Sweet Corn Memories

Have you ever had one of those "sense memories?" You know, when a sight or a sound or a smell will take you back to some other time in your life. I get them a lot with smells. There's a certain smell that I associate with my paternal grandmother's house. She was very ill for a long time, and her kitchen always smelled like pills. She took a zillion pills for various problems, and now that medicinal smell will always send me back to her house.

I had another scent memory hit me the other night. We had our first sweet corn of the season. I was standing there in the kitchen, tearing the strong green husk off the first cob, and a wave of that corn smell hit me and carried me off to my maternal grandparents' house in Fair Haven. It's something I hadn't thought about in years, probably not since I was a kid. I spent a lot of time in their house when I was young, and I ate a lot of corn there in the summers. My grandparents had a small vegetable garden up on top of the little hill in their backyard. I believe that they grew corn in that garden, though I may be mistaken on that point, it's been so long now.


What I do remember is my grandmother bringing me out into their breezeway with a big armful of corn. We would sit side by side and she would show me the proper way to prepare the corn. Take the husk off a little at a time, don't try to get too much at once. Don't break off the ends, Grandpa will trim them up with a knife so that they're just the right length. I remember she was very meticulous about getting every last piece of silk off. I try to be as diligent about that now, but I never seem to be able to get it all.


And then there was that seemingly endless period of time while the corn was boiling. To pass the time I'd help set the table, pausing now and again to look out the dining room window and see if any birds were perched on Grandma's feeder outside. Then it would finally be time to eat. Slather on the butter, a little sprinkle of salt and then the first bite. Heaven on a cob. Sweet and juicy and gone far too quickly.


Then as soon as the memory had arrived it was gone, and I was back in my kitchen, standing over my own little pile of corn. I thought about calling to Grant or Griffin, maybe teaching them the fine art of husking corn. But they were busy with Legos and Transformers and other little-boy things. Maybe another time. For now, I'll just close my eyes and enjoy being back in that house on Lake Street; a little girl with a smile on her face and butter dripping down her chin.