Growing Organic Corn

Never having done it before, I decided to do it. A few months ago, I planted the kernels that would become corn, someday. Without any knowledge of corn's special growing qualities, I began the experimental journey. We all love corn and this undervalued vegetable and its prized nutrients are rarely mentioned in literature on nutrition.

It was late June when the decision was made to grow organic corn. I watched what the sun did in the early morn to determine the best location for the corn-patch-to-be. If there was little sun, growth could be stunted, I imagined. All fruits and vegetables require full sun much of the day along with a well irrigated bed in which to grow. I hoped 'our' decision to plant in the chosen location was the right one. Near the dog pen, late at night, the portable fence around my jewels of the garden, would keep the ever present rabbits and raccoons at bay, I hoped. The plastic see-through tarp, fastened at the bottom edges with tent pegs, would protect the garden from all manner of attack by the night-time country intruders. (This was not a pretty fence, just a last minute, secure one.) I consulted with 'Anna' for her opinion. She had a garden that was already in full bloom, ready for harvest in a few months. ... And so the ritual began.  A rich top soil layer was added to the area, with an enriched layer of sheep's manure, the great root strengthener, on top, then another soil 'blanket'. The corn kernels had soaked for 24 hours, then planted, the next day, in neat little rows in mother nature's bed.Every few inches a deep space was made with the tool that makes such jobs easy. Into each, 2-3 kernels of corn were placed. I prayed each plant would yield something. I realized planting, in late June, in Canada, was not the best decision for corn but the idea came late and this could be an experiment, if nothing more.

Tiny bright green plants began to emerge from beneath the soil within days of planting. Soon after, circular rows of rake-like projectiles appeared at the base of some of the plants. It was bizarre sight to behold. What were these things? Was this normal for corn? 'Anchors to the plant' I was told by a gardener. I was learning fast. The potential for success was here. Tiny seedlings had begun to sprout, rapidly and randomly, everywhere. I was amazed. As time passed, these tiny green plants became thickened corn stalks, rising quickly, with their 'anchors' beneath, their long wide green billowy leaves showing me that something majestic was happening. I noticed tops with blossoms a plenty. I counted ten, then fifteen. Were these burgeoning corn husks? Of course not. That would mean only one corn cob per plant. Impossible, I thought. But everything looked so healthy and strong. Were these blossoms telling me another story? Were corn husks just around the corner? I compared what my corn patch was doing to the corn being grown in my local country neighbourhood. That other corn looked like mine. My crop was newer, further behind in its growing stage, I knew. But things were becoming interesting, nonetheless.

The weather had been co-operating very nicely throughout July and August, being very hot and humid in the high 30 degree Celsius, for long stretches of time. I was comforted by mother nature's cooperation. In previous years, the summer weather was more like fall and very wet. I waited to see what would happen next. Then, they appeared: tiny wisps of yellow hair-like strands, all over the place, adorning various spots on the thickened stalks of the corn plants. I recognized these wisps. It was the cornsilk that was on top of corn I saw in the produce aisle of the grocery store. The seeming random placement of these wisps of 'hair' gave me hope. Were corn cobs next?

September arrived with many more wisps of corn silk appearing on the stalks of corn. It began with 5, then morphed to nearly 16, with some wisps turning light brown, sadly. This could not be good. The days are getting cooler. I ate the first ear of corn, two weeks ago. It was tiny and tasteless. The kernels on it looked like dots on a log. Ana took one for closer 'examination'. I waited a few more days to taste another one. It was improving. I hoped for the heat of the days to help further the development of the remaining corn husks. Then one ear was noticed looking so much like 'real' thing. I took it off the branch. Inside were picture perfect kernels of corn, 'ear' marked for enjoyment. I took a picture of this glorious cob of corn that had grown in my garden. I had to be reminded of this gardening success story. Later that day, the cob was steamed slowly on top of the dinner leftovers, for sharing. I ate the top half; my husband, the bottom. He was impressed. So was I. Sharing was important. Wow, so good. What remains in the corn garden for harvesting will be shared as an experiment. There is little to offer, sadly. The crop grew. Next year will be better.

With GMO corn representing 90% of the corn crop grown worldwide, I had to try to grow my own. It was worth the effort. The safety of GMO crops is unproven; the health risks, too high. We love corn and the benefits that it bestows upon us. Buying it, today, however, seems like a game of roulette, not quite certain the corn I might be buying might be GMO. ... Labelling foods GMO, in Canada, is not law! ... Nice! ... We all have a right to know! ... It was easy to grow my tiny batch of corn in the tidy meter by two meter sized plot. It was an imperative to try. In the past, I had faced more daunting problems growing peppers and tomatoes. Corn was so easy. Next year, it will be easier still. I will begin sooner. After all, Mother Nature knows best.

