Sometime, when I get home late and can't be bothered to pop into the grocery store or wake up my roommate with the banging in the kitchen, I make myself a popcorn dinner. Orville Redenbacher's is always welcome in our apartment, but one is always tempted to curry favor with Mr. Newman. Not only does his organization donate all profits to charity, but the Whole Foods downstairs stocks only Mr. Newman's fine fares and snubs Mr. Redenbacher.
A guest can tell that my roommate and I have been busy if the butter stock in the fridge is running low. C is also partial to popcorn dinners, so we strive to have a healthy supply of churned goodness in the icebox. I personally don't feel right comfortable unless there are at least eight sticks in its little clear plastic dairy abode.
C always makes sure to throw a few generous spoon fulls of yeast on top of her buttered dinner, whereas sea salt is critical for me. Luckily we have several types of sea salt, so there's a bevy of choices: La Baleine, Fleur de Sel, Maldon's, to name a few.
The ideal attire for a midnight popcorn meal is pajamas. And since to this day my feeding hand is not quite clear on the exact location of my mouth, I inevitably lose a few popped kernels down the front of my shirt. Unlike movie theater maneuverings, one of the less-discussed joys of late night popcorn dinners from the comfort of one's home is the freedom to absentmindedly paw down one's chest to extricate a rogue popped popcorn kernel.