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Processing Sweet Corn Efficiently

Ah, sweet corn season in Illinois.

Delicious ears of corn, bred to be tender and sugar sweet. This is one of my favorite summer vegetables.

Since it takes a lot of space to grow enough sweet corn to make it worthwhile, we purchase from local farmers at markets or roadside stands. One such stand near us, pile stacks of corn, still in the husk, high on a flatbed wagon. The method is to bring your own bag, load it up with ears and leave cash in the box on the stand. It’s an honor system that works.

Sometimes in the season’s height, a summer meal may consist of three or four ears of corn, a plate of fresh tomato slices and a mound of cottage cheese. Naturally, I want sweet corn year round, so to make that happen, I buy extra to preserve.

Putting up, sometimes called putting by sweet corn, is a time-honored ritual in my family. By putting up, we mean processing the corn and preparing it for storage. Then, in the dark days of winter, we will have a taste of summer in our pantry or freezer.

My Grandma used to pressure can most of the sweet corn she stored. It was shelf stable and not dependent on electricity to keep the food safe. While that is a great method, and I pressure can many foods, I freeze sweet corn. I like the flavor better and it is much faster to process.

Here’s my step-by-step method, developed through many hours of experience with an eye to efficiency.

First remove leaves or husks, or as we call it shucks and silk. This is best done outside and with helpers if you are going to process a lot of corn.

When shucking corn, have a line of buckets to work with and get a comfortable chair. I am right-handed, so I tend to work this chore from left to right. The corn to be shucked is in a basket on my left, a bucket to catch the shucks positioned in front of me, and a large pan or dish on my right for the bare ears. I pull down the top of the shuck from two sides at once, somewhat like peeling a banana. I try to get all the silks off, but this is not always easy. My trick is to keep my hands as dry as possible and use a twisting motion to loosen the silks, picking off as many as I can.

Next into the kitchen. For corn to stay fresh in the freezer, it must be blanched to stop the enzymatic actions that lead to spoilage. Blanching is a process of heating, then rapidly cooling. This year, I used my corn scientist friend’s method. Drop the ears into boiling water for three minutes, transfer to an ice bath, then cut the kernels from the cob.

Again seeking efficiency, I put the raw corn next to the pan of boiling water with the ice bath bowl next to the boiling water. I can do ten ears at a time in the boiling pot and also in the ice bath.

After the ice bath, I moved that bowl to a place on my left, my work bowl, more about this later, in front of me and a cob bucket on the floor on my left.

My work bowl is a bundt cake pan set on a rimmed baking sheet. A bundt pan may seem like an odd work bowl for this task, but it is actually perfect. Each ear of corn is placed on its narrow end in the middle of the cake pan and, using an electric carving knife, I cut rows from the cob. The kernels fall into the well of the pan. After all kernels are removed, I can drop the cob into the bucket on the floor in the same motion as I am reaching for the next cob from the ice bath. After cutting the kernels from each ear, I start the next batch of ten in the boiling water bath. I leave the water boiling the entire time I am working and refresh the ice in the ice bath as necessary.

While the next batch is boiling, I have just enough time to label four freezer bags and load each with 2 cups of corn. I use this amount as most of my recipes or serving needs can adapt to this amount of corn. To fill the bags, first label while the bag is flat, then open it up in a tall plastic cup and fold the edge down around the rim of the cup. This allows me to easily fill the bag with minimal mess. Press out as much air as possible, seal and toss on a cookie sheet for transport to the freezer when all is done.

Even with this efficient method and trying to keep the mess contained, processing corn is a messy job. But in only one morning of work, I have all I need for the winter ahead. Meals of soups and chowders, fried corn and simply buttered corn as a side dish will be welcomed throughout the cold weather. And on Super Bowl Sunday we will have sweet tamale corn cakes like the appetizer at Cheesecake Factory.

Delicious.

Lessons Our Dads Taught Us

Living on a small farm requires skills.

Lots of skills.

We both love being as self sufficient as possible, but there are some things we don’t do, because we don’t have the tools, knowledge or strength.

From the time I (Julia) was a child, my dad taught me how to take things apart and reassemble. He was a do-it-yourself kind of guy, mostly because it was more economical. I’d like to think he enjoyed some tasks as well. Not once did he ever suggest that I should not do things because I’m a girl. He was ahead of his time in that regard.

One of his side hustles was to put together feeders for cattle from a kit, then sell the finished product to other farmers. I stood by his side, reading directions over his shoulder and handing him the correct parts. (A skill that came in handy later with Ikea furniture.)

Donna’s dad taught her the value of hard work and doing for yourself as much as possible. Later, he taught both of us how to take on a fixer-upper house. He spent many hours teaching us what we needed to know. Everything from installing siding and shingles to changing out windows and electrical outlets.

Now when a repair job or maintenance need comes up, we first consider if we can fix it.

