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For Hoosiers, popcorn is more than a movie-theater snack. It belongs alongside tenderloin sandwiches, watermelons and field-grown tomatoes as one of Indiana’s enduring food traditions.

Indiana recently surpassed Nebraska as the nation’s leading popcorn producer, according to online reports. Brian Lehman of Berne, Indiana, and Amish Country Popcorn grows mushroom and butterfly varieties across 97,000 acres, contributing to the state’s annual production of 89 million pounds.

My own connection to popcorn began almost as soon as I could eat it. One or more nights each week, Mom poured oil into a pan and added a layer of bright yellow kernels. She slid the pan back and forth over the heat until the popcorn filled it and began pushing up the lid.

Then came a generous coating of melted butter and salt. Few smells—or tastes—could compete.

In first grade, my class visited Princeton Farms Popcorn Company in Princeton, Indiana, then the area’s largest popcorn producer. I remember almost nothing about the tour except the bag of popcorn each student received at the end.

Years later, the Princeton Farms warehouse caught fire. My nephew, newspaper reporter Mike Cain, opened his story with a memorable line: “Somebody should have brought the butter.”

As the warehouse burned, he heard thousands of pounds of popcorn bursting inside. The popping sounded like gunfire from a miniature army, while the unmistakable aroma traveled for miles—the same sensory power movie theaters have long understood.

Marriage brought another popcorn revelation: white kernels. My husband’s family preferred them and used a stovetop popper with a crank on the side that rotated an arm inside the pot.

Then my sister-in-law, a true popcorn connoisseur, introduced us to Lady Finger popcorn. While living in northern Indiana, she befriended a farmer who grew the unusual variety.

Lady Finger has white kernels about the size of rice grains. Once popped, the pieces are roughly pea-sized and have no hulls. Its cobs resemble thick, hand-rolled cigars and are too small for machine shucking, so the farmer harvested a special patch for her by hand.

She rewarded that effort by purchasing his entire crop—more than 100 pounds.

She carefully divided the kernels among quart-sized zip-top bags, packed those into large plastic tubs and stored the collection in her attic. When we helped her move to Florida, the popcorn came too, eventually taking up residence in our garage.

Her current home provides three meals a day, leaving her with little need for the Lady Finger supply. We, however, needed the garage space.

A local thrift store benefiting a women’s addiction program kept a popcorn machine near its entrance, so I asked the manager whether the store wanted a free supply. I warned him to bring a handcart or dolly because there was a lot of it.

On delivery day, he looked into my car trunk and immediately recognized the kernels.

“Oh, it’s Lady Finger! The best popcorn out there!” he said.

His reaction caught me completely by surprise. His father had owned a movie theater in Indiana, where the manager spent part of his childhood popping corn. Lady Finger had been his favorite whenever they could obtain it.

Once a Hoosier, always a Hoosier—and when popcorn is involved, Indiana natives know exactly what they’re talking about.