Corn Harvest

10:28 on a Wednesday night in the middle of August. Was the happy recipient of a whole fridge-full of sweet corn after work tonight, and with DH's help, have managed to get the first couple dozen ears into my stalwart Nesco dehydrator. Made 4 trays, which should fill a quart jar, maybe 2. It's a messy proposition, no getting around that. But the effort required offers its own rewards, and drying it's a lot easier & faster than canning, to say nothing of the much lovelier flavor of the end product. It'll brighten up many a cold winter evening...

The experience reminded me of my childhood -- growing up in an area where a lot of food is grown, I had opportunity to go with my family and pick various things. I remember picking pomegranates, later helping my mother peel and seed them for her famous pomegranate jelly. We picked pecans, my father knocking them with a long pole. Once I ate so many of them, I couldn't look at a pecan for quite awhile. One of my dad's friends had a pasture, and one especially wet year we brought home enough field mushrooms to add depth and flavor to spaghetti sauce, among other things, for quite a while. My mother treated them as the rare treasures they were, saving them for special occasions -- or when she'd grown tired of hearing us ask. I can still, over 40 years later, recall the long walk through the muddy grass to get to them, and their wonderful, earthy flavor. And I remember asking, long after they were gone, if we couldn't go back and get some more.

And so, abundance translating to generosity, a friend invited me to come and pick. Despite the fact that we drove to the cornfield in a vehicle powered by fossil fuel, wearing clothes loomed by machine and shoes manufactured, at least in part, of plastic, the experience was wonderfully primal. Corn -- ancient, simple, basic, delicious. The act of picking, a connection with generations uncountable, cultures aboriginal to sophisticated, time out of mind. Countless feet, yellow, red, brown, black and white, finding cool respite on ground shaded by skinny stalks stretching high overhead; many hands pushing long, slender, slightly scratchy leaves aside to grasp long, slender ears, gift-wrapped and ready for cooking, crowned with the brown tassels that indicate perfect ripeness. The original "fast food". All that was required of our ancient forebears was to throw them into the coals of the cooking fire, and then summon the patience to wait until they were ready to be plucked, smoldering, from the fire, and devoured.

And something about being involved in harvesting, whether or not one has grown the produce, adds a whole dimension to the enjoyment of food. It is empowering, in an undefinable way. A feast for all of the senses, from the moment one arrives at the field, lush green of the plants setting one's retinal cones abuzz, the sun warming one's face, the heavy scent of earth, perhaps a breeze to ruffle one's hair, arms brushing sandpapery leaves, the warmth of the ear in its grasscloth cloak. The snap-rip as the ear is broken away from the stalk, then twisted free, and, finally, the first tangible reward in the process -- the weight of the ears in one's arms.

Or perhaps we enjoy it more because we are accustomed to the utterly uniform offerings at the supermarket, and our brains (and psyches) appreciate the opportunity to choose something a little smaller, or bigger, or riper.

Or that what you pick yourself is, invariably, fresher.

And there is the satisfaction that comes from the rows of jars safely stored in a dark pantry, waiting to bring a bit of summer sun to a cold winter day. A few hours spent shucking, blanching, cutting kernels from cobs and spreading them onto trays yields the second reward -- half-gallon mason jars of dried corn to be tucked away, and brought out to savor long after the last of the bright green stalks, ground into silage, has fermented into cattle feed. The jars, a gift from my mother-in-law, no doubt indispensable in feeding her three boys and two girls, a treasured connection to my husband's childhood.

The third reward is the comfort of knowing that each jar of dried corn (or canned peaches or strawberry jam) puts the possibility of suffering if food ever, for whatever reason, becomes scarce, that much further away.

And the ultimate incentive: Pleasant crunch and bright corn flavor, enjoyed out of hand or sprinkled on a salad, singing out sweetly in a chowder, adding a high note to cornbread, all throughout the winter.

So I found myself threading my way between stalks and in and out of rows, gathering up armloads of bright, sweet corn. Dropping it into my Costco totebag (you can use them for groceries, too!!), heading back into the corn forest for a few more ears... Knowing full well the amount of work I was getting myself into.

And certain, as our ancient forebears knew, that it would be worth it.