Moving to Italy: Corn!

Late in August, my father-in-law told us to bring a basket as he was taking us for a ride to one of Zio Silvio’s fields, but he wouldn’t tell us why. In the crowded car we bounced up and down and sideways as he drove slowly along the rutted lanes between the cultivated fields. We couldn’t see much on either side as high green grass or other crops came up past the windows. It was a relief when Marino stopped the car and we all piled out. 

As we straightened up and looked around, we saw upon row after row of tall, green stalks. George and I recognized them but pretended we didn’t to intrigue the children. Excited, we walking them over to one of the stalks and carefully peeled back the fronds to expose familiar yellow corncobs inside. “Corn, Mama!” Paul exclaimed as he and James peered at the familiar cobs. The twins jumped up and down clapping their hands and yelling “Corn, corn!” even though they probably had no memory of what they were seeing. 

With my father-in-law’s encouragement we retrieved our baskets and began to pick the corn. Zio Silvio waved then walked over from the other side of the field where he had been working. He laughed at us as we filled a basket with enough corn for our dinner. He thought we were crazy. Marino laughed with him and explained to me that on the farms of that area the corn was usually left on the stalks until it was hard, because it was grown to sell as feed for livestock. Silvio wouldn’t dream of eating it himself; he considered it fit only for animals. When we cooked it later that day, we offered some to him, but he said no thank you, giving us a good-natured look that said “Crazy Americans!” On our way back to Gabi, I asked Marino to stop by the butcher’s in Gaminella. To complete the meal, I wanted to cook hamburgers. 

As I worked on dinner that evening, I felt relieved that instead of struggling to make do with what was available, I could cook and serve the foodstuffs with which we were all familiar. This brought a momentary relaxation of the knot of anxiety inside me. That knot was built of trying to adapt what I had learned about nutrition and cooking to ingredients that were strange to us. When I found familiar ingredients, I could relax and just cook. The corn wasn’t as crisp or as tasty as what we bought in the supermarket in California, but its distinct flavor brought a flood of memories. We placed the hamburgers in small rolls and stacked them with lettuce and tomatoes from our garden. For once I knew that the children would willingly eat the food that I cooked, and I was confident that it was nourishing.   

My in-laws joined us in our dining room upstairs as we cheerfully tucked into our “American” dinner. I was surprised to recognize our warm feelings as nostalgia. That was confusing. When we left California, I thought we had rejected everything American. How could I feel nostalgia for a country that we had fled so willingly?

James with corn

Mary and Paul with corn field

George helping James and Paul harvest corn