An Elephants Eye
As the momentum of Summer yields to the steady approach of Fall, thoughts begin to stray toward cooler weather, fewer hours of sunlight and the pending burst of colors the dwindling supply of chlorophyll reveals. Inevitably someone will wonder aloud why we have such definable seasons. What will follow of course will be a recitation of that which we all learned while making solar system mobiles in 3rd grade. The combination of the tilt of Earth’s axis and its’ position relative to the sun guarantee the rhythm of the seasons. I know the real reason
The seasons cycle to guarantee humans have enough time to totally forget the perfection that is ‘sweet Jersey corn’ eaten hot off the cob. Plump, freshly shucked ears of golden goodness that might have been harvested only hours before finding repose upon a dinner plate fulfilling its only destiny. Generously bathed in rivers of butter and an abundance of salt, few things if any imprint as indelibly upon the sensory nervous system. This state of enforced deprivation momentarily defies physic by reorienting the arrow of time. From the first bite to the last, this summer merges with every summer when the only thing that could successfully summon you from the pool was the promise of overdone hot dogs and corn on the cob, enthusiastically devoured from wrinkly chlorinated fingers.
Joe and Theresa lived on the corner where 9th Street ran perpendicular to Church Street. This geometry allowed us to see their backyard from the comfort of the front porch that protruded from the front of my grandfather’s house at 822 Church Street. Joe and Theresa immigrated to the United Staes from Italy. After decades of life navigating the vast sea of blue-collar neighbors, Italian remained the official language in their postage stamp sized patch of the old country that now resided within the boundaries of 19061.
One summer night it was clear that Joe and Theresa were preparing for something special. We watched as they ferried their dinnerware from within the house, outside to a large picnic style bench. Situated in the shade beneath an arching trellis of entangled grape vines bearing fruit the color of an angry bruise bathed in iodine, it was as if the bench itself was now docked in their adopted home. As the last of the long shadows gave way to moonlight, Vanda, Joe and Theresa’s youngest daughter made her way over to our porch and said that her mom and dad would like to invite all of us over to partake in the corn boil with their family. Although I did not have a vote to cast, I was free to wonder why parents would eat stand-alone side dish vegetables well after dinner had concluded. Someone quickly and cheerfully accepted the invite, and soon we were crammed into the tiny yard in a formation that loosely mimicked the grape distribution of the sprawling vines.
When the first ear of corn arrived on my plate, an elder guided me through the required ritual. While the corn was still steaming, large pads of butter were generously applied to the entire surface area of the corn. Any excess or unmelted butter was collected on the strategically placed plate for future use and reuse. Next came the salt, applied machine gun style with short rapid bursts around the entire circumference of the corn. Next, with a fresh roll of paper towels at the ready came my first transformative bite. Based solely upon observations made later in my adult life, it is almost certain that my pupils dilated and sounds hitherto only associated with satiated cartoon characters were likely heard as I devoured my first ear of corn on the cob. I do not recall very many of the specifics, except to say the bonus at the time was that none of the adults were concerned with appearances. Glistening, butter coated cheeks randomly dotted with fragments of corn kernels and slippery hands must have been the appropriate dress code.
So, as the frost warnings creep into a cooler and suddenly colder forecast, I look forward to forgetting about jersey corn, and ultimately remembering Joe and Theresa.
