Splendor in the Corn

It’s 7:30 Friday night. I am in my parents’ bedroom in front of the full-size mirror. I have a minute or two before my friends ring the bell. Did I cover the fresh-from-this-morning zit between my brows? Does my oversized shirt borrowed from Father cover my hips? Is my hair positioned just the way it should be (if I manage not to move my head at all)? Mother is amused by all the primping. Father is oblivious, as usual. When I peek into the living room he beckons me in, gives me some “just in case” money, and continues to watch the early news.

My friends are here. I close the door behind me, slam the gate shut and step out into a warm summer night, enveloped by the distant chorus of crickets from the park. The air is warm and heady with the last lingering perfume of lindens and the woody smell of farmers burning off grass beyond the levee. The evening is starting laden with anticipation, excitement, and a barely noticeable fear of disappointment.

We turn the corner and join a procession of boys and girls walking in small groups, all heading to the main street and the town square. Our interchanges are barely comprehensible, consisting mainly of giggles, tiny screeches we cover by hand, and shushing sounds – we do not want to be overheard (fifteen-year-old minds are filled with paranoia). We cast sideways glances while we advance towards our destination, trying not to miss that someone special. Our cheeks are flushed from the excitement. Our fingers are nervously twitching.

It’s Friday night in July and the city square will be filled not only with the usual crowd of high-schoolers, which is usually most excellent, but also with college students, who are finally back in town. We avoid the main street with all the lights and approach the square from the back, partly hidden by shadows from a tall apartment building on the right. To the un-initiated the whole scene looks pretty random, just another summer evening in a Serbian town. But we know that there are patterns each group follows, there are rules to which to adhere if you want to stand at the square, there are right ways to make sure you see and are not seen if that is your choice (Since late April my sister and I skipped our karate lessons on Saturday nights to go out, walk around, and dance in a discotheque at the Home of Culture* abutting the square. We consider ourselves pretty knowledgeable). We do not go as far as to make a map and use pointers and colored push-pins, but we plan our strategic approach before every outing, knowing with certainty the time everyone arrives and the place at the square they will eventually occupy.

I walk around with my friends, almost believing they are the reason I am out. My eyes are nonchalantly (I think)  glancing over the throngs of youths, hoping to find him who is the only reason for my being here. While my strides get shorter, my heart beats faster. I see a couple of his friends on the steps. When I catch a glimpse of a striped purple and white t-shirt, I think my heart will jump out of my chest. My cheeks are blushed, my palms are sweating, and I cannot utter a word. I squeeze one of my friend’s arms in a silent alert, and avert my eyes from him, petrified even to imagine that he would notice my attention. I love him from afar. I look at him only when he is occupied with something else. I know his face as well as mine, the green eyes that stole my soul the first time I noticed him, the almost-black hair, shiny and parted in the middle, the rosy color of his cheeks, the smooth chin thrust arrogantly upwards, the lips in a perpetual mocking smile. Each part of that face is immortalized in my journals and poems.

Even though adrenalin is sending waves of whooshing sounds through my ears and my heart has no chance of slowing down, I am perfectly content. I saw him. My night is as big as the Milky Way, expanding with each second and each stolen sideways glance at him. I sometimes daydream that on one of these intoxicating summer nights he will miraculously feel the enormity of my affection, walk away from his friends, take my hand, and lead me away, into a life filled with only the two of us. But for now, just seeing him on those steps in front of the square is enough.

We circle the square several times, slowly, exchanging elbow-nudges and snickering. The groups slowly start to dissipate, the older ones heading to the bars, the younger ones headed home. The air is still pulsating with the unspent energy as we walk down the steps towards the main street. We are ready to face the light. As we move away from the square, our voices become louder and more confident. We pass two pastry stores, debating if a tall glass of lemonade and a cake would be a fitful ending to the evening. But from the right a seductive aroma of burning wood makes me look away from the sweet delights. An old Gypsy man has set up a hand-made grill between the “Hotel Belgrade” and a fabrics store. He is enveloped in gusts of smoke as he turns freshly picked corn with his hands. The kernels are popping, blistering, soaking the essence of the forests that feed the fire. I hand the man a bill, he hands me a hot ear of corn, blackened and smoking, wrapped loosely in newspaper. I bite into it, savoring each milky kernel, my teeth getting black, specks of char on my cheeks, lips and hands. I do not care any more. This is the taste of fifteen summers, the taste of innocence and hope. As we slowly walk back to our homes I eat greedily, with abandon, void of self-consciousness and restraint, looking forward to jumping on the couch and telling my sister every little detail of this exciting evening.

*Only in countries that went through social-realistic phase of “art” the names like this exist.

***

We came by some extremely fresh and succulent corn today. I was making Tomatillo Salsa Enchiladas and Mexican Rice for dinner. Corn salad? Corn salsa with black beans and red onions? Plain boiled corn? From somewhere in my mind a distant memory awoke and with a smile I decided we are having grilled corn. To make it jell with the rest of the dishes I made a chipotle-lime butter.

Our newly acquired Weber grill is not made from unrecognizeable iron scraps and Husband, who tended the corn does not have a gold tooth nor a black, bushy moustache (I am thankful for both). But the corn was perfect: charred on the outside, soft and milky on the inside, with the distinctive smokiness and redolent of the summers of my teenage years. Chipotle-lime butter added a hint of spice, reminding me that I am an adult after all, but I still smiled while I sank my teeth into a cob, charring my lips, my cheeks and my hands.

“Get Grillin’ with Family Fresh Cooking and Cookin’ Canuck, sponsored by Ile de France Cheese, Rösle,Emile Henry, Rouxbe and ManPans.”

I am contributing to Summer Fest event with this post.