Our Miracle Kitty-Cat!

She is our inspiration, our miracle girl. Thirteen years ago, on the shoulder of a rarely used country road, in -25 degree Celsius weather, I found her, dying. She had not crawled there. She had been dumped there, for a painfully slow death. She was just a baby, an infant kitten, maybe 8-9 weeks old. In It Was a Brutal, Barbaric Way to Die, May, 2012, I wrote about our first meeting on that frigidly cold morning. How could anyone leave any baby animal to die like that? Well, we now know many do. Pets are society's easy victims and its scapegoats.

We kept the tiny kitten, after her week's stay at the emergency hospital, where the bill exceeded $600. (Only 50% of it was to be paid, thanks to the generosity of the doctor on duty.) The kitten's new family was fascinated by her 'charm' and 'insatiable' thirst for knowledge. She snapped at all of us. But we waited. (For better or for worse, she was ours, forever.) Her night-time antics in the bedroom, shared by an adult 'brother' made for many sleepless nights until she realized the evenings were not hers for adventure, while the rest of us slept. Her walks across the keyboard computer, in the wee hours of the morning, did not make for a happy roommate. But there was no other place to keep her confined, till day time, our time, arrived. Eventually, she honed her kitty cat skills and began to like her new home, a safe predictable place in which to be.

In 2012, her health status changed, rocking her world and ours, incorporating a new debilitating chronic disease about which I have written. She became this soldier of misfortune, dealing with this ongoing menace: hyperthyroidism. Standard protocols, albeit costly, were dismissed outright. There were risk factors inherent. A new diet arrived on the scene,10 years in development, to re-mediate her health crisis. It gave us hope. And it did for two years when suddenly Tiggy began to reject this special diet food, the only food she could eat. (A dry version was eaten at night). All she wanted was iodine-rich dinner choices, death sentences in disguise. The doctor and I could only hope she would live long enough to rethink her ghastly food decisions. We reluctantly went along with her plan.

High iodine choices such as her much sought-after fish and seafood dinners made her happy, in the short term, until she began to vomit. Her body was 'talking' to her. Giving her what she wanted not what she needed was creating her dietary dilemma. But at least she was eating. Maybe, she knew something we did not! Forcing her to eat her special food was simply an invitation to starvation. She was doing what her body was telling her to do. By the time she dropped to 4 pounds, from a healthy lifetime weight of over 10 pounds, in early September 2014, I sensed the end was near. She was frail, bony and meowed in a barely audible whisper. She was also, inadvertently, creating another health crisis - fatty liver disease, a fatal assault on her liver. She was going to die! I mourned her impending death. Then Greek yogurt was introduced and like magic, the fermented food changed everything. By Christmas of 2014, she had stabilized to 9 pounds, a weight she has maintained till today.The owner of Global Pet, Keswick, Ontario had saved her life with his yogurt suggestion.

Two weeks ago, Tiggy stopped using the litter box for liquid waste. Something new had happened. But what, I wondered? (Tiggy is in her 14^th year.) Had her thinking changed to make her behave in a more acrimonious manner? In a room, with carpet, I began to shudder. Was 'missing' the litter box her way of getting even with me? We had always treated her with respect, kindness and love. Was she trying to tell me something? Was she arthritic? In pain? She seemed fine, as far as I could see. A quick visit to the doctor for blood and basic urine test revealed her thyroid gland, the troublemaker at the bottom of her multi-year 'disease', was in great shape. It had never been better! It was in the 40 range, a number in the middle range of normal, never before recorded. We were thrilled but she had lost a pound in 15 days. Such a dichotomy. Even the doctors were fazed by it all. Yogurt, stopped months earlier, was now re-introduced to help with weight gain. It worked. Within two weeks she had regained nearly all her lost weight and was now using the litter box, most of the time. Her mystery continues.

Throughout the last several months, I have been 'dry' brushing my girl, daily, a simple treatment option lauded for its health benefits, on the human body, by reducing cortisol production of the adrenal glands, for 5-8 hours. If dry brushing was good for us then it might be great for animals, too, I mused. Tiggy loved the brush on her head, in its gentle downward motion, towards her neck and heart. From the top of her tail, the brush was brought backwards, towards the heart, in the gentle sweeping motion she adored. She seemed to bask in the warmth of the brush strokes on her body. Had dry brushing relaxed both her, her thyroid and reduced stress on her body? Our beautiful girl has not vomited in over six weeks, with only 7 episodes since the beginning of the year! It is no longer a concern in our aging kitty. Healthy cats do it. But our miracle girl does not. Had dry brushing, this new health protocol, affected her stress levels thereby helping produce better lab results? Momsey does not know. But Momsey believes it so. Dry brushing is her new addiction. It should be ours.

