Today all the grandbabies came. The Equuschick and I took all but the youngest on a long golf cart ride.
We went to the cemetary nearby because this is what we do in this part of the country. We drove by the neighbor’s horses to say howdy. We went to the Equuschick’s house to pick up a paperbag for putting corn in, and, I will be honest, a thimbleful of blackberry bliss wine, bottled a mile from the house. Or vintnered. Or whatever it is they do (I had my thimbleful at home later).
The farmer who owns the cornfield adjacent to our house planted two rows of sweetcorn for any of us who wanted to pick. Sweet corn isn’t my favorite (no, I really am NOT from around here), but I would have picked some regardless, only nobody told me about it until this week. It’s a little late and the corn is not as soft, tender, and sweet as it would have been at its prime, but we do get points for fresh. The grandbabies picked ears of corn- which made them SO happy you wouldn’t believe it.
Then we skedaddled on home and they went out to back to play with their mum and aunt (same person, the other mum/aunt had a cold and was napping with the youngest grandbaby). I cooked the ears of corn in the microwave – one at a time, for about a minute each (a little less for the smallest ones). The shucking was ridiculously easy. I pulled the tassel from the nuked corn, and it slipped right off with almost all the silk. Then I pulled off the greens, reserving them for the compost pile. I cut each ear of corn into three chunks, put about a dozen in a basket and sent them out to the grandbabies while I started the next batch. Good thing. Five minutes later they were back inside clamouring for more.
They ate the corn without any embellishments- no butter, no salt. Just freshly picked and cooked.
We got six new hens to replace the hens that Benny the dog has eating. These hens are all fully grown and laying. We found them via Craig’s List. Their owners are a hispanic family- the mother speaks fluent English, the father not so much. Their oldest daughter, about 12, my husband says reminded him uncannily of our oldest daughter when she was about 12. My husband picked up the hens on his way home from his new job teaching in the new special ed department at a public school.
That’s three Rhode Island Reds a friendly enough hen, popular with backyard flocks which lay brown eggs. In case it’s not clear, the Reds are the darker birds.
That’s three Leghorns, which lay white eggs, and more prolifically but can be kinda mean (and I think we got a rooster in there). Leghorn is pronounced Leggern, at least around here. I discovered via Craig’s List that leggern is also the way a surprising number of people spell it, too.