Corn, Corn, Corn....

It is a substantial structure, now a century old, still in use, still surrounded by gates and a corral. The overhanging eaves shelter some of the old but well maintained equipment of its owner.  Upstairs, in a the hay loft, stands a ping pong table, just the most recent incarnation of the big red barn.  We celebrated the centennial of the red barn just last month with grilled pork, cake, baseball, kids, dogs and an giant RV in the driveway.  We honored tradition and longevity, epitomized by the big red barn and the generations of the family choosing to celebrate a building.


According to Wikipedia, barn raisings were common enough community affairs more than a century ago, but had pretty well been replaced by hired crews and commercial construction by the time my folks' 1912 barn was built.  Nonetheless, it could still be a illustration for a children's book featuring a barn raising:  post and beam, massive hay loft, shiny metal gambrel roof and classic red barn paint job. Years past, my sister and I both took turns climbing the tall ladder to paint the gable end of the barn; my father gave my mother untold nervous head aches stringing ladders across the roof to repair loose tin and repaint any stealthy incipient creeping rust invisible from the ground but sensed by my father's ultra sensitive preservation antennae. The tall ladder is retired now; a crew of Mennonites contracted to keep the roof silver last time around.













While barn raisings are an "example of a fundamental form of human cooperation" -, the extensive community of Hursts got together this week for another type of rural ritual: putting up sweet corn.      My parents' farm garden had three or four long rows of sweet corn, protected by a thin electrified wire from things that go bump in the night and have unerring instincts for juicy kernels.  But our family sweet corn patch is on a different scale completely, sown by a sixteen row planter and surrounded by rows and rows of field corn.  This much corn demands a battle plan.


The driveway is crowded when I pull in; the number of pickups a dead giveaway that sweet corn is more than woman's work.  A truck wide swath is mowed into the corn patch; the men pull the ears, then shuck them in the field. Corn fields in July are steamy stifling places; now a half dozen lawn chairs form a semicircle around the corn laden pickup parked under a shade tree.  Farmers with dish towels wipe the silks from the ears, bringing canners, roasters, wash baskets full of shucked and dewormed ears to the house. Tall glasses of iced tea perch on the grass, all sticky from the sugary ears. 


The canning kitchen downstairs spouts steam like a geyser field in Yellowstone and rattles like a 110 car unit train going over a bridge.  Two canners 'double double toil and trouble' like Shakespeare's witches. Two sinks brim with cold water, ready to catch the steaming ears and cool them enough to cut.  The stovetop is charred with carmelized corn juice.  There is a rhythm to this job.  Boil the water; feed the ears into the canner cautiously, dodging the boiling spray.  When one pot comes to a rolling boil, shift the ears with tongs one by one to the sink of cool water.  Check the other canner.  Move cooler ears to even colder water.  Fill the canner with more ears. Pull the corn from the second boiling canner.  Fill a pan with cooler ears.  Fill the sink with hot ears.  Sound complicated?  Not really.  There is a rhythm.  


In the garage, long plastic tables hold an assortment of knives, Pyrex, freezer bags and broiler pans.  Each time a pan of blanched corn emerges from the basement, we grab a handful of ears.  Knife choice is a matter of individual taste; some prefer a fisherman's fillet knife; some bring a well protected chef's knife; some...like me....choose the cheapest sort of paring knife..a long ago giveaway from Pioneer seed corn.  This is tradition, the same sort of knife I have been cutting vegetables with for thirty some years.  The knife we looked forward to getting every winter after we ordered our Pioneer seed corn from the dealer.  No other giveaway has ever matched up to a short paring knife, soft enough to sharpen with a hand held, hard enough to cut cleanly through the soft juicy kernels.  Cheap enough to lose in the trash and not break your heart.

Chicka-chicka-chicka go the knives down the ears and the pale pearly kernels accumulate in the Pyrex. Thunk! We throw our cobs into a 55 gallon trash can.  In intervals between pans of ears, we scoop corn into quart or pint size freezer bags, dependent upon family size.  Some years we freeze too much...in a dry year like this one, the ears are petite and the kernels shallow.  We will run out of corn before next year's crop comes on.  There are many of us....while the women stand in assembly line formation, children of all sizes and usefulness come and go.  The bigger ones float between cuttings and silking and watching the littler ones with no sense.  The littler ones want to help cut...of course...but we send them outdoors to the silking crew...far away from sharp and potentially harmful objects.  Aaron and Gus are old enough to be useful and proud enough of that fact to want to help.  They go to the field to fetch more corn....they carry ears back and forth from the basement....they finally succumb to the irresistible urge to ride the 4 wheeler.  They are good boys and we give them verbal pats on the back.


