Corn

It’s not likely that Woodie Guthrie was thinking of anything like this when he referred to a “golden valley” but this shot brings his song to my mind. I actually took this photo over the top of the hopper on the combine filled to the brim with newly harvested corn. The trees at the edge of the field oddly aligned with the horizon make it surreal.

The crew was in this past weekend harvesting the acres of corn that are the major crop for the farm. I call them the crew because it takes at least three guys; one to drive the large green harvester that chews up the corn stalks eight rows at a time then spits out golden grain, one to drive the tractor pulling the large wagon called a grain cart, and one to drive the truck with the semi-trailer attached that takes the grain to the elevator or storage bin. When working at optimal efficiency the combine unloads the grain into the grain cart as it is harvesting, never having to stop and wait for wagons to unload or trucks to arrive.

I usually hitch a ride on the buddy seat in the cab of the combine for awhile during harvest. After climbing a ladder that puts me 10 feet above ground and going through a glass door I settle in behind the picture-window windshield and watch as the stalks and ears get gobbled up before me while the bin behind me fills with grain. It’s a bit like being in the control room of some sort of ship. In addition to the usual steering wheel, fuel, oil, and temperature read outs there are electronic monitors for yield in bushels per acre, GPS devices, and warning buzzers for I don’t know what. The driver is either my farmer, Fred, or his dad, Dale, the patriarch of their family. I enjoy my chance to catch up on how harvest is going and how their family is faring.

When my grandfather harvested corn he had to cut each stalk with a large knife, carefully stack the stalks into shocks in the field, then go back and remove the ear of corn and shell the grain from the ear. The amount of grain my modern crew harvest in one hour is more than my grandfather could process all winter.

My non-farm friends often ask what the corn is used for after we sell it. There is really no way of knowing what happens to the grain that grew in my field as it is mixed with other local grain at the elevator and sent off by train or barge for destinations unknown. Some of the grain could be animal food, some might become ethanol, some could be tortilla chips, and some could become cornmeal that I use to make bread.

Corn Bread with Bacon

I like to bake this bread in a well seasoned cast iron skillet because it gets a crunchy golden brown crust.

2 strips of bacon, diced

1 cup yellow corn meal

1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour

1/3 cup granulated sugar

2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

¼ teaspoon salt

1 cup buttermilk

6 Tablespoons sweet butter, melted

1 egg, slightly beaten

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Fry the bacon in a 9 inch diameter cast iron skillet until it is crispy. Remove the bacon to a paper towel to drain. Pour all the fat from the pan and set aside.
Stir the dry ingredients together in a bowl. Stir in the buttermilk, bacon, butter and egg. Mix gently until all the dry ingredients are just moist. Pour the batter into the cast iron skillet, set it in the middle of the oven and bake about 25 minutes. The bread is done when the edges start to brown and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Slated For Sainthood

That photo is --pardon me--was my mother-in-law Dorothy. My husband, Dave, myself, and most of the rest of her family gathered in North Dakota last weekend to say our last goodbyes.

She was a great lady. She was a veteran of WWII. She was an active member of the VFW playing taps at more than 950 funerals. She was an avid tennis player until her illness last spring. She was active in civic groups and her church choir. She was married to a traveling salesman who was mostly home only on the weekends and raised three boys during the 1960s and 70s. The first time I met her, only four years ago, I talked to her about my husband’s stories of the mischief the boys got into growing up.

“You are slated for sainthood just for having three boys in five years and raising them to adults!” I exclaimed.
She just laughed.

Most of the time Dave and I spent traveling to and from North Dakota we talked about Dorothy. The majority of his memories involved food. It seemed Dave was channeling Garrison Keillor as he told me about tomatoes in the back yard garden, fresh raspberries and cream for breakfast at the lake cabin in Canada, Lutheran church lutefisk dinners, and his cousin’s infamous holiday salads of green Jell-O, crushed pineapple, and cottage cheese.

Then Dave went into great detail about his school lunches. He set the scene by explaining that his grade school was four long blocks from his house and did not have a cafeteria. Only the severest of North Dakota winter weather would keep him and his brothers from going home for lunch. I imagine those boys arriving in Dorothy’s kitchen with cold red noses, snowy galoshes, and growling tummies. There they would find hot bowls of Campbell’s soup and sandwiches. I can hear the ‘umm..umm…good’ jingle now.

