50 Shades of Green ... Or More

It is officially, quite possibly, my favorite time of the year in Iowa. That long-awaited, much anticipated brief period of rest, sandwiched between the rush to get things done because it's almost summer! and the rush to get things done because summer is almost over! Those two or three days – maybe seconds, maybe minutes, and not necessarily consecutive – when you can look around, heave a sigh of relief and notice just how green everything is.

I certainly enjoy complaining about the heat and humidity as much as – if not more than – the next Iowan, but today dawned cool and clear, a welcome change from the heat, humidity and thunderstorms of recent weeks. Pleasant weather arrived just in time to miss several county fairs and will, no doubt, leave just in time for the state fair.

Before the heat and humidity return (any second now), I am going to relish this meteorological respite and the natural beauty of summertime in Iowa. It pains me to admit, but all that heat, humidity and rain, rain, rainrainrain that we've had lately have turned the landscape into a, well, if not tropical paradise, perhaps a cropical paradise.

This is the summer-green phase, when the grass and the trees and the beans and the corn and the weeds are all a rich, warm, green – almost black-green – lush and fecund. It is a more mature shade than the spring-green phase, when the grass, trees, beans, corn and weed grab the lightest, brightest shade of tangy yellow-green they can find as they rush to break free from the soil.

Looking out at the horizon, it seems we live in a snow-globe of green and blue. The green, green fields stretch up to an arch of blue-gray and azure, which leads back to more green. Flowers toss confetti blossoms of color, which are swallowed by green. Delicate white UFOs, launched by a bumper crop of Queen Anne's Lace, hover over ditches of green.

Soon even the air will be saturated with green, every breath will taste of chlorophyl. Soon I will become bored by the unrelentingly verdant countryside and long for some other – any other – color. There is a danger of drowning in green, of being crushed by claustrophobic greeness.

Just when I don't think I can stand it a moment longer, the green will begin its retreat. The plants will develop a slow leak, and drop by drop the green will drain away. Slowly, subtly, the vibrant colors will fade away unnoticed, until overnight the palatte of vibrant greens is swapped for more sedate, subdued hues of tan and gold and burnt orange.

The rush to get things done because summer is almost over! will be replaced by the rush to get things done because school has started! and then the rush to get things done because winter is almost here!

And I'll be the first to sigh and ask, “remember those wonderful, lazy, hot and humid days last summer when everything was so green?”

Sweet Corn Soliloquy

The halcyon days of summer produce have finally arrived in Eastern Iowa. Sweet corn stands are sprouting up alongside country roads, and the tables at Farmers Markets are developing an ever-so-slight swayback as, each week, more and more crops ripen.

These are the days we've been waiting for. These are the days of veritable vegetable gluttony. The days we dream of while shivering in January. The days that justify the humid agony of August: When you finish drinking the air, try a bite of this tomato!

The grocery stores have been teasing us with sweet corn imported from down south and out west for months now. Actually, those golden ears are available nearly year round, for a price. But every loyal Iowan knows this faux corn is a poor substitute for the real deal.

For corn connoisseurs (corn-oisseurs?) only homegrown Iowa sweetcorn will do – and the closer to home it's grown, the better. Sweet corn – even more so than tomatoes and watermelon – distills the essence of the land into its growth. Fresh sweetcorn bought from the neighbor down the road tastes of sunlight and humidity, of earth and place and memory. Of home.

I watched with delicious anticipation as the corn in the nearby fields sprang from ankle-high to waist-high, seemingly overnight. From there it shot directly up to “elephant's eye.” Meanwhile, produce stands – featuring close-but-no-cigar corn from Missouri – returned as seasonal parking lot squatters, and grocery stores rearranged their produce displays.

Those early, plump ears of pseudo-corn taunted me. The partially husked ears winked at me coyly. With each trip to the store, I circled my cart closer and closer to the emerald-wrapped seducer. I drove slower and slower past the parking lot PRODUCE stands.

I foolishly gave in to temptation.

The first batch of generi-corn tasted of plastic wrap and long days in a claustrophobic semitrailer.

I should have known better, having already succumbed to the enticement of a fat bottomed watermelon. The roly poly orbs, barely contained by their cardboard corral, dared me to thump and heft and sniff. Watermelon? Pseudo-melon is more like it. Where was the ruby-red juiciness of a Muscatine melon? Where was the spicy bite of Mississippi River water percolated through glacier-ground sandy soil and sediment? Where was the tincture of sunburn and fireflies and fireworks?

The second batch of getting closer-corn was (according to the blue-eyed, blond-haired farmer's daughter/produce attendant) grown in Ainsworth, only 40-ish miles away. I could taste the explosion of springtime growth, and the cool relief of summer evenings. A hint of deja-there recalled the sweetness of Dairy Mart soft serve, and left goosebumps from traversing the swinging bridge in Columbus Junction.

