Come to me my sweet....corn

I was born in January a cold dark month. I arrived totally disoriented and without any clothes, was hoisted up by my feet, given a good whack and thus welcomed into the world. The mood in the room was somber and people avoided looking at each other. The doctor, nurses and my parents all knew the sad truth—I had missed the sweet corn season by six months.

Just mention the corn year of ’52 and older people in my community get dreamy, become trancelike and they drool. Corn connoisseurs say the crop that year was especially vibrant, a wonderful bouquet of earthy tartness balanced by the sweetness of the sugar with delicate hints of fried bacon. It was said that a farmer in the community, so enthused about the new crop, ate twenty ears of cooked corn in one sitting and (alas!) lost his taste for it. He sold the farm and played sad songs on the harmonica. He never got over it.

From the time I was just a wee kernel corn has always been a source of wonder and delight. We grew the corn close to the house and when it was “ready” my mother would march our family into the field at sunrise where we picked corn by hand and put in it in bushel baskets. Then we brought it back to the house, sat in the shade of a huge oak tree and there we would shuck, silk and stack the corn like gold bars. The bigger your pile grew so did your glory. “Oh my,” Mother would say” You’re such a hard worker! Look! Look everybody!” which produced frowns from your sisters but you’d smile and try to remain humble. God favored people like you.

Later work moved into the kitchen which became a boiler room filled with clouds of steam from the pressure cooker and pots full of boiling water for sterilizing the jars--- all of which had the name “Ball” written on them in cursive writing. We washed the corn in the kitchen sink passing the ears to my mother who slaved away at the canning process, her damp hair stuck to her forehead as if she’d just stepped out of the shower.

Mother would boil us fresh ears of corn for lunch and we sat outside on the ground and ate like beavers. No juice was ever so sweet and no crunch so tender as corn cooked, salted and buttered by your mother.

Corn is the grain of America. From it came a TV show set in a cornfield. A generation grew up watching “ Hee Haw” with Junior Samples who gave out the most famous telephone number in the world-- ‘BR-549”.

Corn mash is used to make whisky which is the foundation of the Kennedy family’s wealth and without them there would have been no news to report in the 1960’s and 70’s. There would have been no need for Walter Cronkite or the word “ Chappaquiddick”.

Without corn chips how would we eat salsa? With a spoon? Yucko, amigo.
Now corn stands accused of giving us unhealthy love handles that hang over our belts. Corn syrup is the least health-giving and the most fattening of the carbon consuming foods.

Ethanol, a mash that is one part corn and two parts tax dollars consumes about as much energy as it yields.

Corn is another tradition the health police are trying to take away from us. But I say to corn, come hither “Golden Jubilee”, come to me my “Silver Queen”. We go back a ways. Remember when sunshine and fresh air were considered good for you?