...then stay in your air-conditioned kitchen, I always say. In between muttering thanks to the powers that be for having air conditioning. I don't do temps over 95. I prefer to ignore them as much as possible. I did venture out yesterday when the local farmer called to say my freezing corn was ready to pick up. Here it is:
Ha--and all you non-Bug owners thought Bugs didn't have good storage! That's a sack of 6 dozen ears of corn! And look at all the empty space around it!
The freezing of corn for the winter is an arduous, afternoon-long task:
First the corn must be shucked and cleaned of as much silk as possible.
Then those lovely kernels must be cut off the cobs, an even more arduous task. Fortunately DH was available for corn-cutting duty. With just a bit of butter--oh, all right, that stick of butter is just a drop in the bucket of butter that's required for this recipe--a bunch of half-and-half, and a generous dollop of salt, the corn is ready for its hour in the oven. Of course it must be stirred every 15 minutes.
Finally, much later, three pans full of yummy, buttery, creamy, salty corn, just waiting to cool down enough to be packaged in meal-size packages. Of course, I bought enough corn for a mini corn feed for dinnertime. Corn for now--corn for later. Yummy corn all winter long!
Heather posted a challenge to bloggers yesterday, to find a photo of your childhood that brings back the memory in that photo in all of your senses. I have no photos of corn days while growing up, which is sad; every year I make a batch of this frozen corn, and it always brings back many happy memories. Not of freezing corn--we never did that--but my dad always had a huge garden in the summer. Late July and into August, dinner time would arrive, and mom would put a pot on the stove to boil, then she or dad would go to the garden and pick corn right off the stalk. From the stalk to the pot--you can't get it any fresher than that. And when it was plentiful, there were corn feed nights when that's all we had for dinner. Corn and butter for everyone but dad, who prefers melted bacon grease on his (scoff all you want--it's damn tasty--but feels even less healthy than dabs of pristine looking butter). What can I remember of all those years? The burbling sound of the water in the big stockpot. The crunch and squeak of the husks being energetically removed from the cobs. The smell, first of corn cooking, then both the butter and the bacon grease. The feel of the heavy cobs (we didn't have those fancypants corn cob holders back then, we had to hold the corn in our very own fingers), slippery with butter, gritty with salt. And the taste. Heavenly days, as my grandmother used to say, but there is nothing better. These days I see lots of cooking magazines with all kinds of variations on corn on the cob, but really, when it's perfect, why screw with it?