“Mom let us choose our own soup before we left for school. Tomato soup with Velveeta cheese on grilled white Sweetheart bread was a favorite. There was always chicken noodle and ‘wimpy’ cream of mushroom but I liked the more exotic flavors like chicken gumbo, bean with bacon, and cream of celery. Sometimes we would have Dinty Moore beef stew or Mary Kitchen corned beef hash.” Dave explained. Dave also tells me homemade chili, hot tuna salad in hot dog buns called ‘sea dogs’, and a ‘hotdish’ called Tuna Rice Jumble consisting of instant rice, canned tuna, green olives (little brother Tom picked them out), and cream of mushroom soup were also on the winter lunch menu.

“We all loved PBJ sandwiches”, he continued. “It had to be white Sweetheart bread with Skippy creamy peanut butter, Welch’s grape Jelly in jars that had Howdy Doody, The Flintstones, or The Archies on them, and big glasses of milk.”

Here they are with their PBJs in Dorothy’s 1954 Ford Station wagon one warm early spring day.

Here they are almost 50 years later on July 4.

My first dinner at Dorothy’s dining room table was as the new girlfriend of her confirmed bachelor son. She welcomed me with open arms and pronounced me “a keeper”. My last dinner at Dorothy’s dining room table was last Monday evening as her boys and their extended families gathered to share a meal lovingly prepared by her friends in a local civic sorority. The menu was chicken noodle hotdish, coleslaw, ambrosia salad with marshmallows, cookies, cake, and coffee. The rest of the evening was spent laughing and crying as each family member shared their memories around that table.

Somehow food not only nurtures our bodies and soothes our psyches but it is the pivot point around which the milestones of our lives revolve.

Thanks for the memories Dorothy.

Sage

Botanically it is Salvia officinalis. Emotionally it is stuffing in the Thanksgiving turkey. Medicinally it has been used for thousands of years.

This interesting woody stemmed plant with its slightly fuzzy, gray-green leaves is native to the Mediterranean region but it has made its way into most of the cuisines of the world. Ancient Romans considered it part of the official pharmacopoeia, Charlemagne ordered it planted on the German Imperial Farms, and modern studies have found it can aid digestion and memory function.

Of course it is an ingredient in my heirloom recipe for turkey stuffing as well as the key ingredient in seasoned ground pork that is forced into casings and called sausage. My great-aunt Sophia used it in vegetable soup. I like to use it fresh in rolls with parsley, rosemary, and thyme as the song suggests.

One of my favorite recipes starring sage is one that fits my simple and fresh criteria. The sage leaves infuse the chicken with flavor then get sautéed in the olive oil and butter until they are crispy.

Lemon Sage Chicken

4 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves weighing about 6 ounces each

3 Tablespoons fresh lemon juice

3 Tablespoons olive oil

28 fresh whole sage leaves

3 Tablespoons unsalted butter

2 Tablespoons olive oil

Sea salt

Freshly ground pepper

Put the chicken breasts in a shallow glass or stainless bowl or a zip lock bag. Add the lemon juice, oil and sage leaves. Turn the chicken to coat evenly and set aside at room temperature for 30 minutes.

Remove the chicken from the marinade and pat dry. This is an important step in browning the chicken. Strain the marinade into a small bowl. Remove the sage leaves and press the liquid that clings to them into the marinade. Reserve the leaves.

In a large nonreactive skillet with lots of room for the chicken and the leaves, melt the butter and the olive oil over moderately high heat until hot and bubbly. Place the chicken breasts in the skillet smooth side down and cook until nicely browned on the bottom, about 5 minutes. Turn the chicken and season with salt and pepper. Add the sage leaves and cook until the chicken is browned on the bottom and the sage leaves are crisp, about 5 minutes. Remove the skillet from the heat and remove the chicken and sage to a warm plate and cover. Pour the remaining oil from the pan then reheat the skillet until hot. Pour in the reserved marinade and stir with a wooden spoon scraping the browned bits from the bottom of the pan. As soon as the sauce becomes a brown glaze—less than a minute—pour the sauce over the chicken and serve.