Everyday Canvas

Corn

Prompt: Corn
Melanie Gideon says,: “It's August, and the fields are high with corn.” What is your favorite corn recipe? Is it something you prepare regularly or on special occasions?

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When I was much younger, I used to love to gnaw at a corn-on-the-cob. Not anymore. A kernel's outside skin, I think it's called a pericarp, has a tendency to stick to teeth, which is so annoying to me, but I still like the taste. Nowadays, I only use corn that is included in the mixed-veggies bag as a part of a stew.

On the other hand, a cornfield, usually found in Midwest and rarely in other places, with fruit hanging from its green stalks, is a beautiful sight. My uncle was an agricultural engineer. He always said, 'By raising corn you make the soil unusable.' That is probably why corn fields shift their location from year to year even in the same farm, especially when the organic farming is the aim.

Yet, the sight of such a field is inspiring since cornfields have cultural significance because they are often associated with rural life. In novels, stories, poetry, and movies, cornfields can evoke feelings of nostalgia, mystery, or even fear, as in the case of horror stories set among the towering stalks. It’s no wonder Stephen King seems to have a thing for corn and cornfields. Remember Children of the Corn?

Here is a poem about corn by John Greenleaf Whittier (And boy! He had a lot to say about corn):

Corn Song
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!
Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us, when the storm shall drift
Our harvest fields with snow.
Through vales of grass and meads of flowers
Our plows their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.
We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,
Beneath the sun of May,
And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.
All through the long, bright days of June,
Its leaves grew green and fair,
And waved in hot midsummer's noon
Its soft and yellow hair.
And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves,
Its harvest time has come;
We pluck away the frosted leaves
And bear the treasure home.
There, richer than the fabled gift
Apollo showered of old,
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.
Let vapid idlers loll in silk,
Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!
Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth
And bless our farmer girls!
Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn!
Let earth withhold her goodly root;
Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,
The wheat field to the fly:
But let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us, for his golden corn,
Send up our thanks to God!