I cannot participate in this yearly ceremony without the past coming back to stand across the table.  This day I visit and gossip or work in companionable silence with my daughters.  We are bound by ties more various than mere blood and relation;  we walk in the footsteps of our predecessors.  I could just as easily be standing in Millie's old kitchen, wallpapered, linoleumed, walnut cabinets, with a rangetop view of the family room, the floor so sticky and the humidity clinging to the formica table top.  Those could be my girls rough housing with their cousins, building "tents" in the front room from couch cushions and afghans, their screams, laughter, and arguments masked by the roar of boiling water.  I can see Grandma Eunice across that table.  She defies safety and convention by cutting the ears toward her.  Her ears are perfectly square, not a kernel left behind, no frizz, no waste.  She uses a Tupperware measuring cup to scoop the corn into bags.  She huffs with effort and rests between pans.  It could be yesterday...not twenty five years ago.   


Sweet corn in season is ephemeral; like God's manna, you cannot save it for another day.  "Just picked" is a different country than 'fresh'.  But the lovely yearly ritual with its ageless patterns of teamwork and responsibility, its consistency, its predictability, is more than enough reward, wintry treats aside.  Every time I chisel a quart bag from its brothers, I partake in more than a side dish to a meal...I cook my past, present and future.

For the Good Times

Can a blog get cobwebs?   Or flat line?  If so, this poor web needs airing out and dusting: tear off the calendar pages, put away the jeans and put on the flip flops.  Its summer, which is not , apologies to Forrest Gump, like a box of chocolates, but could be likened to an Ted Drewes concrete or Dairy Queen Blizzard.......chilling but smooth, mostly refreshing, but not without tough and chewy intervals that can break your teeth.


We are gnawing our way through one of these episodes now:  the corn is pollinating exactly when the daytime temperatures hover just below 100 and the nights hold the day's heat like a goose down quilt.  The soybeans are a crazy quilt of heights and a potpourri of weeds.  We are drenching the fall flower pots with the weapons against various rots at our disposal.  Can't change the fact that the black weed barrier could reasonably be compared to the daytime temperature on the sunny side of the moon...or perhaps the artificial turf during a July businessman's special at Busch Stadium II.


Speaking of baseball, the Cardinals need some relief pitchers  too.

At mid-week, I was prepared to take a sabbatical from NOAA, Fox News, and my yard. But after looking through the snapshots from this toasty June, I have since revised my resignation and resolved to use tunnel vision, blinkers, or at the very least, a duck billed hat, to make the best of what this summer throws at us after the All Star break.  Enjoy this sampling, break out the fireworks, fire up the grill....and run those sprinklers!

We All Scream

Just back from my favorite local ice cream joint...Ray's Dairy Diner in Fairfax. On tonight's menu: a small Heath Bulldog, generously studded with chunks of Heath bar and gently flowing out of the spoon hole over the side of the Styrofoam cup. Ice cream for supper is a summer ritual with no one around to judge the shape of our food pyramid.

What do I love about ice cream? Well, obviously, I relish the stuff itself. There is nothing wrong with a dish of Breyer's before bedtime, or a sinfully rich scoop in a crystalline footed dish. But as much as I love the food quality of ice cream, I love the romantic notion of ice cream, the associations, the memories, the "remembrance of things past".

I grew up when chain restaurants were in their infancy. Our town sprouted a Dog 'n Suds across from the little gas station we patronized. You still see an occasional Dog 'n Suds building, usually in the guise of a used lot; they're hard to mistake with their distinctive v-shaped awnings. We didn't eat out much; to tell the truth, I don't know that we ever ate anywhere but our dining room in Orland Park. So I cannot speak with authority on the ice cream at a Dog 'n Suds.

That doesn't mean we didn't avail ourselves of root beer and root beer floats. Outside of Louisiana, Missouri we'd occasionally stop at the A&W Root Beer drive-in for a refreshing brew. This was a good thing in a myriad of ways. First of all, someone came up to your window and took your order. The root beers came in all sizes, from Papa Bear to cunning little mugs just for kids. The mugs had a perfect rime of foam on the rim and were thickly coated with frost in the constant summer humidity. I loved the way the trays hung on our car windows and the spongy rubber mat that cushioned the trip of the mugs to our door.

 

Jefferson City had its own marvelous ice cream emporium. I didn't eat much ice cream at Central Dairy until I was a teen. Then it was a tough decision whether to opt for a Jamoca Almond Fudge cone or a strawberry shake with chunks of fruit large enough to plug your straw. The counter stools were round, vinyl topped and swiveled. The flavors were crammed on two boards on the wall. The booths were simple bare boards and the flooring vintage linoleum in checkerboard red and white. The whole place gave me the impression of being part of the time warp that kept parts of Jeff City comfortably in the past. The overwhelming sensation of Central Dairy was that of chill. The ice cream was just warm enough to detect flavor and the ambient temperature of the fountain, maybe a degree or two higher. Stepping out into the street made was a physical shock and my glasses fog over.

