Corn

My friend Gerald, who spontaneously threw some corn on the ground and now has a harvest, brought me two ears of freshly picked corn.  His only request was that I eat it the same day it was picked, and to take a little bite of it raw.  Apparently raw corn doesn't taste like corn, and he's right, but I'll get to that later.

After visiting and having a great conversation (we always do), I began to shuck the fresh corn.  Peeling back the layers of green sheaths reveals the musty smell that accompanies fresh food straight from the garden.  I was immediately transported back to Grandma's porch, my tiny fingers trying to hold the corn firm enough to pull the sheaths back, but lightly enough to keep from bursting the juicy kernels.  My dad's parents lived in Robstown next to what I remember as a small house amongst acres of corn stalks.  We had fresh corn every night of our vacations there.  A boon, but any treasure comes with grueling work, and in this story it comes in the form of shucking corn (it was a difficult childhood).  The silky, creamy-white strings glisten and cling and hang sparsely from between the yellow and white globes, reminiscent of a pale bald man's attempt at a comb-over.

I pluck the delicate tinsel and rinse the final product.  I take a bite.

It's like... vanilla cookies.  Pure sugar, with a little layer of gristle.   I take another bite.  It's intriguing.  The kernels burst with a gentle pluck, leaking sweet liquid onto my tongue, leaving the unchewable skin balling up between my teeth.  And then the itching started.

I try to get Mark to try a tiny bit of this fantastic new find.  He refuses.  As a kid, he burst a kernel into his eye and ended up in the emergency room as the white of his eye swelled over his iris.

The itch worsens.  It's like when you eat cantaloupe, or a not-quite-ripe banana.  It itches INSIDE my ears.  I decide to cook it.

Mark cut the rows of glossy kernels off and piled them into a bowl with sour cream, mayo, butter, parmesan, and sriracha sauce.  Delicious.

DELICIOUS.

I love that my friend brings me the fruit of things he planted with his own hands.  Things he has brought to life with a little care.  I love that he has tiny requests that, when accomplished, give us something to talk about.  And I LOVE corn.

Pictures to come!