Our Tiggy has been a fractious kitty, from the beginning, an animal who liked no one and tolerated me. But over the years she embraced the family culture of two people totally devoted to her well being. She taught us to never to give up on her, even when death came knocking, several times. She became an experiment, an anomoly. I was never what one might call a cat person, until I met my Tiggy, our miracle girl. It is amazing how duty to a defenseless creature, one frigidly cold morning, years earlier, made us believers in a new species, in the love of 'just a cat'.

She should have died, in that -26C temperature morning, on a lonely stretch of country road, in 2003, as a former tiny discarded litter mate, then of slow starvation from her death-defying food choices with the sometimes fatal, fatty liver disease, lurking nearby, in the Spring of 2014. But as her hyperthyroidism and its demonic affects on her health, took hold, she began to listen. I watched. I listened. I learned. Happy endings are possible.

"Settling for Mr. Nice"

In our modern, fast-paced, everything new, replaceable and gorgeous world, it is hard to imagine settling for Mr. Nice. But we should. We must. These men are the true gems slipping us by because they are not necessarily tall, dark and handsome.

Our personality and behaviour help define us. Our looks have been genetically programmed from conception, of that there is no doubt. We cannot change the landscape, simply colour it, if we choose. (In my case, I colour mine daily and it takes a whole village. Ha. Ha.) What shines inside us allows the outside to glow more brightly, in unimaginable ways. (It takes a chemistry lab to create my look yet it only lasts till midnight when I turn into a pumpkin.)

As we look for Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, the real 'dreamboats' are passing us by. For Momsey, looking for someone special was not a priority for me, in my early years. It was important that I build the person I was meant to be, little by little, with work experience, education and strong female/male and family relationships. Being self-supporting was very important to me. But I imagined I would live with mom and dad, travel by subway to my teaching job, somewhere and live out my days. That did not happen. I 'settled' for an incredible: a man who adored me and was there, through it all, for both of us.

Living through the talents of another was both counter-productive, demeaning and would overshadow my goals, my accomplishments, small or large and leave me wondering what had I become? Building a future together, if that was the plan, was better than having it handed to me. Struggling together  was enrichment at its best. Life's high and lows, tears and laughter, would become markers, historical reference points of a life well-lived. I had hoped to find someone special, someday. Then the unexpected happened, while I was minding my own business. ... I'd been working part-time, attending school full-time, living the life many of us do. After completing my post-secondary school education, I continued to work, for over a year, in two major Toronto hospitals, then part time as a cocktail waitress, in the evenings, that same year. My goal was to teach. Within a year of teaching, I was married. I asked. He agreed. I bought the rings. He drove the getaway car. (Sadly, my dad died 5 months prior to our marriage but welcomed his future son-in-law into our family 5 days after we met. What a stroke of luck.)

Four different assignments characterized that busy year, when he walked into my life, that early February evening. Finding Mr. Right had not been on my radar. I was busy working and being a student and had been 'dumped', 2 weeks earlier, after the 'contract', on an almost 4 year 'rock solid'' relationship, ended. The joke was on me, happily! My black landline phone delivered the news that day. I mourned 'its' passing for two long days, vowing to quit my job, school and stay in my bedroom, forever. My pity party ended abruptly when common sense came knocking. Why was I feeling so worthless for a man that had dumped me so heartlessly? Where were my priorities? I ended my self-imposed silliness with the realization that there were other  wonderful men to meet. There was a world out there to experience. Then, Mr. Nice, Considerate and Thoughtful showed up late, that Thursday evening, with friends, at my workplace, the first ever stand-up bar in Toronto. I was neither looking nor interested. My ex-boyfriend attempted to re-ignite what he so cavalierly ended but he had created one of the worse days of my life and was absent from it, during its unraveling. The trust built during our time together was officially gone, never to be restored? A line had been crossed. I had been disqualified, without cause! The basis of all relationships had vaporized. There was no going back. Then, he entered my life, one slow Thursday evening, at work.

My future husband had been a 'formidable' customer who tipped generously. He was polite and thoughtful, too. Back then, there was an order to life's rituals. I did not subscribe to any doctrine that did not make sense. Today, we have an enlightened world with Twitter, Instagram, Snap chat, Skype, and Facebook dictating and monitoring our every step, our every move. We are an 'open' book. But sadly some things never change. Appearance seems to be very important though good grooming should always be number one. Television seems to punctuate the theme of good looks and body perfection, time and time again. When life becomes complicated appearance is meaningless. What truly matters during times of crisis are loyalty, love, laughter, honesty, integrity, support and ice-cream! Being a real person, with insights, drive, opinions and common sense helps build the foundation for a lasting union. Though looks help define us, to certain degree, they will never ever take us to the finish line. Substance is what truly matters.

