memoirs of the Popcorn \ sweet, nothing

A pack of popcorn that costs five dollars.

Garrett Popcorn dates back to the year 1949, and is started in Chicago, Illinois. There are many of its outlets opened around town and I associate Garrett to extremely fond encounters. I love especially how its employees would carry a tray with these minute sample cups that contain the Garrett Mix – with the flavours of CheeseCorn and CaramelCrisp. My mum who is oh-so-ever adorable would dash (not exaggerating) to one of them and grab two of those mini cups (filled with four pieces of popcorn each) and then we would put those bits of popped corn into our mouths as we roam the town (each of them is rather big in size and each cup lasts me for at least 200 metres of the ground I walk on).
As the brand has been in business since more than half a century ago, I can see why everyone loves it – insert a Garrett popcorn into your mouth and it practically begins to melt inside, you can almost taste heaven as it becomes ‘undressed’ bit by bit – that is, if you are a caramel lover like me.

Five dollars to taste a momentary, caramelised, sugared heaven. Why not?

I can survive in a movie theatre without having to purchase the popcorn, which sometimes are of utterly low quality.

You know those redundant moments while you chew on popcorn as you watch the film, and suddenly experience a stinging pain because of this un-popped corn that got into your mouth? And then you have no idea how to get rid of that corn that is as hard as a rock, so you just toss it onto the floor of the theatre and pretended nothing ever happened?

Guilty? I certainly am.

I find that I get annoyed easily. And one of the most irrelevant questions I’ve ever bumped into is: “Sweet or salted?” as asked by the popcorn sellers at movie theatres – which I would then force a smile and simply reply “Sweet. (duh)
Who the hell eats salted popcorn anyway?

He who eats salted popcorn went to watch a film with me one day.

When asked the seemingly redundant question of “Sweet or salted?” he amazingly answered “Salted please,” which slammed me like a sledgehammer. He asked me if I want some, and I politely declined. I mean, I liked him, and I would want to share the popcorn that he bought, yet it was salted.
Playfully he threatened to stuff a few pieces of popcorn into my mouth and I waywardly reciprocated.

And it was after that day we watched the film I stopped talking entirely to this person. I knew he would never be mine – not because he liked salted popcorn and I don’t, because that would be of the utmost jocosity – he was somewhere else all along, and I knew that. I just willingly made myself the jester, I did ridiculous things to get into his good books, I placed him on a higher pedestal. I liked him, a lot. But it just did not get reciprocated.

It was the first time I ever tried salted popcorn, and probably my final time tasting it.


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