Corn's On!

What will you do or did you do on your 70th birthday? At dusk on the eve of Dad’s 70th birthday, Will, Liam and I were helping Dad pick sweet corn.  We would be “doing corn” the next day, on his birthday.  In the corn patch, which was probably 100 yards long and 20 rows deep, Dad picked corn and filled 5-gallon buckets while I couriered full buckets to the Chevy S-10 and emptied them into the truck-bed.

The corn stalks shot way over our heads and were thick enough to hide Dad in the middle.  I followed his voice to find him and exchange my empties for his full buckets.

The boys and I over-exaggerated the steps we took over the electric fence. It lined the perimeter of the corn patch and was about 6 inches off the ground. The fence stopped the raccoons from entering the patch. If a raccoon family had a midnight feast, then invited their friends to come the next night and the next, a good chunk of corn would be stripped from the stalks in a matter of a couple days.

Shortly, this conversation between Farm Dad and City Girl ensued:

“How many buckets have you emptied?” Dad asked. “I don’t know, maybe 8 – 12,” I guessed. “Haven’t you been counting?” he asked. Then a flashback: yes, for some reason, I should’ve been counting. “No.” “You haven’t been counting?” “No, you didn’t tell me to count.” “We always count, so Mom has enough for 100 pints.” “Oh… well, I haven’t done this in 15 years – I guess I needed a reminder to count.”  Then good-naturedly, "Why, Linda Kay... I can't believe you didn't count."

At dusk...we had more than enough for 100 pints.  We had a truck-load.

 It sat in the drive overnight, and early the next 70th-birthday-morning, Dad and I started husking corn...

...and the boys joined us.

 Amateur corn-picker that I was had dumped corn haphazardly into the truck-bed covering the whole thing. Soon realizing I had goofed up the shucking system a bit, I reshuffled all the corn to the back of the truck to where we could reach it, making room to toss the corn husks and silks to the front of the bed.

“I bet I’m the only one in my school who has done this!” Will said, as we filled the coolers with corn.

Four coolers of corn on the cob equal 100 pints of corn kernels for the freezer. Once we had lined the coolers up in the dining room, Dad’s job had ended for the time being, and Mom took over.

Mom and I lined the kitchen table and floor with newspaper, and set up a de-silking station on one end of the table and an area to cut the corn off the cob at the other end.

Maureen, Mom’s friend since high school, arrived with her grandson and the setting was complete. It was time to “do corn.” The three boys used dish towels to brush off the corn silks...

...so Maureen, Mom and I could start stripping kernels off the cobs.

The magic soon wore off the de-silking process. The boys took breaks when there was nowhere to pile the silk-free corn and came back when we called them. They were all such troopers finishing the de-silking, it was tough going at times, but they did it.

I had seen those piles through the eyes of a 7- and 9-year-old. I remember vegetables and fruit that needed to be cleaned, stemmed, broken, cut-up – they were monstrous. Here, much like walking beans, was the true-grit of farming. Of growing and freezing our own food.  Of sticking to a task until it was finished.

Mom’s job shifted once we had big pans of kernels. They needed to be blanched for three minutes...spread out to cool in front of the fan, then loaded into pint-size freezer bags that were labeled with “2013.”

Maureen and I kept cutting as Mom followed the circuit of those final processing tasks.  Aunt Alison arrived later in the afternoon, "I heard you were doing corn.  I thought I would come up and help."  Aunt Alison stepped into the blanching, cooling, bagging circuit with Mom.

Towards the end of the afternoon, Liam walked through the kitchen. “BLAH! YUCK! What did I step in???” Ah, yes, that feeling of sweet, sticky corn milk on the bottom of your foot and the dragging of newspaper along with you as you try to walk away from it.  My “doing corn” memory and his “doing corn” experience were now complete!

“Mom, there just aren’t many kids who have done this, right?" Will asked again.  "We picked it, husked it, cleaned it and bagged it! We did it all from beginning to end!”

Having the "corn on” during our Iowa summer visit was a gift to this Farm Girl and her family.

Happy 70th, Dad.

(Yet another hot, humid summer memory... When the headlights came looking for me.)

Aroma Therapy

Soaking in a Passion Fruit bubble bath.  Swirling dried lavender with seashells in a glass under my nose. Gentle aroma therapy is not cutting it.

What I need is a few cloves of garlic to smash with the side of my big chef’s knife.  And a giant, whole, yellow onion to hack into bits.  Then watch and smell as boldness melts sweetly in sizzling hot olive oil.

Nothing cuts through thick thoughts like this.

