When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.
1 Corinthians 13.11
I have often tried to convince myself that I have indeed put an end to childish ways, and become an adult. Maybe when I retire I will actually convince myself of that. I thought when I was younger that I would begin to feel like an adult when I turned 18 – that came and went with no success. Perhaps then when I got married – we still enjoy just playing together. Maybe I needed to be a father first – it is truly hard to resist a three-year-old when she wants you to play dress up with her. I guess I may never grow up, and that is OK for me. When I was 51, I would often hear my daughter say, “Mom, Dad lost his one.” What she was implying is that I was no longer acting 51, but 5.
There is a lot about being a child, especially a child of God, which makes the world around you just fine. The only problem is, I don’t always comprehend things as an adult when I live like a child, but I am getting there.
Sometimes the simplest of events can be traumatic for a three- year-old; take, for instance, your average ear of corn. Do you remember the first time you discovered that corn may or may not be on the cob when it is time to eat it? I had been spoiled and sheltered for many years. I took for granted that corn came on cobs and that was the only way that you would find it. You can imagine my horror when I discovered that some people may choose to cut the corn off the cob and do it intentionally. It scarred me for life.
My grandparents were denture wearers, and as a result they really could not eat corn on the cob. Now to comprehend this delicate subject at the age of three is no simple task. In my world there were certain unalterable facts, and chief among those was the fact that corn was meant to be on the cob.
Mamaw and Papaw always had their own garden and plenty of fresh vegetables; even our large family could never possibly eat as much as that garden produced on our own. The beefsteak tomatoes were always plump and ripe. The blue lake green beans were crisp and juicy. The luscious turnips with their purple cap had just enough bite to be just right, and were fragrant as you sliced them open to enjoy one fresh from the ground. However, my favorite was always the corn on the cob. It could be yellow or white; I didn’t care what the variety was or how large of an ear it was. I simply loved the precious sweetness that can only seem to be found in fresh homegrown corn.
Mamaw’s kitchen was relatively small, but somehow seemed to hold as many people as necessary, no matter what the occasion. There was just enough room in the middle of the floor for a rather plain, rectangular, Formica top table with six chairs. Around the perimeter were a series of wooden cabinets, which to me each contained their own separate treasures. In the small drawer beside the sink was an abundance of treasures just waiting for me to discover them. It didn’t seem to matter that I had explored that exact same drawer only last week; I simply must see if there were any new treasures. In these treasure chests of mine I found pocket knives from many different decades, pennies and other odd change, wing nuts to equipment that had been thrown away ten years before, and many other items that caught my curiosity. I just knew that this drawer was the key to solving the secrets of the universe; once I figured out what a universe was I would have the problem solved.
On one countertop was a pull out ceramic enamel metal work surface; I’ve never seen another one quite like it. The primary purpose for this work surface that I ever witnessed was making biscuits and boy could Mamaw make biscuits. Mamaw always made her biscuits from scratch, and there was no need in even discussing the Pillsbury Doughboy with her. She carefully assembled her ingredients with no recipe, no measuring cup, and no real careful thought. Well, I do have to make one correction to that statement. In the large metal tin that housed the flour for making the biscuits was an old aluminum single cup measuring cup. She used this cup for scooping out the flour, but I am confident that no actual measuring took place in the scooping of the flour. It was simply a matter of using the amount that felt right.
The recipe had really become second nature to her. She kneaded the dough with her hands and plopped it out onto that work surface to cut the biscuits. Mamaw never used one of those fancy store bought biscuit cutters; she just used a standard drinking tumbler upside down. During the process, Mamaw would recombine the dough about three times until she only had a small misshapen piece that she explained to me would go to the cat.
During the summer, the green beans were always fresh. They would come fresh from the garden; get a quick rinse then snapped straight into the pot. Not that it was very healthy for you, but the green beans always included a healthy chunk of fat back for seasoning. Healthy or not they were delicious, and we loved them.
