My childhood popcorn popping machine was in the shape of a train car.  There it stood proudly parked at its little station on our kitchen counter.  Yellow plastic sides, black base, complete with wheels.  It looked more like wagon wheels than train wheels.

Dad was resident “conductor” of the popcorn machine.  He would fill the base with oil, drop two kernels, and place bets with his young daughter (me).  “Okay, which one do you think will pop first, the left or the right?”

My guesses were about 50/50 as it was all a game of chance with kernels.  Nevertheless, I would be transfixed since you could see the entire popping process rather than wait for popcorn to be spewed out of a hole somewhere.

The popcorn would pop.  Dad would heavily butter and salt it.  One could fondly compare him to Charles Ingalls in the Little House on the Prairie series salting and smoking the meat.  It was an equally sacred and delicious process.

When I was finished munching nothing made me happier than running my finger along the inside of the train car.  Yes, my friends, the machine was self contained.  It required no separate container to hold the popcorn in.  The yellow plastic car popped off, flipped over,  and there you had it. Instant bowl. Those were the days.

The butter, salt, popcorn, and Dad filled days.