Once (or maybe more than once) my dad brought home one of those gigantic plastic bags of popcorn, the kind that you'd buy at the bulk stores, that are literally as tall as a child of average height and twice as big around. I believe we used it as a pillow, a field goal post, and a blunt-force weapon before finally diving in (literally) and consuming it.
Gertrude and Matilda spotted one such popcorn monstrosity at the grocery store the other day. They laughed at the ridiculous excess, and then carried it between the two of them over to Gary and suggested that he buy it for them.
"Okay!" said Gary.
"WTF?" I said. I intercepted the popcorn and returned it to the shelf. But it didn't end there. Dad and the girls talked about the popcorn for days. It became legendary.
Finally, Superbowl Sunday arrived. In our house, this means turning on the game for everyone to ignore and firing up a crockpot full of Li'l Smokies. And Gary makes these amazing little turkey pinwheel things. I knit. We drink Fat Tire. The kids dance at halftime. All is right with the world.
I came home from the store with the Smokies and beer, plus some chips, dip, and avocados to make into a batch of guacamole that only I would eat. Gary and the girls just looked at me.
"Where's Caroline?" said Matilda.
"Caroline!" said Gert. "Our popcorn!"
I looked at Gary. "You named the popcorn?"
He said, "I asked Gert what we should name it, and she named it Caroline. This is not my fault."
Of course, I had to go back out to the store and get Caroline, lest I risk having the girls sit around moaning and wailing, "Oh, Caroline…noooooooooo…"