My seat was always to Papaw’s right. He always sat at the head of the table next to the sink. Since I was only three, my feet did not touch the floor yet and I had a tendency to swing my feet unconsciously. Inevitably I would end up kicking Papaw repeatedly. He would tell me to stop swinging my feet, and for at least a minute I would oblige until I absentmindedly began to swing them again. To me, sitting next to Papaw was a place of high honor. I was able to have more of his attention than just about anyone else. No other seat in that room was as important as the one to Papaw’s right. I just loved talking with him and the way that he lovingly reminded me (over and over again) to stop swinging my feet. Periodically he would reach over with his rough leathery hands and ruffle my hair. At breakfast I was always fascinated, sitting next to him, why he drank his coffee from a small bowl instead of from a cup. He would get his coffee in a cup with a small bowl under it instead of a saucer. Then he would pour some of his coffee into the bowl and drink it. Of course, he was Papaw and if he did it then it must be cool.
Normally, I would hang around under foot as each meal was prepared, and I was stepped on more than once. It all seemed so simple to me. You cut it in pieces, you beat on it, you put a little flour on it, and then you fry it. It didn’t really seem to matter what we were eating, it somehow followed that pattern. Sometimes one or more steps were skipped, but rarely was the frying step skipped. If that is all there is to it then I knew that I could do it.
Certain dishes were sacrosanct, and were not to be disturbed. This included biscuits – although you did have the option of honey or molasses, country ham, grits, and corn on the cob. The biscuits were light and fluffy, even though they did not come from a can.
From my uncles I learned the technique of eating copious quantities of biscuits with either honey or molasses. As I think back about that now I cannot begin to fully appreciate the number of biscuits that I would consume at one sitting; it was simply biblical in proportion. I would put a pat of butter onto my plate followed by pouring out over the butter either honey or molasses. The technique of pouring out the honey and molasses was a time-proven method that had been passed down from generation to generation and perfected as it went. First you tilt the jar until you get a nice even ribbon flowing of the sweet viscous nectar of the gods. Then, at just the right moment, you quickly right the jar and slide a case knife across the mouth of the jar, severing the ribbon of goodness and cutting off the flow. This acts to stop the flow and keep the jar clean so that you can actually open it the next time you want some. With that technique perfected it always amazed me how little honey or molasses dribbled down the side of the jar.
In my world, corn on the cob was as much of a ritualistic part of a meal as the biscuits and honey. You would take your cob of corn and slather enough butter on it to clog even the purest of arteries. Then you would lightly salt the cob as you turned it in your hand. The part about lightly salting took me years to get right; inevitably I would end up with one part that was as salty as a cow’s salt lick. Eating the corn became its own art form to me. Sometimes I would eat as if I were running a typewriter; I would eat completely across one row at a time before starting another row. Other times I would eat in circles around the cob before working my way down. Still others I would pick out a zigzag pattern or draw pictures in the ear with my teeth. I found that there was no wrong way to eat an ear of corn.
However sacred the ear of corn was, Mamaw violated it. I will never forget the horror of finding a pile of little yellow buds on my plate. I had no idea of what it was, but I knew that it didn’t look very appealing. I asked what it was and was told that it was corn. I just knew that they had lost their mind because there was no way that this pile of yellow stuff was corn. I asked why it was off the cob because corn was always on the cob. Now my family had the unique task of explaining to me what dentures were and how they reacted with corn on the cob – another foreign concept. Of course, Papaw pulled his teeth out of his pocket to show me since he never actually wore them; that blew my mind.
Mamaw tried, man did she ever try. I fought her tooth and nail. There was no way that she was going to convince me that this pile of yellow stuff was corn. I just simply wasn’t buying it. However, out of a spirit to humor them, I tried it. It certainly tasted like corn, but I couldn’t draw pictures in it. I was crushed. How could they take my corn off the cob? I demanded that they put my corn back on the cob. Now it was getting ugly. This one sent me into a fury. I couldn’t believe that they had cut the corn off my cob – that’s just wrong.
