Thursday, September 12, 2013

Call me a cow.

                I’m from Ontario. I was born there, I was raised there, I lived there until I was in my early mid – 20’s. There are certain things that I did there every year that were normal. I even had the opportunity to recreate my old life there this past summer while I was visiting my good friend Karmyn.
                Every spring, my family, my grandparents, my neighbours, my friends, would at some point during the month of June head out to the local strawberry field and pick berries. We’d eat them as we picked, warm from the early summer sun, we’d take them home and eat them for dinner. We’d make jam, pies, tarts, sauces, and freeze bags of them to enjoy throughout the year. This was a regular thing. This summer Karmyn, Ben, and Ellie took me to their local strawberry field to pick berries. We grossly overestimated how many berries we would need and ended up with this many:

No worries though. We made jam. And tarts, and froze some. And we laughed because no two and a half people can eat that much jam and berries in one year.
                Fast forward two months. I’m back in BC and I’ve learned that in certain areas people go out ‘corn-pickin’. It’s just like strawberry picking, only you pick, you guessed it, corn. I thought this was a great idea. In Ontario we eat fresh corn all the time – but we usually just throw our twoonie in the bucket and take our corn from the table at the end of some farmers laneway. Going out and picking it myself? Sounds like something new, and something fun.
                So on the hottest of hot, hot, hot, days we prepared to go corn-picking with a group of friends from the church.
                I should have known RIGHT AWAY that something strange was about to happen. You see, I have this thing… where if I don’t eat regularly I get a bit crabby. And by “crabby” anyone close to me will willingly explain that actually means unrealistic-ranting-raving-mad-useless-Bi&$#y. :D. So before we left I made myself a little sandwich. We were in a rush and Arron was all, “hey, we gotta go.” And I calmly reminded him about my, ahem, condition and how I knew that we were clearly skipping lunch and wouldn’t have dinner for at least 6 more hours. I was just preventing a catastrophe. Arron looked at me and calmly responded, “babe, we’re going to eat corn.”
                “Not until at least six or seven pm by the time we get back and cook it, I can’t wait that long,” I responded.
                “No, like we’re going to eat corn when we get there. That’s part of the deal. You can eat as many raw cobs as you want for free, and just pay for the ones you take home.”
                I gave him a look, “raw cobs of corn?”
                “Yeah, they have THE BEST corn in the world. It’s so good. Trust me.”
                “I’m not eating raw corn. I’m not a cow.”
                “Are you saying me and all my friends are cows because we are going to eat raw corn?”
                “Yes. Yes I am.”
                And guys, I’m not going to lie to you. Once we got out there and everyone was eating their raw cobs of corn, I felt left out. So I caved to the peer pressure and I ate some raw corn. AND IT WAS DELICIOUS. I kid you not. Amazing. RAW-FREAKING-CORN, warm, just ripped off the stalk, standing in the sunshine, healthy and loving life, the corn was freaking amazing. Didn’t need butter. Didn’t need salt. Didn’t even need to be cooked.
                Call me a cow. That day, and the raw corn, and the people I was with, it was great.
Pickin' corn

Sometimes I can't believe this is where I live.

A feast of raw corn.