Corn

I relish corn in all manners and stages, some more than others: popcorn, corn bread, corn flakes, frozen corn, canned corn, corn nuts, Corn King hot dogs, creamed corn, field corn, corn syrup, ethanol and corny jokes. But about this time of year I start to grow tired of corn-on-the-cob.

We have a garden at our place. I say we, but mostly it’s my wife Rhonda’s garden, as my only contribution is to till it twice a year. Corn, still on the cob, begins to show up at meal times with regularity for a few weeks every August. It’s hard to complain about food when it is plentiful and prepared for you, but please let me try.

My aversion to excessive corn goes back to my childhood; the memories still disrupt my sleep. As part of my training my parents sent me to Montgomery to work the corn pack at the Green Giant factory one summer.

Although it only lasted a few weeks, it seemed more like a few years. The shifts lasted 12 hours and then swung around to let the night shift go to the day shift (and vice versa). I would work 18 hours during those swing days. During those long days that turned into night I witnessed people fall asleep while standing up.

My social life suffered greatly during those weeks. I’m not sure if it was the hairnet worn throughout the day, the corn that clung to my clothing, or the smell that permeated my pores that made me want to stay home and rest in between shifts.

The freshly picked corn was delivered by truck day and night from the fields of Scott, Rice and Le Sueur counties. They kept coming and coming. While I sat outside alone during my breaks I remember being impressed and feeling depressed witnessing this long parade of trucks.

I had two different jobs at the factory. Both of them had comical “Lucille Ball” qualities. On one I stood next to a fast-moving conveyor belt. In front of me cobs of corn whizzed by that had been husked by a (husking?) machine. My job was to quickly grab those that had been missed by the machine and put them down a chute, where they presumably would be sent back to be husked (or rehusked?).

My secondary task on that conveyor line was to grab gross or damaged cobs and dispose of them. There was no time for indecision or contemplating the fate of a marginal cob. Some slipped through, but when I got behind I resisted the temptation to catch up by stuffing the cobs in my shirt or my mouth.

The second job I had at the factory was to get my hands smashed by frozen corn cobs. I stood on a ladder above a large container and spread frozen cobs evenly in the container as they exited a chute. The idea was to get as many cobs into a container as possible, but I found the consequences of completing the task contrary to its intended purpose: the frozen cobs flew out of the chute with such velocity and numbers that it was impossible to make any progress without having your hands pummeled with dozens of frozen cobs.

Corn may be the only vegetable that I have a love/hate relationship with. I will no longer eat corn right off the cob; I require it to be cut off. I still have all my teeth so that’s not the reason, nor am I so highly cultured that the very idea of eating right from the cob is beneath me. I’ve just never been a fan of having corn stuck between my teeth, plus with a moustache I have to contend with the smell of butter beneath my nose unless I thoroughly scrub up after eating.

But soon I will no longer have corn coming out of my ears. Fall will come and winter will follow. I will spend my nights reading, writing, watching movies, and eating popcorn.