This evening, while putting up sweet corn for the winter, I was struck with a vivid memory of my childhood.
I'm kneeling on one of the four tall, wooden stools in our dining room, elbows on the counter, watching my dad slice corn off the cob. Mom is at the stove, blanching the ears of corn in boiling water, steaming up the already warm kitchen. My job is finished, having already "helped" my mom and sister husk the corn and toss the husks and silk into the compost. Now, I have only to watch dad's knife, hoping each slice will sheer off an even larger slab of connected kernels -- hoping that before they're all boxed into quart Tupperware containers for the deep freeze, he'll let me pop one of those slabs into my mouth.
I guess I just want to say thank you to my parents for that experience. I hope one day Finley will watch Victoria and me put up corn in the same way.
|Blanching the ears|
|Slicing off the kernels|
|Almost done... 10 to go!|
|I managed to slice off a few fat slabs myself.|
And I would be totally remiss if I did not send out a huge thank you to my Uncle John and Aunt Jean who not only let us live with them for three weeks before we could close on our house, but also graciously gave us the 100 ears of corn from their huge garden.
|Us with John & Jean, back in July.|
(And thanks also to Jan Solomon for helping put up the first batch of corn two weeks ago.)