Popovers, and My Cluttered Countertop
Like a lot of the food I love, popovers are forever tied to my grandma in my mind. When I was a kid, there was nothing better than getting to spend the night at her house either with my cousins or (if I was really lucky) all by myself. We would stay up late, her telling silly stories including one about a clumsy witch who repeatedly fell off her broom and busted her butt, all of us giggling until we fell asleep. The mornings were the best though. We'd get up early, and she would make a breakfast of foods we never got at home while we sipped Grandad's pineapple-orange-banana juice, one I never liked outside of their house. She would make three minute eggs with nice runny yolks, bacon in the trusty cast-iron skillet, and hot popovers slathered with butter and apple butter she'd "put up" the fall before. Surely, this was the food of gods.