Foodie aroma therapy.

Bath Towel or Rag?

When should a bath towel be retired to the rag bag? Which one of these is past its prime? Which is begging to be cut into 10 little rags, forever eliminating its chances of returning to the linen closet? Which is older?

Blue towel: circa 1984. Burgundy towel: circa 1994. Yes, really.

As I recall, in 1984, two of my great-aunts, sisters who married brothers, gave me high school graduation gifts that served me well in college and lasted long after my college graduation: a lavender umbrella, a medium-sized brown Tupperware bowl, a blue lap-desk, and a set of blue towels.

Today, those blue Made-in-America, 90% cotton/10% polyester towels are thin but not shredded like their circa 1994 counterpart. Generally, they are stored in the laundry room. I use them to scrunch excess water out of hand-washed bras & shin guards. On occasion, one wanders into the linen closet; more than once I’ve been thankful to see that 29-year-old towel on the shelf, for it covers more territory than a hand towel if all the clean, newer bath towels happen to be in the washer or dryer.

There was less territory to cover when I was in college, proven by the innocent picture taken from behind me as I was running down the dorm hallway clad only in one of these blue bath towels. These are bath towels, not bath sheets. The photographer had stripped my clothes out of the bathroom while I was in the shower. Yes, these towels hold powerful memories.

But still, they are old. My sister said they would be perfect for drying my niece’s hair, so I gave a couple to her. I only have one or two blue ones floating around here, but the Made-in-China, 100% cotton burgundy towel, circa 1994, will be chopped up long before the blue ones: my fingers get caught in the shreds of the burgundy one.

The towel population in my house is based on practicality. Do blue or burgundy match any of our bathroom colors now? No. But if you prove yourself useful, you have a good shot at staying in the Malcolm household for a very long time.

P.S. To my great-aunts: Thank you, nearly 30 years later, for those very useful gifts!  :)

Walking Beans

Dad turned 70 in August. We flew home to celebrate with him; a weekend at my sister’s was planned after several what-shall-we-dos were considered. In the end, it was his words at every Christmas that finalized our decision: “I love seeing all my kids and grandkids together.” We arrived a little early on Tuesday, the day before Dad’s birthday. Driving out to the farm and nearing Dad’s first bean field, I saw his truck parked in the level ditch. Together with my sister-in-law and nephew, Dad was walking beans. Pulling weeds. I nearly wet my pants, for we had just rolled into a real farming experience!

My sons’ idea of farm is so different from the reality of the farm-life that I grew up with. The farm has changed over the years from a dairy farm to a beef farm with no other livestock. No more chickens. No more butchering chickens with your cousins. No more collecting eggs. No more pigs. No more twice-daily milkings. No more holding cow tails. No more warm cow barns. No calves sucking on fingers. My visceral knowledge of “farm” is very different from my sons'.

In their computer game Minecraft, they showed me their cows. “Watch this, Mom!” Will collected a bucket, walked up to a cow, bumped her on the hip, and his bucket filled with milk. Shocked, I said, “You know it doesn’t really happen that way, right?” I was answered by an eye-ball roll. But really, he knows where the udders are, but he doesn’t know the process of moving milk from a cow to the table. Will hasn't smelled, seen, heard, felt, and tasted that experience.

Walking beans to cut volunteer corn and weeds out was my first paid job. I had many others (see About Me for my bucket list lived), but getting up at 4:30 a.m. to be in the field by 5:00 a.m.: a visceral memory.

I wheeled our car into the ditch. “They are walking beans!” I shouted. “There’s Grandpa!” my boys shouted. “They are walking beans!” I shouted. “There’s our cousin!” my boys shouted. “They are WALKING BEANS!” I shouted.

We joined the bean walkers. After walking one loop, I said, “Well, I have groceries in the car. I need to get going.” And the boys wanted to stay. I drove away, knowing they would need to finish the field before Grandpa brought them home. This wasn’t a dairy barn where they could test that hip-bump, but those were real weeds they were pulling.

My giddy smile lasted all the way to Mom’s.

(On occasion, I get to take the farmer East... "How did your crops do this year?" was the beginning of one such journey.)

The First Signs of Fall

Mmmm.... fall.  Such a visually appealing season.  From mums and cabbages...

to ornamental peppers in pots...

and pre-jack-0-lanterns.

Then there are the new witchy treats... a pair of shoes...

and a sign clearly stating who is running the holiday show.

And nothing screams fall so clearly as cool days begging for crock pot meals...Well, in fact, that's  our grill screaming, "Go find your CROCK POT!!!"

Have a lovely fall weekend.

