A little corny

I had big ideas for this installment – in fact too many and as it is now my plan for a weekly post has become a fortnight.  (Love an opportunity to use that word.)   Up until 10 minutes ago, I was prepared to write on a completely different topic, but as I bite into what is to be my final ear of corn for the season, the subject of today’s post became obviously clear – my life long obsession with corn.

I have been passionate about corn as long as I can remember.  My favorite episode of Sesame Street had a short where the young city girl visits some random older woman in the country and they pick the corn from the stock to eat at lunch. The closing frame was her huge toothless smile attempting to chop down on that farm fresh deliciousness.  On the rare occasion I was served Green Giant’s frozen corn in butter sauce, as a lazy starch alternative with dinner would fill me with glee.   My parents’ predilection for the best quality available also applied to produce.  Corn was not to be procured from our local, upscale, family run market, but rather Jack’s Farm Stand several towns away.  My mother would grill Jack on the taste and tenderness of the fresh picked Jersey corn, much the way I do to Kevin Smith of Sycamore Farms.

My love for the grain has inspired friends and family to give me maize theme gifts.  In fifth grade Science class I distinctly recall our teacher (who’s name escapes me, but she was dating the 6th grade math teacher, Mr. Trunzo.) insisting that wasting water would lead to corn ceasing to exist in our lifetime.  This might explain why I often eat several cobs at one sitting as to guarantee that I receive my fill. 

However, I am willing to concede that corn isn’t without its flaws. Its shelf life is limited to a day or two, so one must plan accordingly.  Cleaning and preparing the ear for consumption can be painstaking.  It isn’t great date food and serving said date a few ears of boiled corn does not make for a nutritiously balanced meal, nor showcase one’s culinary wizardry.  And if consumed in abundance, does evoke the silhouette of a 7month pregnant woman carrying triplets.

So, today it was with bitter sweetness as I waited for the water to boil.  Like all things summer, I just abhor to give them up and accept that it is fall with winter rapidly approaching.  Indulging in the final offerings of the season’s crop is often dicey – the probability that the toothsome niblets might not be in pristine rows and of equal size and shape is imminent.  That my laboriously selected cob may have been a tasty haven for some burrowing invertebrate animal is expected.

As I carefully slip each cob into the bubbling water, I silently say goodbye to summer.

thank you

simple words, each one is only one syllable.  The phrase thank you is cognitive.  When learning a foreign language, it is taught right after the salutations (topic for another time…), yet I am often surprised at its absence in everyday exchanges. 
I am willing to allow for some leeway, when one is entrenched in thought, preoccupied with child or animal, macerating one’s food or even while talking on the phone, although mouthing the words of appreciation would be completely acceptable for this scenario.
However, what I cannot tolerate is when one repeatedly forgets to utter the ‘magic words’ as though excused from displaying manners.  I live in a modest highrise apartment building that employs a part time doorman.  There is one older female tenant in particular who seems to confuse me as the doorman’s proxy*.  I habitually will open and hold doors for all my neighbors, delivery personnel, dog walkers, service representatives and most of the building’s residents do the same. Even on the occasion when I have had to search for the front door security key while precariously balancing parcels and avoiding tripping over my bully of a dog, she still refuses to extend a hand to hold the door much less acknowledge my gesture in opening it for her.  This encounter happens on a weekly basis and I am continually gob smacked that she fails to say, ‘thank you’.  Once dizzy from the heat and perhaps suffering from the early signs of dehydration, I responded loudly ‘you’re welcome’ (always classy) after she failed to verbally recognize that I am not the automatic door opener. 
This lady of a certain age is not in failing health, visibly handicapped, nor is she mute or hard of hearing or physically incapable of opening a door as I have witnessed her do when no one else is near, she is just completely ignorant.  Sixteen years of this belligerent behavior has taken a toll on my graciousness. 
Of course, being a polite, well-mannered person, I will continue to hold the door open for her and most likely quietly smolder when she neglects to respond accordingly.
It is not my intention to monitor and correct others’ bad behavior, but sometimes I just cannot remain silent.
Thank you for the opportunity to vocalize my ire.

xxoo,
miss j.


* Failing to thank a person, whose core job responsibility is to open a door is classless.