In my youth, Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, Elizabeth Taylor and Lauren Bacall set the beauty standard high. I began to take note of fashion and makeup.  But all of that paled, in comparison, to my critical need for an education, an important first step towards the future. If my whole personal package was not its best then attracting others of a similar caliber would be a monumental challenge. I have been married to the same man, who 'walked' into the cocktail lounge, my workplace, decades ago. He met his future, he told me. I met Mr. Nice, Thoughtful, Kind and Brilliant, too. Now, we get the senior's discount. Oh, please, do not remind me! We're not there yet!

Burgers and Borscht

Her borscht was so delicious. How had she done it? I'd made this Ukrainian soup many many times but her version was so delicious. (Our son and his wife had invited us over for a barbecue that afternoon.) It was soon after that she left to go outside where her husband, my son, had been grilling the burgers. I returned to the stove for another serving of this incredible red ambrosia. Upon her return, my daughter-in-law noticed my serving of borscht had not 'moved'. “Did she not like it”, she seemed to wonder? Nothing could be further from the truth, I responded. I had given myself another serving, having quickly devoured the first one while 'Anna' was outside. My secret had been discovered.

Anna seemed pleased that borscht, a soup she had not had, while growing up, was now one she enjoyed, too. She got me thinking, again. Burgers and borscht had not been a dietary combo with me, but now it seemed to make sense. Soup is a wonderful accompaniment to any meal. And the body does not recognize seasons of the year. It understands and responds to wholesome food, made anytime, anywhere. Soup is one of the best 'meals.'

Later that week, with ingredients in hand, I began chopping the onions, carrots and beet tops for the borscht I decided to make but had not thought of until Anna put the idea in my head. (Chicken broth can also be used as the 'bone' broth for borscht. Maybe adding tofu could change this soup's status quo, too.) I began the layering process, in the bone broth, adding the organic beets I had bought for the first time. Rather than peeling these nutrient gems, I decided to simply wash them well, beforehand, thus eliminating an unnecessary peeling/discarding step. The organic peelings would be fine considering their origins, I reasoned now, in my new version of borscht. (Only a tiny snip of the root had been eliminated.)

Rib bones began the process of making the soup, allowing for the flavour to develop as required. They gently simmered for a couple of hours with vegetables added, as required. After learning about enhancing the flavour of soups using the outer onion 'tissue', strained after use, I realized that the skins of beets should be included outright, but washed, very well, beforehand, before being added into the soup with the vegetables, including tomato juice and tomatoes. (I use these outer paper-like covering of onions for marinating meats, too.) With borscht, chopping the whole beet made health and economic sense. Once these whole red gems were tender, they were cooled a bit, then chopped and returned to the soup. In the past, I would have thrown out the beet peelings. Not now. My thinking and purchase had changed. When I began using organic beets, the decision to use its peel was clear cut.

My 'daughter' had made the soup of my childhood that afternoon. She began with grass-fed beef bones, cooked slowly over time, adding the vegetables, including chopped cabbage, as the soup simmered gingerly, on the stove. She added minced garlic, a super food, for that extra flavour kick. With her Italian heritage, she made borscht, like a pro. I was honoured. In my youth, my mother made borscht more like a stew than a soup, using sour cream. I never liked it that much but persevered in trying to improve the soup once I left home, with a 'clearer' version, in mind. It is now a favourite of ours along with other childhood favorites, including homemade noodles with cottage cheese. Oh, yum, yum.

My daughter-in-law is a pioneer, in so many ways, with her very 'green thumb' talent. (Both my daughters are) Her new garden boasts a cornucopia of colourful nutritious vegetation. She has the tallest sunflower plants I have ever seen. She cooks with an eye to experimenting. We seem to understand one another as we laugh about our misadventures, in the kitchen. “Unless you try something new, you will never grow” the saying goes. And so we do. ...

My borscht became a better version because Anna decided to make some, one day. She worried about what I might think of her soup. How silly. How could she? Everything she has ever made has always been delicious. Lucy, my other daughter, is the same. How could I have hit the lottery twice with two delightful daughters who think as I do: that food is medicine and cooking it is always a fun adventure, made with love. And it all began with making borscht, one Sunday afternoon, in the early summer. Next: homemade perogies made with apple cider vinegar, organic flour, jalapeno pepper, cheese and a bit of potato. A perfect fit with borscht, chocolate cake and salad, too. Oh, my. What a yummy idea!