Years later, in my teens after the trauma I had experienced of having my corn removed from the cob, Papaw took me over to one of his neighbor’s homes, Fred. Our job for the day was to help out Fred some on his farm and in return we would go back with a pickup truck load of old corn stalks to feed to the cows. As we headed out into Fred’s garden area we hacked, and we cut, and we pulled for hours. Actually, as I now recall it, I believe I hacked, and cut, and pulled and Fred and Papaw supervised. Papaw was a master at the Tom Sawyer gifts of leadership to convince other people to do things they wouldn’t normally do.
After we had been at it for a while Fred called me over to him, and beside him was a stalk still producing corn. He reached over and selected one of the ears of corn on that old stalk and pulled it right off. He inspected it – more or less – and pulled back the shucks, dusted off some of the silks and handed it to me, “Here, eat that boy.”
I wasn’t sure that he realized a simple fact, so I thought that I would remind him, “But it ain’t cooked yet.”
“Son, the good Lord is done with it, so you take a big ol’ bite and enjoy,” Fred retorted.
So I did, and he was so right. It was sweet and juicy. The white pearls of corn glistened in the sunlight as I bit into it over and over again. The juices ran down my chin, and I glimpsed a part of heaven that few ever experience but everyone should. Sitting in an open field with a summer breeze and eating corn on the cob that was still growing less than a minute before; that is a new level of ecstasy. This experience deepened my resolve about corn belonging on the cob, and it took some time, but I finally relented; I think that I was about thirty or so then. I have finally come to grips with the fact that it is ok to eat your corn not on the cob, but I still don’t like it. I have thought of leading a national revolt to get laws passed about cutting the corn off of cobs, but I don’t think that I will get much of a following. I suppose for now, I will just have to live with the excuse of dentures and only draw my pictures when my corn comes on the cob. But as for me and my house, we will eat our corn on the cob.
1 Corinthians 13.11
I have often tried to convince myself that I have indeed put an end to childish ways, and become an adult. Maybe when I retire I will actually convince myself of that. I thought when I was younger that I would begin to feel like an adult when I turned 18 – that came and went with no success. Perhaps then when I got married – we still enjoy just playing together. Maybe I needed to be a father first – it is truly hard to resist a three-year-old when she wants you to play dress up with her. I guess I may never grow up, and that is OK for me. When I was 51, I would often hear my daughter say, “Mom, Dad lost his one.” What she was implying is that I was no longer acting 51, but 5.
There is a lot about being a child, especially a child of God, which makes the world around you just fine. The only problem is, I don’t always comprehend things as an adult when I live like a child, but I am getting there.
Sometimes the simplest of events can be traumatic for a three- year-old; take, for instance, your average ear of corn. Do you remember the first time you discovered that corn may or may not be on the cob when it is time to eat it? I had been spoiled and sheltered for many years. I took for granted that corn came on cobs and that was the only way that you would find it. You can imagine my horror when I discovered that some people may choose to cut the corn off the cob and do it intentionally. It scarred me for life.
My grandparents were denture wearers, and as a result they really could not eat corn on the cob. Now to comprehend this delicate subject at the age of three is no simple task. In my world there were certain unalterable facts, and chief among those was the fact that corn was meant to be on the cob.
Mamaw and Papaw always had their own garden and plenty of fresh vegetables; even our large family could never possibly eat as much as that garden produced on our own. The beefsteak tomatoes were always plump and ripe. The blue lake green beans were crisp and juicy. The luscious turnips with their purple cap had just enough bite to be just right, and were fragrant as you sliced them open to enjoy one fresh from the ground. However, my favorite was always the corn on the cob. It could be yellow or white; I didn’t care what the variety was or how large of an ear it was. I simply loved the precious sweetness that can only seem to be found in fresh homegrown corn.