Change an outlet or light switch. Yes.

Change the oil in a mower. Sure.

And now change an ignition coil in the riding mower.

Having a couple of acres to mow means riding mowers (yes, plural) need to be in running condition. When one of them was sluggish, we decided to investigate.

After disassembling the housing around the flywheel, we found the problem. A family of mice had taken up residence in the engine. Apparently, during their construction efforts, they got a little hungry for spark plug wires. The little beasties had chewed off half the insulation and right through the wire.

After a YouTube lesson, an Amazon order and a half hour or so of labor, the mower is back in service.

Another do-it-yourself task completed.

Plus, we saved time and money.

Our Dads would be proud.

Understanding Localized Vs. Systemic Reactions: My Journey

There is a distinction between an allergic reaction to a bee sting and being allergic to bee venom. It sounds like a minor semantic difference.

It is not.

Back when honeybees were an integral part of our farm, many people would respond, “I’m allergic to bees.” What they meant was, that when stung, the area around the sting would swell, itch, and probably hurt. Depending on the location of the sting and how much swelling would result, they may have required medical treatment, for example, if an eye swelled shut.

Most people can treat a honeybee sting at home with ice and a topical anti-itch cream.

I found out the hard way what 3% of adults mean when they say they are allergic to bees.

First, let me say that over my lifetime, I’ve been stung many times by many insects. Wasps, yellow jackets, hornets, and honeybees. While working in honeybee hives, I would get stung once or twice a year.

Always with the same reaction—an apology to the honeybee who just lost her life trying to protect her colony, remove the stinger, ice the area, and take an anti-histamine for itching if necessary. Most of the time, I didn’t even need the ice or drugs.

Everything changed on July 21, 2023.

We needed a new queen for one of our colonies and found one immediately available three hours away. One benefit of retired life is the flexibility to take off on a moment’s notice to run such an errand. Along the way, we stopped for a nice big breakfast, then headed on to the bee farm.

Arriving at the farm, we had to walk past a couple of beehives to access the store. I wasn’t afraid. I just didn’t linger in the bee flight path.

What I didn’t know was one critical piece of information.

The owners had just completed a full inspection of these hives, which agitated the bees. Guard bees were on high alert for further intruders.

They interpreted our stroll past their door as an unacceptable act of aggression. Bees came after both of us and we walked in separate directions away from the hive trying to put enough distance between us and them, to diminish their perception of the threat.

The bee following me was relentless.

She kept buzzing my head and landing on my hair. My mistake was what I intended to be a gentle brushing of the bee away from my hair, Miss Honeybee thought was swatting at her. She dug in, rear-end first, and let go with a full dose of venom into my scalp. I saw her tumble to the ground.

Well, shoot.

Donna removed the stinger from my head and I went back to the shop to pay for the queen. That was the entire purpose of the trip, after all.

While waiting for the owner to swipe my credit card, I noticed my palms and the tops of my feet were itching. Odd, I remember thinking.

Within ten minutes, we were back on the road, heading for the interstate and the 3-hour drive home. I recall saying I didn’t feel very good. My stomach was upset, and I was beginning to sweat. Donna handed me a dissolving allergy tablet.

Looking back, there are so many things I wish I would have done differently.

I wish I would not have swatted the bee.

I wish I would have stopped before getting on the interstate.

I wish I would not have been three hours from home.

I wish I would have pushed the little red SOS button in the new vehicle.

Within a mile of entering the freeway, I had to pull over. We were on a slight curve about to enter a construction zone and the shoulder was littered with debris. Semi-trucks whipped by and I could not get out of the car.

None of that mattered.

Donna tried to find whatever she could to contain the onslaught. Violent vomiting threw breakfast all over me and the new car. A couple of our new, tidy, pretty-patterned, reusable, and packable grocery bags were sacrificed. I pity the person who picked up litter on that stretch of highway.

Feeling somewhat better, although now sporting red hives from head to toe, along with the remains of breakfast, we headed home.

Donna tried to find a change of shirt for me at a couple of gas stations (the first stop had an apparent drug deal happening behind us, so we hurried on to another station). All she could find was wet wipes and water. There were no clean shirts to be had at the gas stations. Her conclusion: “That’s the last time I shop for clothes at BP.”

We discussed finding a hospital and a truck stop where I could shower. Hospitals were an option on our route, but not the shower. I just wanted to be home.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I knew I needed medical attention, but I wanted a shower more than anything, and it felt like the crisis had passed. I was filthy; the car was filthy, and the queen needed to get into her hive.

After three long hours, we arrived home and did all the things—shower, clean the car, and install the bee.

When I finally went to the walk-in clinic, I learned that any future stings would likely cause an even worse reaction. Donna had Googled anaphylaxis on the drive home—my symptoms already reached “severe” status. Worse than that was horrifying to contemplate.

