I grab the bag of popcorn from Ian, intent on salvaging what little hasn’t reached his mouth yet. He protests but only half-chewed kernels sputter out of his mouth, so full is it. Peering into the now grease-stained bag, I see a disparate mix of khaki and orange — the Chicago mix of caramel and cheese ”“ that has more of the former than the latter.
“You finished all the cheese!” I accuse Ian, my eyes boring holes into him.
“I did not!” he replies defiantly, arms crossing over his weight-room-enhanced chest, oily-orange fingers neon signs of guilt.
“Well, what good is it if I don’t have cheese along with the caramel?” I shoot back.
And that, as you can see, is the whole idea behind Chicago-style popcorn.