I'M ALL EARS! – Sweet Corn As If For the First Time

There are a few foods which, if you haven't tasted them really fresh—like a day 
or two after picking— you haven't tasted them at all. Among them, home grown tomatoes, apples, strawberries, and, so apropos of midsummer here in Minnesota, corn on the cob.

        

Obviously, the main attraction with corn is eating it—that sublime interplay of flavor and texture that only really fresh corn can serve up. (I like mine with a little butter and enough black pepper to make my lips smart.) M-m-m-m, I can't wait!

But wait you must; first you've got to shuck it. Like so many of life's little chores, you can look at that task as a nuisance...or you can choose to see it as an experi-
ence, a joy. I highly recommend the latter.

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KERNELS OF TRUTH
Pick up an ear of fresh sweet corn and the first thing you notice is that it's heavier than a green, leafy thing should be. I've always imagined that heavy gifts in small packages held special promise.

The next thing that strikes you are the silken tresses spilling out the tapered end in bleached yellow-green, tips perhaps tinted golden brown by summer air and sun.

The snug, slightly sand-papery leaves peel back easily one at a time; try for more and they voice their squeaky objection. Layer by layer, the green softens from dark and dry to light, tender, translucent. The 
last ply or two cling tight, conforming like shrink wrap to the pebbly texture beneath.

      Emergent kernels, near the tip, wander 
      randomly, then fall into neat rows as they 
      march smartly down the cob.

The kernels greet you cheerily, buoyantly. Slightly cool and moist, they grab the tips of your fingers like so many tiny, shiny, pale yellow balloons all squeezed together— inflated, it seems, to the point of bursting.



Emergent ones, near the tip, wander randomly, then fall into neat rows as they march smartly down the cob. Here and there someone loses the cadence and falls out of line for a step or two.

        A few strands always hold out, ducking 
        stickily into crevices between rows.

Then it's back to the silk. Most of it lets go willingly, but a few strands always hold out, ducking stickily into crevices between rows. I suppose this is where some might let the job get a bit tedious. Don't let it spoil the wonder; a few threads of corn silk may even be good for you!

Now just cut or break off the remaining stalk—appreciating the cob's tough, woody core—and your cob's ready for the pot.*

Corn on the cob: whether you're shuckin' it, cookin' it or eatin' it, enjoy! And if you have any funny or informative takes on corn we small-wonder freaks would love to hear from you in the comments!

* There are as many suggestions out there on how to cook sweet corn as there are on how to swing a golf club. I lean toward the less-is-more approach: Boil the water; turn off the heat; plop the corn in; and wait three minutes.

Even better and way easier, microwave your corn: Do not shuck the ears; cut off the stem end just before it starts curving in toward the stem; and nuke for: one ear - three minutes / two ears - five minutes / three ears - seven minutes. 

Using hot mitts or pads, grab each ear by the pointed, silk end and squeeze as you would a big tube of reluctant toothpaste. The denuded ear will slide out the fat end and leave you holding all the husk and all the silk in your hand.

MOON AT MY FINGERTIPS – The Rise of Lunulae

Those of you who follow my musings here know how I love to contrast, compare and interpolate between the opposite ends of scales—time, size, distance...

The universe is immense beyond our comprehension. Yet this vastness is reflected figuratively at our fingertips. For there, in a single skin cell, exists another  “universe”—one of ever-smaller and smaller particles.

Also at our fingertips, an anatomical detail so ubiquitous that we human beings seldom, if ever, even notice it—our lunulae. (I can hardly believe I’ve been writing and blogging about the wisdom of wonder for decades, and this is the first time I’ve thought to post about them.)

PHOTO: Kommissar via Wikipedia

Lunulae are those funny little “half-moons” of lighter color that rise from cuticle’s horizon at the base of our fingernails. In fact, their name actually means “little moons” in Latin.

HIDE AND SEEK
The lunula is the only visible part of the nail matrix, or the living part of the fingernail. It looks white because it veils the network of red capillaries underneath, and is visible only because the kind of keratin that makes up human nails is translucent.

There are seldom ten visible lunulae on the hands. Their size decreases from thumb to little finger, and for many of us there is none on the pinky fingers. Toenail half-moons are even more elusive, with most people’s visible only on their big toes. Often, lunulae disappear as one ages.

Information about the lunulae of other primates is extremely hard to come by, but what little I’ve found suggests that all animals with flat finger and toe nails do have them. However, in most cases they’re obscured either by the cuticle or by pigmentation rendering the nails opaque.

CLAIM YOUR TRUTH
Lunulae are yet another example of the myriad small wonders hiding in plain sight on, in and around us all the time. Reserve a little time every day from busy-ness to notice and celebrate them. For, despite what may seem a human race losing touch with reality, this is one small yet increasingly vital way we claim our truth.

NOT A CHANCE – The Inevitable Reward of Expecting Wonder

This afternoon I had a clarity rush, one of those rare flashes of awareness and understanding you experience when you suddenly see—and just totally get—everything.

This time I was driving, sitting at a stop light. I glanced around at the far-from-remarkable surroundings: the Quarry shopping center with its Target and Home Depot; the McDonald’s and Taco Bell across the street; the other cars and drivers.

Somehow, on the median next to me, a narrow strip of waist-high weeds caught my eye. Again, quite unremarkable, right? But as I watched them sway gently in the breeze, a flood of wonder and joy washed over me. And gratitude, that such a fine little community of herbal drifters had managed to put down roots here—even those pariahs, goldenrod and ragweed—and that I was here to behold it.

           In that one extraordinary moment, 
           I knew everything there was to know 
           about those weeds.

I understood completely what a gift from God those living wonders are—and how much I would miss, if no longer able to receive such simple gifts in my daily comings and goings, merely setting eyes on them once again.

In that one extraordinary moment, I knew everything there was to know about those weeds. I mouthed words of thanks for their colors and textures and smells and movement. For the sweet, life-giving oxygen they produce. For the tiny biosphere they form, and all the bugs that dwell in, on and under them. And even the family of bunnies I knew, somehow, must live in there.

At the very instant my lips pursed for the “b” in “bunnies,” a young cottontail hopped out of the underbrush onto the adjacent patch of grass, turned and looked up at me.

Coincidence? Not a chance! Not today!

And then the light turned green.

PHOTO: Pixabay

DOUBLE BUBBLE – Finding the Miraculous in the Mundane

PHOTO: Tony Matthews http://www.flickr.com/photos/tonym2009/4609055811/

Brushing my teeth this morning. Saw something out of the corner of my eye, a tiny bubble about the size of a BB. Filled with the warmth of my breath, it hovered next to my face for a eight or ten seconds before cooling, falling. Then it popped, and inside was a second precious bubble half the size.

Sometimes there's joy to be found in the most mundane of tasks...if you're ready to see it.