Now the pop-up canopies and pickup trucks with their hand-lettered signs and honor-system cash boxes sit in fields ever closer to home. Now it is only a matter of timing the arrival of the daily harvest against the number of passing commuters – and remembering to have cash on hand.

Now the sweet corn reaches its apex of flavor – steeped in sunshine and chlorophyll, thunderstorms, languid cloudless days and yes, even mosquito bites.

Now it is time for homegrown Iowa sweetcorn.

Cat Scratch Furor

We were late for the cat's veterinary appointment.

There's nothing new about me being late. What is new – and completely true, despite the skepticism of the staff at the animal clinic – is the reason we were late. And yes, it was a reason, not an excuse.

We were late for the cat's veterinary appointment because the cat had to use the litter box before we could leave home.

I swear it's true. Because really, how could I possibly make up something that ridiculous?

I will admit I was running a little not ahead of schedule, but we would have been fine – not early, mind you, but fine – if the cat hadn't decided to answer the call of nature.

Not only did he decide to answer the call of nature, but suddenly he decided he was quite shy about his litter box habits. The same cat who will hop up on top of a table – where he is not supposed to be – hoist a leg skyward, and commence to licking his privates in full view of everyone, decided he couldn't possibly use the little box while I was watching.

Not that I was watching. I was merely trying to locate him so that I could grab him, stuff him into his carrier and try to get back on schedule. I fully expected to find him hiding under the bed where it would be nearly impossible to get him, because where else would he be when we were almost behind schedule?

So there I was, searching of all his favorite, out of the way hiding places when I heard the familiar “scritch-scritch” of litter being shifted.

“Ohhhh no! No, nonono!” I said, knowing full well that Lenny (aka Popper, aka Chicken Fingers aka NONONONO) tends to be quite leisurely when relieving himself. I know this because he typically has no problem using the litter box when I am in the room. In fact, sometimes I wonder if he ever uses it when I am not in the room. In other words, my presence has never deterred him from using the litter box.

Until that moment.

Unable to believe my ears – and knowing this really would put us behind schedule – I stood in the doorway to “Lenny's Room,” hoping against hope that he was just finishing his business.

Instead, he stopped, front paws in the box, and gave me a cat-in-the-headlight stare that said “Do you mind?”

I quickly ducked into an adjacent room to wait him out. Hearing no additional scritching, I decided to check again. All four paws were in the litter box this time, and the look on his face was decidedly hostile, something along the lines of “PERVERT!”

Duly chastened, I slinked down the hall to make sure everything else was ready for our departure. I was standing by the door checking my watch, jangling the car keys and tapping my foot impatiently when Lenny eventually sauntered my way. With a frantic scoop, stuff, escape, chase, grab, re-stuff and zip, Lenny was safely yowling in his carrier and we were out the door. Only 10 minutes late.

It wasn't until after we returned home and Lenny was lounging on the couch, looking as exhausted, betrayed, and pitiful as possible – worn out, I'm sure, from yowling throughout the horrific five-minute drive to the clinic and back – that I thought about how utterly hypocritical he was being.

When I use the bathroom one of two things happens:

Watcha doin' over there, human?

1. If I remember to completely shut and latch the door, Lenny sits outside singing me the song of his people.

“Yeoowllllll. Where are you human? Why, oh why have you shut this door between us? Are you forgetting that it is your responsibility to care for me? It has been 30 seconds since I saw you, since you admired me, since I tripped you.

“Yeoowllllll. When are you coming out? I could starve! I feel myself weakening even now! Listen to this – I can hardly muster enough strength to scratch on this door! Look at this! Look at how thin my paw has become! I can pass it under the door! Yoo Hoo! Hellooooo! This is me waving at you! Remember me?

“Yeoowllllll. The door! Is it? Are you? It is! You are! Mphf. About time. Talk to the tail. Ingrate.”

2. If I don't shut him out, or if he sneaks in before I can shut the door, Lenny sits at my feet singing the song of his people.

“Yeoowllllll. What are you doing human? Why, oh why have you shut the door, trapping me in here with you? Why are you sitting down? What do you mean I can't sit on your lap right now? Are you forgetting that it is your responsibility to care for me? It has been 30 seconds since you held me.

“Yeoowllllll. There is no food bowl in this room! I feel myself weakening even now! It is all I can do to sit here and stare at you, while you do whatever it is you are doing THAT DOES NOT INVOLVE ADORING ME! This is an outrage! I demand that you . . . wait. What? What are you doing? Why is there water running? What is going on in this giant bowl? Why can't I see?

“Yeoowllllll. The door is open? No. No! I do not want to leave! I want to trip you! Or, wait, hey! Come back here! Nope. Changed my mind. Talk to the tail. Ingrate.”

On the up-side, I always remind the family to use bathroom before we leave the house. At least now I know someone has been listening.