The other night I was exhausted. My husband sits down next to me on our bed (we were both reading---does his laptop count?) and he talks about how horribly he made popcorn the night before. I was gone, so I couldn't make it for him. "Oh, man, Rachel, it was awful. It was the most awful popcorn I have ever had!"
I said, "I get the hint. You want me to make you some popcorn."
"Well, you do make it the best. I can't go back."
I have posted about this already. It really is a recurring thing with us though. I don't mind at all making the popcorn, but he is using his Minnesotan parents' tricks (they used to claim he made popcorn the best when he was a kid----apparently not, because I do, eh?) to get me downstairs cranking the whirly pop or plugging in the popper.
It works every time too.
I waltzed down there and made it thinking all the while, "I make the best popcorn!"
Come on over sometime, you guys, and have the best popcorn of your life at my house. Mr. Wilhelm swears by it. Really, it's not that good.