A Reel Hairy Tale

Sunday, I crossed off a bucket list event: deep-sea fishing. My good friend Kim and I went out on a charter with Yankee Fleet in Gloucester; the boat set sail at 3:30 p.m. and returned at 8 p.m. Kim had gone on a couple trips 20 years ago, but I had never been.

We Malcolms had a relaxing Sunday at home, so around 2 p.m. I thought I should get showered and dressed. I skipped washing my hair, thinking it would just get blown to shreds on the boat. I skipped most of my make-up too. I found a cap and tossed it into my backpack; I found an extra one and tossed it in for Kim, along with an extra long-sleeved thermal shirt for her.

When I picked Kim up, I was shocked at her appearance. She had done her hair, put on make-up -- and she even smelled good! I said something like, "We're going fishing -- you know that, right?"

The boat was bigger than I expected: at least 50 ft. We staked out two PVC pipes at the very front of the bow to hold our fishing poles. Out of around 35 people, Kim, me, and six Japanese tourists were the only ones who stayed out on deck at the bow as we left the harbor. Most were huddled quietly in the cabin, looking like they were going into a coal mine: no laughter, no chatting.

We couldn't have asked for a more perfect day: sunny and only 2-foot waves. The boat glided out of the harbor toward the open Atlantic. At the mouth of the harbor, another fishing charter that was coming in tooted and waved. We waved back and seconds later we plowed into that boat's wake. And our bow created a spectacular 10-foot spray that showered us and our Japanese counterparts.

Kim's curls were washed away. I turned to look at the crow's nest, and as I suspected, this was a highlight of the Captain's day. Through my sea-water drenched hair, I saw the Captain chortling behind the window of his control tower. I told Kim I had an extra cap and shirt, but she opted for the extra layer of warmth over the cap.

An hour out and in 200 ft. of water, the Captain dropped anchor. We watched one of the ship's mates as he showed a woman across the bow from us how to get set up. Our bait was sea clams that we weaved onto the hooks with three pokes. The reels were open-fly (that's what I call them): with a flick of a lever the line comes whizzing out as the 1-gram weight pulls the baited hook to the bottom of the ocean. Back on our side of the bow, I watched Kim go through the steps of dropping the line; then I followed suit.

The Captain descended from his splash tower. "That made your day didn't it?" we ribbed him. "You bet it did!" he replied. We bantered with the Captain, the two mates, and the loveliest fisherman named Paddy, who shared the bow with us. Paddy, probably in his 70's, had his own gear, bait, and a big confident cooler to store his catch. A bit shy at first, Paddy was one of those guys who would be a great neighbor. Kind, polite, and good-hearted. Paddy gave us a couple pointers along the way, but he had the corner on big fish at the end of the day with a 2-foot codfish.

Kim and I waited for a nibble. I told the Captain that without a bobber I wasn't sure what to watch for. He reached out to the end of my pole and gave the line a couple little tugs to show we what it felt like when something went after the bait. With the line locked in placed on the reel, I held the line above the reel with my fingers so I could feel the line move as well as the pole when something bit.

Three feet apart on the bow, Kim and I chatted and laughed. Me with my cap and she with her now non-curled hair blowing in the wind. All rods were quiet, not much happening. We saw a small codfish come in -- only 15 inches and they need to be 19 inches to keep. Then, tug, tug. OK! Fish on my line! I started to reel it in as the Captain came in our direction.

"Where's your camera?" shouted Kim as she reached for my coat pocket. I was so focused on pull, reel, pull, reel that I could hardly talk. "Pocket!" I replied. "Which one?" Kim asked as she reached across me to the far coat pocket. You know, in my frenzy to get dinner onboard, I could not say "jean pocket." And I couldn't let go of my pole to get the camera out.

"Don't worry about the camera, Linda, just keep reeling and get that fish onboard!" directed the Captain. Then, came Kim's direction: "NO! NO! DON'T REEL! MY HAIR IS CAUGHT IN YOUR REEL!!"

Thankfully, Kim wasn't it pain. Because I would have felt horrible busting a gut if she was suffering. I was losing strength from laughter that made my whole body shake. My cheeks were so scrunched up in the fit that I didn't see how the Captain released Kim's hair. I only heard his voice saying, "OK, Linda, reel it in!" Still in a fit of laughter, I reeled and reeled and reeled and finally Kim yelled, "It's a shark!"

