Coming clean with my corn confessions
by Pete Cunningham
*As printed August 15, 2007 in The Homer Index

In light of the upcoming Sweet Corn Days, I thought it best to come clean and tell everyone I’ve hurt over the years that I truly am sorry for the wrongs I’ve done. I am sorry everyone, I, Peter Alexander Cunningham, hate corn.

After three straight days of reading and writing festival news and lying to one of my new favorite residents, Howard Huffman owner of Huffman Farms, I have finally broken. The guilt has finally consumed me. I must clear my conscience and palate of this kernelled curse.

The ear to finally unravel my web of lies came on my visit to Mr. Huffman’s farm where he welcomed me as if we were best of friends. Before long I realized that this is something I wanted to make a reality.

Howard offered me anecdotes on life, death and everything in between, which I accepted with open arms and misleading appetite. When he peeled back a fresh ear, I dared not offend my newest companion and told him, “That looks great! Can’t wait to cook some tonight.” Lies. Horrible, horrible lies.

I knew full well that I would rather eat the fertilizer upon which we stood than choke down the perfectly good corn he offered, but I accepted the gesture as I have many in the past because for some reason I feel the need to deceive when faced with maizen-laced questioning.

This is no new development. Rather, it is a pervasive character flaw that has haunted me since childhood. I even worked at a farm stand selling corn one summer during college. People would come from miles around, hollering “How’s the corn?” to which I would respond, “Great! Best I’ve ever had.” I am a despicable creature.

One of my more enthusiastic coworkers would go a step further and bite right into the husk as I simultaneously avoided puking in front of customers and wondered whether or not produce perjury was a crime in Michigan.

This web of lies is rooted deep in my early childhood when my grandmother used to cook up what has been recognized as the best cream corn ever made by connoisseurs world wide. Either because the corn-loving gene is recessive, or the fact that I’m of an alien breed, I wanted to vomit at the very sight of the vegetable. Faced with such a dilemma I did what every kid in that situation would and asked for seconds every single time.

God bless her and the heightened sense of “grandmaness” that recognized my smiling and enthusiasm as clear indications of misery. One day, while reaching for the serving dish, she insisted I be seated and “have summa them green beans.” Then in her thick Tennessee drawl she revealed that she was wise to my deceit and told me, “I know you hate that corn, don’t you even reach for it no more. I’ll just make ya them green beans I know ya lyk.” By the way, at that point in my life I had never told anyone that I had any sort of distaste for corn. Grandmas are awesome.

Not everyone has the “grandma know-how” to sense that stuffing myself with ear upon ear of golden greatness is a ruse to cover up extreme suffering, so I am taking it upon myself to reveal my true self.

This attempt to come clean is hopefully enough to put me in the good graces of the Sweet Corn Days crowd without having to subject myself to the torture of devouring the vegetable. If not, I can always take the weekend to go visit Frazee, Minnesota, headquarters of the Northarvest Bean, Growers Association. At least there I’ll know that I’m welcome.