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Popcorn, in those pre-microwave days, required preparation, a ritual of sorts that was rewarding in itself.
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Fathers Know Best: Dad’s love made his popcorn an even bigger treat

Anita Dufalla/Post-Gazette

Fathers Know Best: Dad’s love made his popcorn an even bigger treat

Four decades have passed since I sat on the front porch with my dad, and still my heart aches when I hear a baseball game on the radio.

The transistor on the kitchen table sat tuned to the Detroit Tigers, the closest major league baseball team to Toledo, Ohio, where we lived. The Tigers were our adopted home team.

“Want to make some popcorn?” Dad would ask as the game came on.

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“Yea!” was my jumping-up-and-down, hand-clapping reply.

Popcorn, in those pre-microwave days, required preparation, a ritual of sorts that was rewarding in itself. With the game’s play-by-play in the background, Dad poured the oil and we waited until we heard the slightest sizzle. That was my cue to add the popcorn kernels.

I delighted in the clink of the kernels hitting the pan. Dad shook the pan to allow the oil to enfold the kernels, and the sizzle grew louder. He stood close by, lid in hand, so that I could witness the moment of magic when the first hard kernel exploded and transformed into a golden puff; then he covered the pan before hot popcorn showered my face.

The delicious smell made my mouth water. (It still does. Whenever I enter a movie theater, I’m compelled to hit the snack bar the moment the aroma reaches me.)

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I loved that my dad, a grownup, seemed to find popcorn-making as exciting as I did. After having kids of my own, I understood that nurturing their sense of wonder is one of the most rewarding things in life. But back then, all I knew was he looked like he was having fun. He didn’t even mind when the popping rose to a clamor that drowned out the radio announcer.

The pile of popcorn heaved up the lid, and sometimes a piece fell into the blue flame below. A yellow fire erupted and consumed it, producing a stench — another transformation that I found both fascinating and repulsive.

As the popping slowed, we debated when to remove the pan from the burner. Too soon made for an excess of wasted kernels, too late made our golden corn turn black with a harsh taste my sensitive young tongue hated.

One time, we erred on the side of caution and ended up with numerous unpopped kernels. After we finished eating and I went off to change into my pajamas, Dad got the idea to try popping the kernels again. He hadn’t seen me sucking the salt off every one of them. When I returned and he told me his experiment had produced bad-tasting popcorn, I felt my face flush and decided not to confess the kernels had been coated with saliva.

We always finished our preparations by pouring the popcorn into a wooden bowl and melting a slab of butter in the warm pan. Dad drizzled the savory-smelling butter while I tossed the popcorn for an even coating. Salt, lightly sprinkled, was the final touch.

We carried our treat, a cherry soda, a beer and the radio to the front porch, where we sat in lawn chairs listening to the game. We were a one-television family, and Dad never asked Mom or my sister to give up their favorite shows so he could watch the Tigers play. He and I both preferred the outdoors anyway.

I quizzed him on the players and the rules of the game , and I collected baseball cards of favorites like Mickey Lolich and Al Kaline. He would explain things patiently, even though the game must have been more interesting than my queries.

As dusk turned into night, we would watch for shooting stars and sometimes got lucky enough to see one.

Dad died of cancer when I was only 18, long before there was any chance to meet his grandchildren and teach them anything about baseball or make them popcorn.

I wish I could invite him to sit outside with us now and listen to a Pirates game over a bowl of popcorn and a beer. I wish I could thank him for making popcorn memories, for letting me know by his actions that I was loved.

First Published: June 19, 2015, 4:00 a.m.

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Popcorn, in those pre-microwave days, required preparation, a ritual of sorts that was rewarding in itself.  (Anita Dufalla/Post-Gazette)
Anita Dufalla/Post-Gazette
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