Cornbread | TheFencePost.com
YOUR AD HERE »

Cornbread

Sue Ann Elkins Eckert, Colo.

Even today, after sixty years, the thought of Grandma’s cornbread makes my mouth water. It was crunchy, nutty, and rich, filling the kitchen with sweet-smelling aromas. Always, after dinner, Grandma made two batches: one for her people and one for Grandpa’s dogs, Spot and Bill.

Since 1898, Grandpa had raised a variety of corn called Bloody Butcher. The kernels were deep red and dried with dents in each grain. He saved the best ears for seed, then culled those ears that were not well filled out, tossing them into the corncrib. The remainder, he braided into long ropes, which he looped over the barn rafters to dry. Come winter, when the air was blue with cold, he shucked the ears and wrung the cobs free of kernels. When Grandma ran short, he toted a sack of corn to town where he had it ground into coarse, orangy meal.

After the dinner dishes were done, Grandma sent me to the hen house to get eggs. She needed four she told me each time, as if, at five and a half, I would not remember how many she needed. She raised White Leghorn chickens for the abundance of eggs they laid, and earned her pin money selling these in town. I hated her hens. They were mean and jabbed at me with their beaks when I reached under them. Out in the yard, they chased me leaving scabby henpecks on the backs of my legs. My Mama’s hens were ladies who laid large, brown eggs, each a different texture and shade. Mama’s chickens sang to me when I took their eggs, and they never ever pecked.

Grandma made the people cornbread first. As she measured the cornmeal into the mixing bowl, she told me that some people cut their cornbread with flour, losing the true flavor of the corn. She added that she never used sugar either. Her cornbread, she told me, was pure. She gently folded in the wet ingredients so as not to toughen the bread, then carefully set it in the oven. While baking, it filled the kitchen with a fragrance much earthier and sweeter than Mama’s cornbread. Mama said it smelled better because it was fresher. I couldn’t understand how old, dried corn from barn rafters could be fresher than what Mama bought at the store.

Even today, after sixty years, the thought of Grandma’s cornbread makes my mouth water. It was crunchy, nutty, and rich, filling the kitchen with sweet-smelling aromas. Always, after dinner, Grandma made two batches: one for her people and one for Grandpa’s dogs, Spot and Bill.

Since 1898, Grandpa had raised a variety of corn called Bloody Butcher. The kernels were deep red and dried with dents in each grain. He saved the best ears for seed, then culled those ears that were not well filled out, tossing them into the corncrib. The remainder, he braided into long ropes, which he looped over the barn rafters to dry. Come winter, when the air was blue with cold, he shucked the ears and wrung the cobs free of kernels. When Grandma ran short, he toted a sack of corn to town where he had it ground into coarse, orangy meal.

After the dinner dishes were done, Grandma sent me to the hen house to get eggs. She needed four she told me each time, as if, at five and a half, I would not remember how many she needed. She raised White Leghorn chickens for the abundance of eggs they laid, and earned her pin money selling these in town. I hated her hens. They were mean and jabbed at me with their beaks when I reached under them. Out in the yard, they chased me leaving scabby henpecks on the backs of my legs. My Mama’s hens were ladies who laid large, brown eggs, each a different texture and shade. Mama’s chickens sang to me when I took their eggs, and they never ever pecked.

Grandma made the people cornbread first. As she measured the cornmeal into the mixing bowl, she told me that some people cut their cornbread with flour, losing the true flavor of the corn. She added that she never used sugar either. Her cornbread, she told me, was pure. She gently folded in the wet ingredients so as not to toughen the bread, then carefully set it in the oven. While baking, it filled the kitchen with a fragrance much earthier and sweeter than Mama’s cornbread. Mama said it smelled better because it was fresher. I couldn’t understand how old, dried corn from barn rafters could be fresher than what Mama bought at the store.

Even today, after sixty years, the thought of Grandma’s cornbread makes my mouth water. It was crunchy, nutty, and rich, filling the kitchen with sweet-smelling aromas. Always, after dinner, Grandma made two batches: one for her people and one for Grandpa’s dogs, Spot and Bill.

Since 1898, Grandpa had raised a variety of corn called Bloody Butcher. The kernels were deep red and dried with dents in each grain. He saved the best ears for seed, then culled those ears that were not well filled out, tossing them into the corncrib. The remainder, he braided into long ropes, which he looped over the barn rafters to dry. Come winter, when the air was blue with cold, he shucked the ears and wrung the cobs free of kernels. When Grandma ran short, he toted a sack of corn to town where he had it ground into coarse, orangy meal.

