The night before we left on our Tour de PA, I made a bowl of sweet and spicy popcorn, a late-night snack for my loverman and me. The recipe called for cayenne, Demerara sugar, and fresh rosemary, the last of which I had none, but even so, the popcorn was mighty impressive without it—salty, crunchy sweet, and lip-burning hot. It bit my tongue and branded itself into my head.

I didn’t know that at the time, of course, but it soon became apparent because I couldn’t stop thinking about it, really actually thinking about it. No matter what crazy fun was going on around me—twelve kids and two dogs zipping around the sofas at one house, the uncles and cousins and brothers belting out folksy music at deafeningly harmonious levels at another house, car rides with the cranky, sniveling kids between houses—no matter what glorious chaos was going on, when an image of that popcorn, all buttery and flecked with cayenne and Demerara sugar (oh my stars!), slipped into my mind, my eyes glazed over as I tossed the image about my brain, relishing every minute of my savory daydream. When you get home, I’d tell myself, you can make a big bowl of popcorn and eat it all. It gave me something to live for.

Not that I wasn’t already living it up amongst our kindly kin, because I was, really and truly. We were treated like kings and queens, sleeping on the best air mattresses and feasting on all kinds of delectable goodies, from enchiladas and ham to hummus and chocolates to omelets and egg salad and mountains of fresh fruit. And baked French toast with hot blueberry sauce and cranberry relish and sweet-and-sour chicken and fruit salad and creamy tomato soup and tea ring. All you dear ones out there? If you thought I was acting a little spacey while I was at your house, now you know. It was the popcorn.

At one point in all the hoopla, when I was sitting around the impossibly long dinning table at my Aunt Valerie’s, sipping coffee and sampling all of my cousin Zoe’s pies, I happened to mention to Zoe about my latest food crush, which turned out to be pretty smart of me because she immediately said, “Oh my goodness gracious, I have loads of rosemary at home! You want me to bring you some when I come back over for supper?”

Um … yes? Absolutely and positively, YES! Please.

And that’s just what she did. When she blew in the door that evening, she was carrying, along with the big baby on one hip and the little baby on the other hip (maybe I’m not remembering exactly right—her husband probably had one of the babies), several generous sprigs of rosemary, the pungent stems wrapped in dampened newspaper and nestled in a plastic bag.

When we got home Sunday night, and as soon as we started the fire, unpacked, and got the kids tucked into bed, I scurried out to the kitchen to make my popcorn supper. I figure that it’s pretty darn close to a well-balanced meal that covers all the major food groups, what with the corn (carbohydrate), butter (protein), and cayenne and rosemary (vegetable).

The popcorn with the rosemary? Complete deliciousness. Mark my words. Mr. Handsome even said that of the two ways I had made it so far, he preferred it with the rosemary. And he’s not an herby kind of guy. Mark his words.

I made it again yesterday afternoon, for photography purposes and to satisfy the craving that won’t quit. The kids tried it, fussed about the heat, and then kept coming back for more, thus proving that it really does have addictive properties.

Consider that fair warning. I am hitherto and forthwith absolved of any and all consequences that may occur upon the making of this popcorn, such as visions, obsessions, and tingly lips.

Sweet and Spicy Popcorn
Adapted from Tara’s blog Seven Spoons

The original recipe called for more cayenne, an entire half teaspoon. I dialed it back to a generous fourth teaspoon, but for you heat-loving people, feel free to crank it back up to full, lip-blistering power. Tara also said to sprinkle it with red pepper flakes, something I haven’t done yet, but you may want to give that a shot, too.

Also, I made my popcorn in the air popper—stove top and microwave popcorn may not need quite so much butter. Then again, depending on your relationship with butter, you may want even more.

If you try other variations on this theme, please let me know. I’m kind of ga-ga over the stuff.

½ cup unpopped popcorn, popped
2-3 tablespoons butter, melted
2 teaspoons Demerara sugar
1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary
½ teaspoon salt
1/4-1/3 teaspoon cayenne pepper

In a small bowl, mix together the sugar, rosemary, salt, and cayenne pepper.

Drizzle the butter over the hot, freshly popped popcorn, tossing frequently. Sprinkle the spices over the popcorn and toss another time. Promptly devour.

About One Year Ago: In which I use a lot of words to make a fake confession.

This afternoon my mother sent me a quote from the Writer’s Almanac…

[Paul Rudnick] said: “As a writer, I need an enormous amount of time alone. Writing is 90 percent procrastination: reading magazines, eating cereal out of the box, watching infomercials. It’s a matter of doing everything you can to avoid writing, until it is about four in the morning and you reach the point where you have to write. Having anybody watching that or attempting to share it with me would be grisly.”

