#teamcream

Okay you guys. I have to get the bad taste of that civic election post out of my mouth, so I’m going to talk to you today about creamed corn. I haven’t thought about creamed corn for about 15 years. Is this also the length of time that I have been married? It is. Is that a coincidence? It is NOT. My wife very early into our relationship made it perfectly clear that she DID NOT like creamed corn. Like, not at all. Up to that point, I hadn’t really formed a strong opinion on it. I mean, I think my Dad liked it, because it was a regular staple growing up, along with steamed peas and meatloaf. There’s something comforting about warmed cream corn. It’s warm like soup, but not as smooth. It doesn’t really smell like corn, and where does the cream come from? Also, David Lynch shared my wife’s distaste of it. He even personified sadness and pain in Twin Peaks as creamed corn, and had the man from another place refer to it as garmonbozia. I had to come up with an opinion pretty quickly, and it was this, “I don’t mind creamed corn, but I also don’t care if I ever eat it again.” and that’s how it stood for 15 years.

Until this past Monday night.

I was doing the usual weekly grocery shop after work, and for some reason when I went down the canned fruits and vegetables aisle (giving the Ethnic Juices aisle a wide berth thank you very much) my eyes focused in on a lone can of green giant creamed corn, mis-shelved among the pinto beans. This surely was a sign, wasn’t it? It was time to INTRODUCE MY DAUGHTER TO THE JOYS OF CREAMED CORN.

When I got home, I had to break the news to my wife gently.

“I know you don’t like creamed corn, but look what I bought tonight!” was my opening gambit, and I’ll admit it wasn’t super effective.

Nevertheless, we had cream corn last night, with chicken  thighs and rice, and I’m telling you this: it’s even better than I remember. My daughter was suspicious of the smell. She thought there was chicken in there. She didn’t want to try it at all, but I convinced her to put a little spoonful on her plate. My wife, in the spirit of reconciliation, even took a small amount. My daughter ate all the other food fairly quickly, but she is a master of delay and procrastination, and I could tell she was trying to wait us out without having tried the CC. I was on to her.

“Come on, you have to at least TRY it. It’s corn! You can even make all the Calvin faces you want.” She’s been getting into Calvin and Hobbes recently, and she is particularly good at making those faces that Calvin would make when he didn’t like something on his plate.

So after a tiny bite, and several Calvin faces later, our daughter announced, “I’ve had worse”.

Victory!

And my wife? “It’s still terrible. I could easily go another 15 years without having it again.”

Creamed Corn!

Garmonbozia[1]

GARMONBOZIA!

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