the rescue. Quickly I pulled the cord on the popper and unplugged it. Flames still shot up from the popper, creating a dense, oily smoke. Suddenly I remembered something from the home economics class I had one semester in Junior High. You were supposed to smother a grease fire. My mother, like most good housewives in the sixties had canisters lined up in a neat row on one counter. There they were, standing in formation, labeled flour, sugar, coffee, and tea. I grabbed the orange, plastic canister inscribed Flour, threw its white lid on the floor, and dumped the whole canister of flour on the fire. No magician could have created a better white, smoky, poof explosion during an act to mystify an audience. The flour exploded.
The flour had smothered the fire. Stunned, Kathy and I surveyed the disaster. Flour and soot covered every surface of the kitchen. We looked at each other. Sure and certain knowledge of Mom’s reaction to this disaster cased dread’s cold, clammy fingers to run up our spines and clench our heats in a death grip.
“Mom’s going to kill us!” Our mother’s displeasure was something to be avoided at all costs. A marine drill sergeant would have admired the way in which one look could cause knees to quake. Quickly we dug out buckets, rags, the broom, and mop. Cleanser was poured liberally into a bucket of warm water to aid in the removal of the oily smoke. With broom, mop, and rags we removed all traces of the exploded flour. Kathy and I have never worked so hard or so fast to remove all traces of “the incident.” We even pulled out a kitchen chair, stacked Omaha phone books on the seat, and tottered perilously in an effort to clean the ceiling. Finally our work was done. Except for the missing flour, we thought we had removed all traces of the oil fire and flour explosion. And we were in luck; our parents had not yet come back home. Tired, but convinced we had narrowly diverted a disaster and that no one would know what happened, we crept up the stairs to our beds.
I’ll never forget that morning. Kathy was still asleep or maybe just delaying facing the day. I walked down the stairs. My mother was sitting at the kitchen table in her flannel nightgown, a cup of coffee in her hand.
“What happened last night, Leslie?”
“What do you mean?”
She glanced at the ceiling. “Did you catch the popcorn on fire?”
I spilled my guts right there and then. Told her of the oil fire, the flour explosion, everything, and waited for the eruption of her temper.
“You can use salt or baking soda to smother a fire, or a tight lid,” was all she said.
Maybe my memory fails me. It could be I was so afraid of the possible consequences that I made myself believe that Kathy and I had removed all traces of the oil fire and flour explosion. To my immense relief, and surprise, nothing more was said.
However, my mother smiles when she tells her version of the story. Our dumbfound expressions at her knowledge of the incident. She laughs when she describes the burned popcorn popper soaking in the sink, and the ceiling swirled and streaked with smoke. Perhaps she was relieved that nothing more serious happened. The dreaded yelling and punishment never happened. It had become one of her favorite stories to tell. Mine also.
