Popcorn is a metaphor.

I made some today, on the stove, the old-fashioned way. As I listened to the kernels knocking around inside the pot, I imagined taking the lid off to let them escape: a fountain of popcorn falling like white feathers, piling up in the dusty corners of the kitchen. It would sound like miniature hailstones when it hit the tile, but it would crunch underfoot like snow. I think cleaning it up would just make me laugh; such an extraordinary mess. God, it must be so liberating. It may even be necessary. 

And what if I did the opposite? What if I let it pop and never removed the lid? I happen to know the answer to this one: it pops and pops and makes a small, moving, powerful popcorn mountain under there, until the lid just slides off by itself. Like a reverse avalanche pushing up and out, completely unable to contain itself.

Either way, the lid has to come off.