There is only one thing that I think about when I stand in my kitchen husking corn…my father. Particularly, the way he used to send my two sisters and I to sit on the wooden steps that faced the back yard of our childhood home and pick what seemed like hundreds of ears of corn to complete silk-less perfection. If even one stray corn silk remained, he would hold the ear of corn up to us expecting that we could identify who had cleaned it.
Fast-forward twenty years; Dave brings corn from the greenmarket and I remove the husks quickly and carelessly over the garbage can in our small third-floor apartment kitchen. Just as I am about to drop the ear of corn into a large pot of boiling water, I see a few silky strands wedged into the space between the bright yellow kernels. My hand moves toward them, to pick and to discard, but I stop myself. I decide to leave the silks… sweet (corn) freedom.
Inspired, I wrote this haiku:
Husking ears of corn:
I ignore three silks because
I am grown up now.