Mamaw’s kitchen was relatively small, but somehow seemed to hold as many people as necessary, no matter what the occasion. There was just enough room in the middle of the floor for a rather plain, rectangular, Formica top table with six chairs. Around the perimeter were a series of wooden cabinets, which to me each contained their own separate treasures. In the small drawer beside the sink was an abundance of treasures just waiting for me to discover them. It didn’t seem to matter that I had explored that exact same drawer only last week; I simply must see if there were any new treasures. In these treasure chests of mine I found pocket knives from many different decades, pennies and other odd change, wing nuts to equipment that had been thrown away ten years before, and many other items that caught my curiosity. I just knew that this drawer was the key to solving the secrets of the universe; once I figured out what a universe was I would have the problem solved.
On one countertop was a pull out ceramic enamel metal work surface; I’ve never seen another one quite like it. The primary purpose for this work surface that I ever witnessed was making biscuits and boy could Mamaw make biscuits. Mamaw always made her biscuits from scratch, and there was no need in even discussing the Pillsbury Doughboy with her. She carefully assembled her ingredients with no recipe, no measuring cup, and no real careful thought. Well, I do have to make one correction to that statement. In the large metal tin that housed the flour for making the biscuits was an old aluminum single cup measuring cup. She used this cup for scooping out the flour, but I am confident that no actual measuring took place in the scooping of the flour. It was simply a matter of using the amount that felt right.
The recipe had really become second nature to her. She kneaded the dough with her hands and plopped it out onto that work surface to cut the biscuits. Mamaw never used one of those fancy store bought biscuit cutters; she just used a standard drinking tumbler upside down. During the process, Mamaw would recombine the dough about three times until she only had a small misshapen piece that she explained to me would go to the cat.
During the summer, the green beans were always fresh. They would come fresh from the garden; get a quick rinse then snapped straight into the pot. Not that it was very healthy for you, but the green beans always included a healthy chunk of fat back for seasoning. Healthy or not they were delicious, and we loved them.
My seat was always to Papaw’s right. He always sat at the head of the table next to the sink. Since I was only three, my feet did not touch the floor yet and I had a tendency to swing my feet unconsciously. Inevitably I would end up kicking Papaw repeatedly. He would tell me to stop swinging my feet, and for at least a minute I would oblige until I absentmindedly began to swing them again. To me, sitting next to Papaw was a place of high honor. I was able to have more of his attention than just about anyone else. No other seat in that room was as important as the one to Papaw’s right. I just loved talking with him and the way that he lovingly reminded me (over and over again) to stop swinging my feet. Periodically he would reach over with his rough leathery hands and ruffle my hair. At breakfast I was always fascinated, sitting next to him, why he drank his coffee from a small bowl instead of from a cup. He would get his coffee in a cup with a small bowl under it instead of a saucer. Then he would pour some of his coffee into the bowl and drink it. Of course, he was Papaw and if he did it then it must be cool.
Normally, I would hang around under foot as each meal was prepared, and I was stepped on more than once. It all seemed so simple to me. You cut it in pieces, you beat on it, you put a little flour on it, and then you fry it. It didn’t really seem to matter what we were eating, it somehow followed that pattern. Sometimes one or more steps were skipped, but rarely was the frying step skipped. If that is all there is to it then I knew that I could do it.
Certain dishes were sacrosanct, and were not to be disturbed. This included biscuits – although you did have the option of honey or molasses, country ham, grits, and corn on the cob. The biscuits were light and fluffy, even though they did not come from a can.
From my uncles I learned the technique of eating copious quantities of biscuits with either honey or molasses. As I think back about that now I cannot begin to fully appreciate the number of biscuits that I would consume at one sitting; it was simply biblical in proportion. I would put a pat of butter onto my plate followed by pouring out over the butter either honey or molasses. The technique of pouring out the honey and molasses was a time-proven method that had been passed down from generation to generation and perfected as it went. First you tilt the jar until you get a nice even ribbon flowing of the sweet viscous nectar of the gods. Then, at just the right moment, you quickly right the jar and slide a case knife across the mouth of the jar, severing the ribbon of goodness and cutting off the flow. This acts to stop the flow and keep the jar clean so that you can actually open it the next time you want some. With that technique perfected it always amazed me how little honey or molasses dribbled down the side of the jar.
