We inherited a very old air popcorn popper from my mother-in-law. It looked like one of the first models that was ever made. 

We called him Ol’ Sparky. You would plug him in, and he would rev as loud as a 747 engine. You had to let him warm up.

If you gazed down before you put the popcorn in, what you saw was his nuclear core. That fiery-red circle, a pit of hell for popcorn, popped popcorn to kingdom come. 

When it got down to the last kernels, they’d fire out of him, hit the bowl and make kamikaze fireworks of popcorn. I always wore my glasses when I popped popcorn as eye protection from the super-heated popcorn projectiles. 

We finally retired Ol’ Sparky, because you guessed it: we became wary of the visible sparks that would arc out when you unplugged him. We had a baby now. We couldn’t have the house burn down.

But he never stopped working. He popped that popcorn like a good solider until the end.

We bought a new air popper. And another. And another. ALL THE NEW AIR POPPERS WERE TERRIBLE. They left so many kernels behind. Ol’ Sparky would never have left so many men behind. 

We figured the new ones probably had to adhere to some wimpy guidelines about not burning houses down and not causing nuclear chain reactions that could collapse your house into a black hole singularity. 

We went on like this in a state of popcorn woe for years, even turning to microwave popcorn — sob! — in our hour of need. I mean, if there’s no chance of losing an eye are you even popping popcorn?

 But salvation was around the corner. 

I went to an estate sale. The house was a time capsule — a perfectly preserved museum of the 1980s. 

I turned the corner into the kitchen and there she sat. A very old air popper, but it looked like it had never been used. I leaned in to look. Her label read: The Poppery and the make was West Bend. 

She cost something outrageous for a thirty-year-old air popper. I want to say twenty-two dollars. 

But I bought her, because I knew they just don’t make them like her anymore.

We call her The Poppery of West Bend and like her name suggests, she is a fine and stately old lady, who pops the popcorn with power, precision, and grace. 

“Shall I fire up The Poppery?” I ask my husband.

 “The Poppery — of the West Bend Popperies?” he inquires.

 “The very same, old chap,” I say.

 Our popcorn operation has got game once again. Firing her up is a family event, and my daughter dances around as the white cloud of kernels pop out of The Poppery.

 You can RIP, Ol’ Sparky.

 The Mary Poppins of air poppers, The Poppery of West Bend, has us covered.

Do you have a kitchen appliance, a spoon, a spatula, a dish that you feel has personality? Let me know in the comments.