Hi, my name is Jonathan, and I'm addicted to kettle corn. Boy, that feels good to type. It's hard to admit it, but I'm glad it's out in the open now.
Speaking of open, you wouldn't happen to have an open bag of kettle corn, would you?
Never mind. Forget I asked.
I have sat at my desk for the past four days and destroyed a bag of
kettle corn the approximate size and shape of a full lawn-and-leaf bag. A
thoughtless purchase at the City Market Saturday doomed me to
rediscover that kettle corn is the human equivalent of the La Brea Tar
Pits -- there is no escape.
It's the problem of intermittent salty and sweet. A mouthful always ends on one note, leaving me to crave the other. And before I know it, my hand has found its way back into the bag and is extracting a mound that could feed an entire movie theater audience. I can stop only when my tongue is approaching numbness or my fingers find unpopped kernels in the empty bag.
For a while, I thought we had kettle corn licked (and chewed) into submission. It wasn't particularly popular. It didn't seem to exist outside state fairs. But kettle corn had other plans for us as a society, and so now we have microwaveable versions and booths at farmers markets.
I'm not going to link to recipes for kettle corn or brown sugar kettle corn. Or suggest that you consider getting into the kettle corn business. And in return, you won't tell me where else you like to get kettle corn besides the City Market, OK?