For many years, my folks hosted a family get together at Redbarn given the handle of the "Pigout" around July 4th. Needless to say, pork in several manifestations provided the entree but dessert was invariably a birthday cake for Annie and homemade ice cream. This continued the tradition begun at Granny and Grandpa's 4th of July celebrations. The homemade ice cream was a joint collaboration between the men and women. My mother, or Granny, would mix up the magical ice cream concoction. The men's job was to chip the ice block in an old washtub and pack the ice and rock salt around the metal cylinder. Then it was time to churn, and jaw, and pour salt and pack more ice and tell more stories and crank....you get the picture. We kids would snitch ice chips or maybe even take turns with the ice pick. We'd hang around and offer to crank awhile. But even when we were old enough to be helpful, we were as invisible to the guys making the ice cream as we were to those same guys turning the pork steaks over the glowing coals on the sheet of tin. It was ritual. It was tradition. The ice cream came out cold and crystalline, either ur-vanilla or the essence of peach flash frozen right off the tree.

Its been awhile since I rode with Blake hauling grain to Atchison in the summertime. It wasn't a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon but it was a way to spend time together. The truck lacked air conditioning so we rode down with the motor roaring and the gears laboring up the hills into St. Joe. Conversation was impossible so I looked out the window at the sweltering fields. The atmosphere grew tense as we crossed the bridge into Atchison. Would we or would we not catch the green light on the other side. Would Blake have to labor mightily to bring the creaking load of grain to a screeching halt. Would the clutch hold when we did and had to start up again.

But there was compensation and a treat after we left at the elevator. On our way out of town, we could sneak the 10 wheeler into the parking lot at the DQ and get a giant iced tea and a shake or Blizzard. Somewhere in this time frame, Dairy Queen created the Cappuccino Heath Blizzard and it has remained my favorite ever since. The truck was lighter and quieter on the way home and the riders cooler thanks to DQ.

And what discussion of ice cream would be complete without mention of Ted Drewes'? Our summer trips to St. Louis have always been joyful events, whether we get to a Cards game, or the Garden, or golf, or eat on the Hill, or partake of Mark's culinary expertise. I rest my case on the myriad pleasures of summer in St. Louis and a visit to Pernod Gardens. Not the least of these is a pleasant evening stroll down the neighborhood streets to the bright lights and commotion of Ted Drewes' on Chippewa. There is constant traffic entering and leaving the parking lot and a long congenial line at the windows. Most people stand and eat their concretes or sundaes before driving off, but we are pedestrians and find a comfortable curb or window ledge to eat our treat. What do I eat at Ted Drewes? I haven't the faintest idea! It's all good, but its more than food...it's community, it's tradition, it's common ground.

 

Back to the Dairy Diner. Ice cream at the Dairy Diner is another lovely tasty proxy for summer. The building is square and old, but the picnic tables outside are a great place to watch what happens in rural Missouri in the summer. On the east side is a big pop machine. The fluorescent bug lights are yellow and flyspecked. I wonder while I wait for my Bulldog how long it has been since the individual light sockets drew moths to their tempting halos. The Dairy Diner is and is not a charming anachronism in a chain store world. We are regulars there and they apologize to Lee for making her previous Bulldog with vanilla ice cream. The sign is freshly painted for the season with Bulldog green. Its only June; we hope there are many more ice cream reminiscences in the summer ahead.

 

Posted with Blogsy

We All Scream

Just back from my favorite local ice cream joint...Ray's Dairy Diner in Fairfax. On tonight's menu: a small Heath Bulldog, generously studded with chunks of Heath bar and gently flowing out of the spoon hole over the side of the Styrofoam cup. Ice cream for supper is a summer ritual with no one around to be judgmental about the shape of our food pyramid.

What do I love about ice cream? Well, obviously, I relish the stuff itself. There is nothing wrong with a dish of Breyer's before bedtime, or a sinfully rich scoop in a crystalline footed dish. But as much as I love the food quality of ice cream, I love the romantic notion of ice cream, the associations, the memories, the "remembrance of things past".

I grew up just as chain restaurants were in their infancy. Our town sprouted a Dog 'n Suds across from the little gas station we patronized. You still see an occasional Dog 'n Suds building, usually in the guise of a used lot; they're hard to mistake with their distinctive v-shaped awnings. We didn't eat out much; to tell the truth, I don't know that we ever ate anywhere but our dining room in Orland Park. So I cannot speak with authority on the ice cream at a Dog 'n Suds.

