It pains me to admit it, but my husband is a much better microwave-popcorn-popper than I am. I pride myself on my cooking skills and generally take it as a personal affront whenever he tries to horn in on whatever I’m doing (he tried to flip my french toast the other day — can you believe it?!), but I’ve finally had to face the fact that his skills with microwave popcorn are far superior to mine. No matter how carefully I time it, how diligently I listen to and counts the number of pops per second, I always end up with at least a handful of burnt popcorn in every bag. Olof’s bags never, and I mean NEVER, have so much as one burnt kernel. It’s amazing to behold.