Now I don’t feel so bad about leaving my whole family—the house a mess, stacks of dirty dishes, tired and filthy kids, and with orders to pack for our big trip—under the pretext of needing some writing time and then coming to Panera and instead of writing, I’m sipping coffee, listening to some girls chattering away in French beside me, reading blogs, and staring blankly at the people who walk in and out the heavy, swinging doors. I won’t be here at four, though; Panera closes at nine. Besides, I’m exhausted and I want to go to bed soon. But before I do that, I want to make popcorn when I get home. So I can’t stay here too long.

And besides, I’m typing now, in case you didn’t catch that one small fact.

Moving on to other things, this afternoon I did something I have never done before: I THREW A LOAF OF BREAD ON THE FLOOR AND THEN JUMPED ON IT.

I’m not joking! It was a revolutionary experience—cathartic, hilarious, stress-relieving, and anger-dissipating. I may make it a habit of stomping on a loaf of bread at least once a month. It would probably do wonders for my mental health.

But let me back up and tell you the whole story; it’s really not all that complicated. It started when I put two loaves of bread in the oven, set the timer for 25 minutes, and then told Mr. Handsome to turn the bread around when the timer went off and then bake it for another 5-10 minutes.

I said it twice. We made eye contact.

He does not remember that.

An hour later when I came downstairs, the bread was cooling on the table. It was pale. “What was I suppose to do when the timer went off?” Mr. Handsome queried anxiously. I told him, again.

“I knew I should’ve come up and asked you! I wasn’t sure so I just took it out. I’m sorry.”

It was just flour, salt, water, and wheat germ, but still.

The offending bread sat on the table for the rest of the afternoon till just before supper when I was cleaning up. I cut one of the loaves in two, and as I expected, the middle was doughy. “Alright, go feed them to the chickens,” I said glumly to the hovering Mr. Handsome.

“It can’t be that bad,” he said. “It will be good toasted, I bet.”

So he made toast. I took a bite. “Compost,” I declared with finality.

“We can’t just throw it away,” he protested. “What’s wrong with it, huh?”

“Are you crazy? You know what’s wrong with it! What a stupid question.”

And that’s when I picked up the uncut loaf of bread and threw it on the floor with all my might. And then I jumped into the air and landed on it with both feet. I shrieked wildly, half shocked, half thrilled by my marvelously outrageous behavior. Then I picked up the remaining two halves and slammed them on the ground.

That settled it. The bread was officially compost.

About One Year Ago: Worthy nuggets from my therapist friend.

Sometimes I get in a food rut; the latest rut consisted of potatoes, green beans, and corn. One night I served baked potatoes, green beans, and corn, and the next night I served fried potatoes (the leftover baked ones with a bit of sausage and cheese), green beans, and corn. I forced myself to stop after two nights—I didn’t think it would be wise to push my luck.

But then in the momentous last issue of Gourmet, I found a recipe for potatoes and green beans stewed in tomatoes. There was no corn, but I could forgive it that (if I wanted to be zealous, I suppose I could add a cup of the yellow kernels; seeing as the three vegetables are the Holy Veggie Trinity around here, it would probably taste divine.)

(Confessional clarification: I’m more likely to use peas as a side vegetable instead of corn, but corn belongs with potatoes and green beans in a way that peas don’t. Peas belong with brown-buttered carrots, macaroni and cheese, and applesauce—what we had for supper last night.)

But for lunch yesterday, we had the new, cooked-together combo of green beans, potatoes, and tomatoes. It’s a homey dish—no bells and whistles at all—the vegetables blending and mushing and wilting into a stew-like mass. But I liked it, and Mr. Handsome liked it. He told me so in his typical round-about, critical fashion by sputtering angrily, “It would be good if it wasn’t so hot and I could actually taste it!”

I served it topped with a fried egg and a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese (Gourmet suggests using feta, but I didn’t have any). It can also be a side dish, mounded beside something meaty. In any case, it’s a new, uncomplicated way to serve our good old standbys. And for that, we give thanks.

Tomatoey Potatoes and Green Beans
Adapted from the November 2009 issue of Gourmet magazine

3 small to medium potatoes (about one pound), peeled and cut into one inch chunks
2 cups green beans (about 1/2 pound), fresh or frozen, cut into two-inch pieces
2 large cloves of garlic, minced
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
1 pint stewed tomatoes, whirled briefly in the blender

Put everything but the tomatoes into a saucepan and cook, covered, on medium high heat for about 10 minutes, stirring once in a while, until the vegetables start to stick to the bottom of the pan and have softened a bit. Add the tomatoes and cook for another 20 minutes. (If you want the final product to be more soupy, keep the lid on; if you want a thicker, scoopable side dish, keep the lid off so the liquid can evaporate.) When the potatoes are soft, remove about ½ cup of the chunks, put them on a plate, and mash them with a fork. Stir the mashed potatoes back into the pot and taste to correct the seasonings.

Serve the vegetables as a side dish, or for a heartier, one-course meal, top with a fried egg and cheese (feta, blue, Parmesan, etc).

Yield: enough for two to four people, depending on whether or not it’s a main course.

About One Year Ago: Another homeschool tirade—despite what our culture says, I believe teaching and parenting are the same thing.