That doesn't mean we didn't avail ourselves of root beer and root beer floats. Outside of Louisiana, Missouri we'd occasionally stop at the A&W Root Beer drive-in for a refreshing brew. This was a good thing in a myriad of ways. First of all, someone came up to your window and took your order. The root beers came in all sizes, from Papa Bear to cunning little mugs just for kids. The mugs had a perfect rime of foam on the time and were thickly coated with frost in the ever present summer himidity. I loved the way the trays hung on our car windows and the spongy rubber mat that cushioned the trip of the mugs to our door.

 

Jefferson City had its own marvelous ice cream emporium. I didn't eat much ice cream at Central Dairy until I was a teen. Then it was a tough decision whether to opt for a Jamoca Almond Fudge cone or a strawberry shake with chunks of fruit large enough to plug your straw. The counter stools were round, vinyl topped and swiveled. The flavors were crammed on two boards on the wall. The booths were simple bare boards and the flooring vintage linoleum in checkerboard red and white. The whole place gave me the impression of being part of the time warp that kept parts of Jeff City comfortably in the past. The overwhelming sensation of Central Dairy was that of chill. The ice cream was just warm enough to detect flavor and the ambient temperature of the fountain, maybe a degree or two higher. Stepping out into the street made was a physical shock and my glasses fog over.

For many years, my folks hosted a family get together at Redbarn given the handle of the "Pigout" around July 4th. Needless to say, pork in several manifestations provided the entree but dessert was invariably a birthday cake for Annie and homemade ice cream. This continued the tradition begun at Granny and Grandpa's 4th of July celebrations. The homemade ice cream was a joint collaboration between the men and women. My mother, or Granny, would mix up the magical ice cream concoction. The men's job was to chip the ice block in an old washtub and pack the ice and rock salt around the metal cylinder. Then it was time to churn, and jaw, and pour salt and pack more ice and tell more stories and crank....you get the picture. We kids would snitch ice chips or maybe even take turns with the ice pick. We'd hang around and offer to crank awhile. But even when we were old enough to be helpful, we were as invisible to the guys making the ice cream as we were to those same guys turning the pork steaks over the glowing coals on the sheet of tin. It was ritual. It was tradition. The ice cream came out cold and crystalline, either ur-vanilla or the essence of peach flash frozen right off the tree.

Its been awhile since I rode with Blake hauling grain to Atchison in the summertime. It wasn't a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon but it was a way to spend time together. The truck lacked air conditioning so we rode down with the motor roaring and the gears laboring up the hills into St. Joe. Conversation was impossible so I looked out the window at the sweltering fields. The atmosphere grew tense as we crossed the bridge into Atchison. Would we or would we not catch the green light on the other side. Would Blake have to labor mightily to bring the creaking load of grain to a screeching halt. Would the clutch hold when we did and had to start up again.

But there was compensation and a treat after we left at the elevator. On our way out of town, we could sneak the 10 wheeler into the parking lot at the DQ and get a giant iced tea and a shake or Blizzard. Somewhere in this time frame, Dairy Queen created the Cappuccino Heath Blizzard and it has remained my favorite ever since. The truck was lighter and quieter on the way home and the riders cooler thanks to DQ.

And what discussion of ice cream would be complete without mention of Ted Drewes'? Our summer trips to St. Louis have always been joyful events, whether we get to a Cards game, or the Garden, or golf, or eat on the Hill, or partake of Mark's culinary expertise. I rest my case on the myriad pleasures of summer in St. Louis and a visit to Pernod Gardens. Not the least of these is a pleasant evening stroll down the neighborhood streets to the bright lights and commotion of Ted Drewes' on Chippewa. There is constant traffic entering and leaving the parking lot and a long congenial line at the windows. Most people stand and eat their concretes or sundaes before driving off, but we are pedestrians and find a comfortable curb or window ledge to eat our treat. What do I eat at Ted Drewes? I haven't the faintest idea! It's all good, but its more than food...it's community, it's tradition, it's common ground.

 

Back to the Dairy Diner. Ice cream at the Dairy Diner is another lovely tasty proxy for summer. The building is square and old, but the picnic tables outside are a great place to watch what happens in rural Missouri in the summer. On the east side is a big pop machine. The fluorescent bug lights are yellow and flyspecked. I wonder while I wait for my Bulldog how long it has been since the individual light sockets drew moths to their tempting halos. The Dairy Diner is and is not a charming anachronism in a chain store world. We are regulars there and they apologize to Lee for making her previous Bulldog with vanilla ice cream. The sign is freshly painted for the season with Bulldog green. Its only June; we hope there are many more ice cream reminiscences in the summer ahead.

 

Posted with Blogsy