Yes, I had nabbed myself a dogfish. An inedible, 2 ft-long slender, shark-like fish. After a brief photo, the ship's mate, who had taken it off my line, released it. No good to eat. Paddy told us they release urine throughout their body if they aren't cleaned right, so the meat tastes like ammonia. But, he said, in England they were used in fish and chips. Unsure if there is any truth to that. Unsure of many fish stories we heard that day. But absolutely sure of the hair-in-reel one.

After the hair-in-reel & dogfish episode settled, the Captain declared, "I've been doing this for 30 years and have never seen that before." Pretty sure he was referring to the hair-in-reel part.

Paddy summed it up best, "You two girls are having the most fun out of everyone on this boat!"

Yes. We didn't catch dinner, and we came home smelling like we had been clamming not fishing. But we had a wicked good time. Three days later, we're still stretching the laugh muscles and wondering how the Captain and his mates are telling the story!

(Another adventure, this time snow-shoeing down a mountain, in the dark... Fierce Mountain Gnomes.)

September 11, 2013

The TV in the YMCA lobby was running the complete footage from September 11, 2001. The fifteen minutes I watched was the turning point: The first plane may have been an accident. Then the second plane hit. And somewhere in that city on business was Bill. And somewhere else was my girlfriend since kindergarten. And somewhere else were our fish friends, a couple we met diving. Long hours after the attack, Bill was finally able to call me. He was fine, but how should he get home? He said there was availability to fly – what did I think? We agreed. Never would there be a safer time to fly. I emailed our friends. They were all OK. Yesterday afternoon I met with my oncologist – my 48-month check-up. All was good! However, I was concerned about my blood pressure. My doctor chuckled and explained that they didn’t really look at that, after I was coming to see my oncologist! I signed my name on the dotted line for another breast cancer study. This one is looking for other possible genes that may contribute to the disease. Mine was not genetic, but since I had been tested, I qualified to be part of the study. This one was pretty easy: they just needed three tubes of blood and my signature giving them permission to rip cells apart, perhaps create a cell line if the researchers find anything interesting while looking at my cells.

From the oncologist’s office, I dropped down one floor to the Infusion Suite. Where I go every month for an injection as part of another study. One shot usually takes 2 – 4 hours. The test drug is expensive and cannot be ordered from the pharmacy until I’m present and accounted for. This gives me time to wait and people watch. And some days it’s an easy day. And some days I can feel my blood pressure rise as my body wants to flee. I see Infusion nurses and techs more consistently than I see many of my local friends. My regular nurse was out on her honeymoon, but my fill-in showed me a picture of my nurse in her wedding gown with her husband. She couldn’t have been a more beautiful bride. I should expect no less. She is a beautiful person who slugged through every round of chemo with me, and now apologizes for the poke of every monthly injection.

While I wait for the medicine, next to me is another patient waiting for his chemo. He’s probably in his 60’s, bald, and has a backwards-C scar on his head that’s a bigger C than what I can make with my fingers and thumb. His speech is slurred, but he’s still insistent on telling his nurse his identifiers without his wife’s help. It takes seconds for him to get his last name off his tongue, but his birth date flies out clearly. After my injection, I open the curtains and he is still waiting for his chemo to arrive from pharmacy. I smile at him. He gives me the thumbs-up, and I leave.

My 4-hour’s at MGH puts me in rush hour traffic out of Boston. Moving at a snail’s pace, I see several enormous half-mast flags. Stars and stripes at half-mast look like they are crying.

At 8 p.m., I have picked Liam up from our friends’ house and Bill has picked up Will from gymnastics. All Malcolms are safely tucked inside our house where Tuesday night’s dinner dishes are still on the counter. Bill and I make swoops through the kitchen before moving the boys toward the bedtime routine. Picking up the shambles of 24 hours seemed like a gift. And not as important as reading in bed with Liam and talking about the school day with Will.

Summer Puked in my Laundry Room

Without warning, summer puked in my laundry room. Fortunately, what’s in the laundry room doesn’t smell. Unfortunately, the un-confessed yogurt smoothie spill under a booster seat in the van still smells like a dairy barn on a hot, humid summer’s day. With cooler weather this week, we are in a mandatory windows-down-airing-out mode.

The mess in the laundry room happened last week as I was making space for the morning race back to school this week. Intuitively, that mother’s reflex kicked in, and I held out my hands to catch what summer was throwing. But two week’s worth of piled up vacation mail sifted through my fingers and splashed to the floor. And the remaining deluge followed.

But I steered it away from the mudroom floor and the morning launch pad. And out of the hallway. And I made sure it veered away from the kitchen counters. So what may visually appear to be a failure to the untrained eye is pure and simple… success.

It’s good to be back. Happy Friday.