E teases me because I like my food well done. “You like your food nuked until all flavor has exited,” he says. I took that declaration to heart the other night.

I love having a glass of wine and fresh popped popcorn as a late night snack, particularly on Fridays after a hard day’s work and accompanied by a “Law & Order” marathon on TV. But a few nights ago, while E was out with friends, I burnt a bag of microwave popcorn so bad that smoke billowed out of the microwave for minutes. I seared my eyes while opening the bag. Somehow, I still salvaged about half of the popcorn inside. Like I said, I like my food well done.

E came home shortly thereafter. “Ugh, someone burned popcorn,” he yelled as I sat on the couch. “I thought the apartment was on fire! You can smell it on the street. It’s disgusting!”
I stared at him, looking guilty.
“Oh god, it smells in here,” he said.
I still didn’t say anything.
“Was that you? For chrissake, how did you burn it that badly?”
I scooped some of the burnt but edible kernels into my hand. “Want some?”

The next day, a perfect summer Saturday, I made shrimp bahn mi sandwiches. After last night’s embarrassing cooking mishap, I took meticulous care to not burn the shrimp or the bread as I cooked. I flipped the shrimp several times during cooking, and only toasted the bread lightly at 250 degrees in the oven. The sandwiches turned out great.

“Babes, this is cooked just right,” E said, devouring his before I could pour a glass of Rose. We ate the refreshing yet spicy lunch together on the couch, the smell of burnt popcorn still hanging in in the air.

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