After the dinner dishes were done, Grandma sent me to the hen house to get eggs. She needed four she told me each time, as if, at five and a half, I would not remember how many she needed. She raised White Leghorn chickens for the abundance of eggs they laid, and earned her pin money selling these in town. I hated her hens. They were mean and jabbed at me with their beaks when I reached under them. Out in the yard, they chased me leaving scabby henpecks on the backs of my legs. My Mama’s hens were ladies who laid large, brown eggs, each a different texture and shade. Mama’s chickens sang to me when I took their eggs, and they never ever pecked.

Grandma made the people cornbread first. As she measured the cornmeal into the mixing bowl, she told me that some people cut their cornbread with flour, losing the true flavor of the corn. She added that she never used sugar either. Her cornbread, she told me, was pure. She gently folded in the wet ingredients so as not to toughen the bread, then carefully set it in the oven. While baking, it filled the kitchen with a fragrance much earthier and sweeter than Mama’s cornbread. Mama said it smelled better because it was fresher. I couldn’t understand how old, dried corn from barn rafters could be fresher than what Mama bought at the store.

Even today, after sixty years, the thought of Grandma’s cornbread makes my mouth water. It was crunchy, nutty, and rich, filling the kitchen with sweet-smelling aromas. Always, after dinner, Grandma made two batches: one for her people and one for Grandpa’s dogs, Spot and Bill.

Since 1898, Grandpa had raised a variety of corn called Bloody Butcher. The kernels were deep red and dried with dents in each grain. He saved the best ears for seed, then culled those ears that were not well filled out, tossing them into the corncrib. The remainder, he braided into long ropes, which he looped over the barn rafters to dry. Come winter, when the air was blue with cold, he shucked the ears and wrung the cobs free of kernels. When Grandma ran short, he toted a sack of corn to town where he had it ground into coarse, orangy meal.

After the dinner dishes were done, Grandma sent me to the hen house to get eggs. She needed four she told me each time, as if, at five and a half, I would not remember how many she needed. She raised White Leghorn chickens for the abundance of eggs they laid, and earned her pin money selling these in town. I hated her hens. They were mean and jabbed at me with their beaks when I reached under them. Out in the yard, they chased me leaving scabby henpecks on the backs of my legs. My Mama’s hens were ladies who laid large, brown eggs, each a different texture and shade. Mama’s chickens sang to me when I took their eggs, and they never ever pecked.

Grandma made the people cornbread first. As she measured the cornmeal into the mixing bowl, she told me that some people cut their cornbread with flour, losing the true flavor of the corn. She added that she never used sugar either. Her cornbread, she told me, was pure. She gently folded in the wet ingredients so as not to toughen the bread, then carefully set it in the oven. While baking, it filled the kitchen with a fragrance much earthier and sweeter than Mama’s cornbread. Mama said it smelled better because it was fresher. I couldn’t understand how old, dried corn from barn rafters could be fresher than what Mama bought at the store.

Even today, after sixty years, the thought of Grandma’s cornbread makes my mouth water. It was crunchy, nutty, and rich, filling the kitchen with sweet-smelling aromas. Always, after dinner, Grandma made two batches: one for her people and one for Grandpa’s dogs, Spot and Bill.

Since 1898, Grandpa had raised a variety of corn called Bloody Butcher. The kernels were deep red and dried with dents in each grain. He saved the best ears for seed, then culled those ears that were not well filled out, tossing them into the corncrib. The remainder, he braided into long ropes, which he looped over the barn rafters to dry. Come winter, when the air was blue with cold, he shucked the ears and wrung the cobs free of kernels. When Grandma ran short, he toted a sack of corn to town where he had it ground into coarse, orangy meal.

After the dinner dishes were done, Grandma sent me to the hen house to get eggs. She needed four she told me each time, as if, at five and a half, I would not remember how many she needed. She raised White Leghorn chickens for the abundance of eggs they laid, and earned her pin money selling these in town. I hated her hens. They were mean and jabbed at me with their beaks when I reached under them. Out in the yard, they chased me leaving scabby henpecks on the backs of my legs. My Mama’s hens were ladies who laid large, brown eggs, each a different texture and shade. Mama’s chickens sang to me when I took their eggs, and they never ever pecked.

Grandma made the people cornbread first. As she measured the cornmeal into the mixing bowl, she told me that some people cut their cornbread with flour, losing the true flavor of the corn. She added that she never used sugar either. Her cornbread, she told me, was pure. She gently folded in the wet ingredients so as not to toughen the bread, then carefully set it in the oven. While baking, it filled the kitchen with a fragrance much earthier and sweeter than Mama’s cornbread. Mama said it smelled better because it was fresher. I couldn’t understand how old, dried corn from barn rafters could be fresher than what Mama bought at the store.


Start a dialogue, stay on topic and be civil.
If you don't follow the rules, your comment may be deleted.

User Legend: iconModerator iconTrusted User