In Memoriam

This discursive is in memoriam of the passing of this season’s fresh corn on the cob. Fate dealt a bad hand to my garden which failed to produce any sweet corn. Also, thanks to subsidized ethanol, America now suffers from engorged waste of a yummy food staple. Maize was domesticated in Mexico and Central America from 6500 B.C. on. Commercial offerings, however, from big box stores, do not resemble my grandmother’s maize. Rather than knowing what I think proves that I am, I know I am alive when delicious, flavorful, sweet, kernels pop off a cob into my mouth. A good sweet corn is like poetry of the palate as perfect as Emily Dickinson quatrains. Emily’s poems are described by a New York writer and critic as "triple-distilled whiskey that jolt going down, then radiate, leaving us wide-eyed and slightly fuddled." As a connoisseur of corn, I can definitely relate to this analogy. A friend of Emily’s, Thomas Higginson, described her creations as "poetry torn up by the roots,"..."that takes my breath away." Would that I had roots this year gripping into the ground in my garden supporting stalks that tasseled and produced long, inviting ears of corn. No such luck. Also, since the price of producing food has risen due to the encouragement of corn for ethanol, growing corn for the table has decreased and gardeners are themselves consuming all that they harvest. Sweet corn available to the public has been dear. I can buy no self-respecting corn other than from suppliers to nearby supermarkets. Nor can I buy decent corn grown from local farm families. I have not been able to approach my record last year of purchasing and eating 6 dozen ears of home-grown Mennonite corn. After consuming two store-bought ears this summer, I abandoned all hope to further enter the bins of corn produced for the mass market. Two bi-colors looked as perfect as Hollywood stars, but their flavor was pale or non-existent. Emily once asked her friend Thomas, "Dare you see a Soul at White Heat?" One never tires of analyzing and dissecting Emily’s poems because one can always tread new ground to find mental and emotional satisfaction. Reminiscent of Emily, I dare to long for kernels of white, yellow or bi-colored ambrosia to inflame my taste buds. Maybe nature or the gods will cooperate next year?