When Dad ate corn, he would pull the kernels from the cob with his bottom teeth, one row at a time. It left the cob clean, neat little holes where the corn once sat. Eventually, I learned the trick.
There is nothing like Pacific Northwest yellow corn. It is perfectly sweet, perfectly textured, not starchy or bland like mixed color or white corn. It doesn’t need anything, but butter, salt and spices can add variety. And since it’s September, the time is now! Straight from the Snohomish valley farms, or my shortcut, Central Market has it delivered to the store, same day (like the old Amazon prime).
When I was young, Grandma F used the term “Oh corn” as a euphemism. She said it a lot. She didn’t swear, so corn was the logical replacement, reflecting Nebraskan roots. Working for the Bothell United Methodist Church for decades, she retired when I was still in school. The celebration service was magical, tear worthy, and sometimes comical.
They came to the altar with a beautiful box, the kind like the florist uses for long stem roses. She opened it. Corn. Long stemmed corn.
Grandma never said “Oh corn” again.
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