Children of The Korn

I have never been one to particularly enjoy popcorn. As a matter of fact, the whole idea of corn sort of repulses me. I’m confronted with of images of Swanson’s fried chicken TV dinners where the corn was always cold while the drumstick sizzled and the brownie had bubbled up and stuck to the tin foil. Then there is the unpleasant Halloween flashback I have of a guy in the Greenwich Village parade wearing a Hefty bag with yellow balloons stuck to it. When I asked what he was supposed to be, I received the horrible news that he was “shit with corn stuck in it.”

Why then, I am forced to ask myself, have I been brought to the merciless edge of addiction by the Farmer’s Market phenom known as Kettle Korn?

It all began very innocently with a trip to the Hollywood Farmer’s Market accompanied by my mentor. She thought it’d be a nice outing where I could study orchids, find fresh produce, and stock my apartment with cheap flowers. Little did either of us know that I was about to unlock a jones that would torture me for many Sundays to come.

The non-descript booth occupied by Frontier Kettle Korn is not dissimilar to the many other food vendors along that particular row. Amidst the tamales, crepes, jambalaya, and fresh baked bread lies the gateway to my obsession. What sets Frontier apart, aside from the seemingly endless line of others waiting to cop the korn is their clever “free sample” strategy. One taste was all I needed to be off and running.

Unlike conventional movie or microwave popcorn, Kettle Korn is both salty and sweet–a flavoring which originates in the ominous black cauldron that fills the modest booth. Sugar and salt are continuously blended into the mixture which is stirred and shoveled by an enormous wooden spoon as individual kernels succumb to the heat and jump into the mouths of waiting babes…

Another of the sneaky tactics used by the purveyors of this habit forming treat are the insanely low prices and generous portions. A small bag ($3) is certainly enough to produce euphoria, while a medium ($5) is far more than any person should be left to consume alone. I have yet to journey into the dark insanity of the large bag ($6), but I can only assume it would certainly induce a coma.

Like any addiction, I dabbled at first. I bought just a small bag to enjoy while shopping and as an afternoon snack upon returning home. I was shocked to find that the entire bag was empty before I reached the parking lot. I stepped up to the medium bag by week two and while experiencing the harmless “Good Ship Lollie Pop” sickness from overindulging….I noticed by the third week that I was buying two bags so as to avoid the Wednesday night panic of knowing that it would be Sunday before I could get more.

I knew I was in trouble after endless bouts of disgust and aversion to even the words “kettle korn” were followed by periods of ferocious bingeing where even the seats of my car were checked possible stray kernels. How could I crave the culprit of such nauseating sugar highs? I had stopped eating regular meals and found myself having three Kettle Korn meals a day. I secretly wished I had another hand so as to enable myself to get more down in less time. I recalled stories I had heard of victims of corn liquor poisoning around Prohibition. I was headed for disaster. I had to go cold turkey. I noticed myself humming the tune, Jimmy crack corn, and I don’t care!!!!

A Sunday shopping excursion with one of my dearest friends and favorite shopping accomplices began with a sensible breakfast (she of a vegetable filled crepe and me of, oddly enough, a CORN tamale). We sussed out the finest cut flowers and freshest berries. We mulled over the hand-crafted jewelry and chatted with friends also enjoying the open market while enduring the torturous heat. It would only be a matter of time before we found ourselves waiting on the “korn man.” Two medium bags a piece and presto, we were both out only $10 each and feigning heat stroke as an excuse to hot foot it to the car and crack open the bags.

Moments later we found ourselves sitting in her car, air condition blasting, feverishly shoveling the stuff into our gullets. “How did we get here?” was the unspoken question which hung in the sweet smelling air. This was surely the definition of insanity. We didn’t talk for nearly 20 minutes before realizing in our full blown KKK*-induced haze that we had both hit the first of many kettle korn bottoms.

* KKK (kettle korn koma…see the dampfnoodle dictionary)

It’s been weeks since that unfortunate incident and I cannot bring myself to go to the Farmer’s Market. Whenever friends mention it, I find myself wondering if they are holding. I’ve noticed that I’m eating out more, allowing the vegetables in my refrigerator to take on that slimy coat. I’ve stopped watering my houseplants and have left my orchids in the blazing sun for hours. Clearly, I’m plotting a relapse. Under the guise of feng shui and produce snobbery, I know its only a matter of time before I find myself bribing the parking attendant with promises of pomegranate lemonade in exchange for a spot closer to the Kettle Korn stand.

The Hollywood Farmer’s Market is held Sundays from 7am-1pm @
Fronteir Kettle Korn