Romancing the Corn

       I’ve been giving some thought today to the word romantic.  I use the word a lot, at least in my head, and am beginning to wonder when the idea of romance expanded to include so many things that have nothing to do with interpersonal love.  For example, one might use the term ‘romantic’ to describe a moonlit walk on the beach.  That’s a classic example, and it does, in fact, involve two people in love; unless you prefer to take romantic walks on the beach with, say, your dog...but that’s a completely different issue that I’d rather not think about.  However, many other things can be considered romantic.    Moving to Paris to live in a studio apartment and paint--doesn’t that sound romantic?  Spending a year living in solitude in the wilderness, like Thoreau or Abbey, to write and reflect on the nature of life, well, that’s pretty darn romantic.  In both of these instances, one is alone, yet the word romantic springs immediately to mind.  The problem with this is that it is not the actual apartment in Paris that is romantic in and of itself.  It is not the cabin on the lake or the trailer in the desert that is romantic. It is not the reality that is romantic--it is the idea of these things that is romantic.  

I have come to romanticize an idea in my own life--the idea of a garden.  Notice that I did not state that the garden itself is romantic.  It is quite the opposite.  In fact, in the creation of our first garden this spring, my husband and I fought over the silliest of things, simply out of frustration.  But we were working towards some romanticized ideal.  Surely once it was built and we were reaping the literal fruits of our labor, then there would be something magical, something primal, something romantic about sharing in the food we created.  Having realized the creation of a garden was not at all romantic, we looked forward to the next step.

This morning and afternoon I spent cooking a meal made primarily with food grown in this very garden.  I decided that it would be quite romantic to go out, pick the food, gather it in my skirt, and bring it inside to prepare.  Quite to my dismay, I discovered there is very little magic in the de-stringing of string beans.  On my list of Things that are Dull and Mundane, that chore is near the top of the list.  Making fresh pesto from the stalks of basil that I chopped down--I’m going to have to label that tedious.  And don’t even get me started on the corn.  My husband went out and picked and gathered, only to pull back the stalks and silk to find the most snaggle-toothed corn we’ve ever seen.  But we’re still serving it for dinner tonight.  Maybe I’ll cut some fresh flowers and light some candles, and we can see if an accidental flaming hydrangea and a screeching smoke alarm are romantic.