When I was a little girl,we didn't have Jiffy Pop or Orville Redenbacher; our family used a pot, popcorn seeds with a little cooking oil in the bottom. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the pungent odor of the popping kernels. I can still see Dad standing by the stove waiting for the last grain to explode!

"Here he comes!", hot pot in hand. I anticipate the crunchy morsels, waiting to salt them. I turn right, he turns left and the pot edge slides down my forearm.

"Ouchhh!"

A slender red line, horizontal to my pinkie, immediately appears. In a mad dash, Dad runs to the medicine cabinet for ointment. But I smile hoping he takes "the long way around" 'cause I'm not even thinking about that burn, the hot pot or nothing else as the puffy salted "pillows" sneak down my throat and into my soul. They settle in waiting to be revived and labeled, "Favored Memories'....