Grandma's Balls

One of my grandma's favorite things about the holidays are her balls. Large, bumpy, wrapped in plastic, she brings them to all festive family gatherings, passing them out to kids and grandkids. Only problem is, my grandma's balls? They taste terrible.
My grandma has been making popcorn balls for years. Maybe it's the glaze of childhood memories, but as a kid I remember them tasting amazing. I would sit on a stool in her kitchen, chin barely reaching past the counter, and sneak crunchy and sugary bites as she stacked up a mountain of popcorn goodness. By the end it looked like she had an arsenal of snowballs, ready for a sneak attack.

But some things don't get better with age. No offense to my grandma or anything, but her baller skills are slipping. Before, they were candied clouds of honey. Now, they're Styrofoam, crumbling before you've even taken a bite. Like they've lost the will to hold themselves together. Gone is the delicious carmelization. Probably because the doctor told my grandma to cut back on sugar or something. But why should we have to suffer just because of her cardiac issues? That hardly seems like the Christmas spirit.

So, last week at Thanksgiving my grandma marched in with her requisite arsenal of kernel artillery tucked under her arm in a plastic bag. Ever the gracious hostess, I cooed over the bounty and then immediately placed them on the coffee table for guests to nibble on. By the end of the night, each ball should have been effectively chewed or pawed so much that I could justify throwing them out.

As the festivities were winding down and people were packing up leftovers, I did a quick survey of the living room to see if the popcorn balls were anywhere to be seen. I figured I could pawn them off on my mom. She always seems weirdly protective of not hurting my 86-year-old arthritic grandmother's feelings. Luckily, the bag was nowhere in sight. I helped pack up trunks with casserole dishes, waved goodbye, and exhaled as I shut the door.

Now, a few days later, what do I spy, hidden behind the television stand?

BALL ALERT. DEFCOM 5. THREAT LEVEL RED! RED!

Since the turkey carcass has been festering in my trash can for three days, I am not about to break that seal to throw these away. So I scoop up the sandwich-bagged balls of distaste and head over to my pantry for safe keeping until the next trash day. That's when I spy this, and shriek in horror:

...the balls are coming from inside the house...

Okay, someone snuck these in here while I was distracted by the dessert pies after dinner. I add my discovery to their bland brethren, all the while going through my guest list for the likeliest suspect deserving retribution. Maybe I should pack the suspect's Christmas present with these things. They're basically like packing peanuts anyway.

Hey, that's not a bad idea. I slide the pantry door back open again and eye the PBs (aka popcorn balls). Maybe there is a whole world of use for these things besides, you know, eating them. Lord knows I'm not going to do that.

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I pull one of the PBs out of the plastic bag. Before I can even start to think of an alternative use, I get bitten. I yelp and drop the PB to the ground, kernel crumbs flying. After a second, I hunch down to get a closer look.

 The damn thing has a snaggletooth.

Apparently when my grandma was working on this particular batch, a random toothpick fell into the batter and passed quality control. Makes me wonder what other bits of garbage I might find in these.

Ergo, PB Use #1: Deadly Weapon.

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 The world of the PB is a world of juxtaposition. (I only know that word because James Cameron released a behind-the-scenes book about the filming of Titanic and he used that word. All. The. Time. Jimbo's all about the contrast.) One minute it's inflecting pain, the next it's recklessly protecting others, literally throwing itself into harm's sharp way. In my garage there is some wire shelving installed mere inches from the interior door. Both shelves stick out precariously and have sharp metal edges facing the door. What's worse, the shelves are the same color as the walls so they blend in, lying in wait for the next unsuspecting entrant to cut the corner a little too close and bite it.

PB to the rescue!

The balls serve as both a soft, malleable cover and a warning shot. Danger! We're here on these pikes, make sure to stay clear!

PB Use #2: Protective Covering.

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As winter is rolling into Ohio I'm discovering all sorts of nooks and crannies around my new home letting December's chilly breath in. Sadly, my block-the-cold-air felt tube mysteriously disappeared during the move. Maybe these can be a nice replacement.

  

Boom. Deviant air flow blocked. Plus, the PBs are festive decorations! They go great with my reindeer-wearing-winter-gear-doorknob-hanger.

PB Use #3: House Insulation

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Speaking of festive, I was just trying to find homemade (e.g. cheap/free) ornaments to add to my tree. I snag a few balls, shove a hanging hook behind an extended kernel, and hook it to a branch.

It looks charming! Like something Beth from Little Women would adorn their post-war tree with, while that hoochie sister Amy leers at Laurie, plotting how to steal him away from Jo. (That little hellion so deserved to have her limes taken away at school. Little Man Stealer...) I grab a few more PBs, hook them, and scatter them throughout the tree's piney fingers.

  

...Oh Christmas Tree... Oh Christmas Tree... How Corny Are Your Branches...

 (Please don't let me wake up tomorrow morning with ants crawling all over my tree ... Please don't let me wake up tomorrow morning with ants crawling all over my tree ... Please don't...)

PB Use #4: Substitute Holiday Ornament

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By this point, I'm starting to really reach for ideas. I've run out of ornament hooks, and I have one PB left. I consider putting it in the fireplace and lighting it (Substitute Starter Log) but I don't know if the minimal sugar coating would mean that it would instantaneously combust. Plus, seems like a violent end. I don't want this last ball becoming some sort of martyr symbol, inspiring other bland concoctions to march against me and infiltrate my home. I put it in a large-mouthed vase, going for a Pottery Barn minimalist angle (PB Use: Pretentious Centerpiece --, hey! PB is for Popcorn Ball AND Pottery Barn!) but the scale isn't right. It just looked silly and crude. Like a fish bobbing up and down in a clear glass bowl, no colorful stones or one of those swim-through castles to liven up the scene.

Desperate for a final employment opportunity for the Last of the Popcorn Balls, I realize I only have one choice. I reach into the vase and take PB out. I stare at it for a full minute: the golden honey tones, the sugary scent. I will myself to remember how these balls used to taste, all sweet and salty. I lock that memory into focus, pry off a piece, and start chewing.

Screw it. Still takes like cushion stuffing.

I decide to call it a night, toss the Last of the Popcorn Balls back into solitary confinement in the pantry, and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. After scrubbing away the last popcorn kernel that was spot-welded to my back molar, I spit and set the toothbrush on the counter. As I brush my hair back, I watch the residue from the toothpaste leak out of the brush, leaving blue foam on the counter that I'll have to annoyingly scrub off tomorrow. I've gone to Target three times now with the explicit intent to buy one of those toothbrush caddies, and each attempt has been a failed mission. (Attempt 1 Distraction: half-off boyfriend cardigans, Attempt 2 Distraction: fuzzy moccasin slippers, Attempt 3 Distraction: co-worker discovered in make-up aisle, bob-and-weave my way out of the store empty-handed.) Hey, maybe...

I dash for the pantry, snag the Last of the Popcorn Balls, and rush back to the  bathroom. I take the end of the toothbrush and use it to slowly bore a channel in the top of the ball.

There...

It matches with the bathroom decor AND saves me $4.99!

PB Use #5: Toothbrush Caddy

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Author's Note: Don't think that it hasn't occurred to me that this post may appear whenever some pervert Googles "grandma balls." My core readership is lacking a strong sexual deviant presence anyway.