I'll Take The Burned Ones, Please

Many moons ago, when I was still blessed to be one of the touring students with Ballet Mississippi's Nutcracker, (back when there was still a professional company), we had a performance in Tupelo.  Since my grandmother lived in Saltillo, just a hop skip and jump away from Tupelo, the whole family came to see the performance.  And after the performance, instead of riding the tour bus back home, I rode with my family to Granny's house to spend the rest of the weekend.

On the way to her house, my breathing started to get labored.  I've had asthma for forever - since I was a baby.  So, wheezing was part of my life, and really, it was a very non-dramatic thing.  I wheezed, I took meds, I fixed it.  Pffft.  It's kind of all I knew, and that was that.  Except for the times that I didn't fix it.  And that night was one of the those times.  In fact, that night was my very last full-on asthma attack.  Well, except for a very weird "half-attack" in college.  I could still partially breathe, but mostly got panicky enough that I had to call my sister to my dorm room to calm me down.  However, this night in north Mississippi was my last true attack.  The kind where I woke up suddenly without the ability to get air into my lungs.

It's a scary thing, but not the first time my parents had been woken up with their daughter in this situation.  They did what they did.  I did what I did.  And between meds, steam, panic-control, and certain body positioning, I got to breathing again.  A whole lot has to happen in a very short amount of time, and we knew what to do.  This was a Saturday night, and when I woke up that next morning, I wasn't in a position to be able to go to church.  I was breathing fine, but my energy had been reduced to a point where sitting up was difficult.  I usually needed a day or two to recover from "real" attacks like that.

And Granny stayed home with me.  :-)

Now, this was a big deal, because Granny did NOT miss church.  Her husband, my grandfather, had been the pastor of their church when he was still living, and she loved being at the house of the Lord and worshipping with the Saints.  But, she stayed home with her granddaughter instead.  And she made popcorn!  You know what I mean - good, stove-popped popcorn with salt that was just perfect for someone who was tired and had no appetite for anything.

But she burned the bottom layer of the corn.  

Now, it didn't amount to much, and it really wasn't that bad.  It really wasn't, especially considering that she didn't make popcorn on any regular basis.  So the fact that she only burned a few pieces was pretty remarkable.  But she apologized several times for it.  Which was silly, of course.  But to this day, the smell and taste of burned popcorn reminds me of that time.  Not of the asthma attack, but of the fact that Granny stayed home with me.  And made me a treat that I didn't even know I wanted.  And she made me feel better.  And that's what I remember.

So, I'll take those burned pieces, if it's all the same to you.  They make me smile inside.