I credit the bit of antihistamine from the dissolving allergy tablet for reaching my system enough to keep my airway open. Sitting in the clinic was when I truly appreciated the seriousness of what had happened.

Life changed for us that day.

We are out of the beekeeping business. We both have a keen awareness of the ability to summon anytime and anywhere through On Star if we only push that little red SOS button. The car is now loaded with wet wipes and an emesis bag for emergencies.

And I carry an EpiPen.

Baking Bread on the Modern Homestead

What does it mean to be a modern homesteader?

Homesteading conjures up visions of living off the land; growing vegetables, preserving food, cooking at home, harvesting wildlife for protein, and rarely communicating with the outside world.

First a disclaimer: We are not going to harvest wildlife and are not hermits. But, we do take considerable joy in gardening, cooking at home, and preserving food.

Let Julia tell you a story that exemplifies how we homestead the modern way.

Last fall I was determined to make sourdough bread. From scratch and by hand. I acquired a mason jar of starter from a lady who also provided encouraging words:

“It’s so easy and forgiving.”

“You really can’t go wrong,” she said.

All I can say is: the lady lies.

I cradled my jar of starter all the way home. I fed it according to the instructions. My goal was simple: maintain a healthy sourdough starter and provide all the fresh, homemade bread my household could consume.

The struggle began.

The first attempt was a sloppy wet mess that poured out across the baking stone into a loaf strongly resembling a stepping stone.

Ok. I knew what went wrong. Too much water. I could easily adjust that for the next attempt. The next loaf was sure to be perfect.

Not only was it not perfect, it was inedible.

I tried and struggled to make even a mediocre loaf. I made minor adjustments and major adjustments. I changed recipes. In time, I was convinced I had killed the starter, so I called on the wisdom of a friend. He makes lovely sourdough bread every week. We talked through each step from maintaining the starter to baking the loaf. He diagnosed my problem as not a dead starter but a starving one and prescribed a healthy feeding of whole wheat flour.

With renewed hope, I went back to the kitchen and tried again.

In the meantime, I refused to buy bread, convincing myself with each loaf attempt this would be the one that worked. For those of you who are unfamiliar with baking sourdough bread, this is a multi-day process. Feeding and refreshing the starter to baking a loaf will take anywhere from 24 hours to 4 days. Each time I thought everything was going well, until a few days later it wasn’t.

I eventually did succeed in killing my starter. Officially and without doubt this time. Mold and an unpleasant smell were all the post mortem needed.

But I was still hungry for bread, made from scratch and baked in my own kitchen. Bread is the staff of life and a dietary base in almost all cultures. There are quick breads, yeast breads and of course those pesky sourdough breads. You can buy it almost anywhere, but oh the luxury of baking it yourself.

Enter the bread machine.

The Breville Bread Machine. Photo by author.

Yes, that 1986 invention that became popular in the 1990’s and was all the rage for a decade or so. These machines promise fresh home made bread any day of the week at almost any pre-scheduled time.

Just add ingredients, push a button and presto! Home-made bread.

It really is that easy.

I am on my 3rd bread machine now.

My first one was a cheap model, just to see what all the fuss was about. Those early machines had some flaws, primarily an odd shaped loaf that was difficult to slice for a toaster. But they worked. I used it for awhile, then the novelty wore off and it was relegated to a shelf in the laundry room.

A few years later, I tried a Williams-Sonoma model. Definitely an upgrade with a dough function and multiple loaf size options. Again, I used it for awhile and then it lived on a shelf in the basement. I don’t really recall any specific complaints about the machine itself, other than some rust developing in the bottom. It still had an odd loaf shape.

After the sourdough debacle, I purchased a Breville. The 1.5 pound loaf cycle mimics the shape of a store bought loaf enough that a slice fits quite well in the toaster. I dusted off an old cookbook dedicated to bread machine recipes.

I am in home baked bread heaven.

Most of the time, I just layer the ingredients; liquids and salt first, then flour and yeast. Adjust for the type of bread (basic, whole grain, dough only, etc.), push the start button and my work is done. In 3 1/2 hours, fresh fragrant bread is my reward.

The hardest part of my new system is the promising aroma as bread bakes, finally removing a beautiful loaf from the machine and then the agony of waiting until it is cool enough to slice. Experience taught me slicing into a hot loaf is difficult and squishy.

Confession: I’m in love with my bread machine.

I can not recall the last time I bought a loaf of bread at the store. I know what goes into each loaf and exactly what day it was made. I have decided not to be embarrassed that I am using a bread machine to accomplish this task.

This is what it means to be a modern homesteader.

Do what you can to live a more simple life like our grandparents and great-grandparents used to do. Eat fresh, home baked bread. But if you prefer to use a modern appliance to accomplish that goal…do it.

No embarrassment, no shame, no excuses.