In my world, corn on the cob was as much of a ritualistic part of a meal as the biscuits and honey. You would take your cob of corn and slather enough butter on it to clog even the purest of arteries. Then you would lightly salt the cob as you turned it in your hand. The part about lightly salting took me years to get right; inevitably I would end up with one part that was as salty as a cow’s salt lick. Eating the corn became its own art form to me. Sometimes I would eat as if I were running a typewriter; I would eat completely across one row at a time before starting another row. Other times I would eat in circles around the cob before working my way down. Still others I would pick out a zigzag pattern or draw pictures in the ear with my teeth. I found that there was no wrong way to eat an ear of corn.
However sacred the ear of corn was, Mamaw violated it. I will never forget the horror of finding a pile of little yellow buds on my plate. I had no idea of what it was, but I knew that it didn’t look very appealing. I asked what it was and was told that it was corn. I just knew that they had lost their mind because there was no way that this pile of yellow stuff was corn. I asked why it was off the cob because corn was always on the cob. Now my family had the unique task of explaining to me what dentures were and how they reacted with corn on the cob – another foreign concept. Of course, Papaw pulled his teeth out of his pocket to show me since he never actually wore them; that blew my mind.
Mamaw tried, man did she ever try. I fought her tooth and nail. There was no way that she was going to convince me that this pile of yellow stuff was corn. I just simply wasn’t buying it. However, out of a spirit to humor them, I tried it. It certainly tasted like corn, but I couldn’t draw pictures in it. I was crushed. How could they take my corn off the cob? I demanded that they put my corn back on the cob. Now it was getting ugly. This one sent me into a fury. I couldn’t believe that they had cut the corn off my cob – that’s just wrong.
Years later, in my teens after the trauma I had experienced of having my corn removed from the cob, Papaw took me over to one of his neighbor’s homes, Fred. Our job for the day was to help out Fred some on his farm and in return we would go back with a pickup truck load of old corn stalks to feed to the cows. As we headed out into Fred’s garden area we hacked, and we cut, and we pulled for hours. Actually, as I now recall it, I believe I hacked, and cut, and pulled and Fred and Papaw supervised. Papaw was a master at the Tom Sawyer gifts of leadership to convince other people to do things they wouldn’t normally do.
After we had been at it for a while Fred called me over to him, and beside him was a stalk still producing corn. He reached over and selected one of the ears of corn on that old stalk and pulled it right off. He inspected it – more or less – and pulled back the shucks, dusted off some of the silks and handed it to me, “Here, eat that boy.”
I wasn’t sure that he realized a simple fact, so I thought that I would remind him, “But it ain’t cooked yet.”
“Son, the good Lord is done with it, so you take a big ol’ bite and enjoy,” Fred retorted.
So I did, and he was so right. It was sweet and juicy. The white pearls of corn glistened in the sunlight as I bit into it over and over again. The juices ran down my chin, and I glimpsed a part of heaven that few ever experience but everyone should. Sitting in an open field with a summer breeze and eating corn on the cob that was still growing less than a minute before; that is a new level of ecstasy. This experience deepened my resolve about corn belonging on the cob, and it took some time, but I finally relented; I think that I was about thirty or so then. I have finally come to grips with the fact that it is ok to eat your corn not on the cob, but I still don’t like it. I have thought of leading a national revolt to get laws passed about cutting the corn off of cobs, but I don’t think that I will get much of a following. I suppose for now, I will just have to live with the excuse of dentures and only draw my pictures when my corn comes on the cob. But as for me and my house, we will eat our corn on the cob.
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