homemade corn broth
This is my seventeenth summer going to Cape Cod. Michael first took me just a few months after we started dating in August of 1995. I was a kid back then, just 21 years old, but still remember that summer so vividly. The 300 mile drive in his little red Toyota Celica, and the box of cassette tapes he used to pack for road trips. It was the first time I’d heard Cracker, and found myself singing Movie Star again all these years later as I made the drive out here last week. I still keep the Best of Van Morrison, Vol. 2 cassette in the glove compartment.
As we make the drive out here, I still murmur silly things like Bic Pen Drive, as we pass the Bic Drive exit on the I95. And crude things like “Exeter, I wasn’t even in her”—Mikey made that one up as we drove through Rhode Island once. Then there’s Mash-the-peas, as we pass Mashpee, one of the towns on the Cape. The motel we stayed at, Terrace Dunes, is just down the road from the house we rent now. I glance at the efficiency unit we called home for those two weeks every time I drive by it on my way down Shore Road.
And there I go with the “we” again. Technically, I’m still part of “we” because it’s me and the girls, but often the “we” I refer to in conversations is me and Mikey. It’s hard to remember that “we” is now just “me”, at least in the immediate, physical sense of the being.
As I reflect back on all that has happened this last year, it feels a little like a dream state. So much of it was survived by going into auto-pilot mode, even when I was making carefully planned decisions. The circumstances under which my life was guided this last year were extraordinary, and I’m learning to not regret what I didn’t do—rather be proud of what I did accomplish.
Like what you see below—a cookbook, my very first. As I pressed the send key on the final edits of my manuscript on August 10th, the reality of this past year sank in. Just one year before on that same date, I was planning the celebration of Michael’s life. He had died just three days before. 369 days later I found muself combing through
more than 55,000 words, which embodies so much of the life we shared for 17 years. My work on the book proposal began two years before his death, and while he wasn’t physically by my side while writing the actual book, he was still there every step of the way, guiding me with every word and recipe.
This last year, has felt like crossing a wooden bridge where the slats are slowly falling apart, every step I take a race against time to get across to the other side. The journey has been mending those slats as I cross into unchartered territory, always trying to stay one step ahead. But really, what am I trying to stay one step ahead of—death? You can only run for so long before you truly accept the inevitable truth of life. We all must go at some point. That is the more difficult reality to face when I think about being in love again. I know that forever is an intangible, and only lasts as long as there is breath left in one’s body. Memories are wonderful, and at first comfort you, but a year later, they don’t curl up with you at night. They don’t kiss the back of your neck as you chop vegetables for the evening’s dinner. They don’t hold you, and stroke your head when you’ve had a bad day.
A year later they remind you of what you hope to have again some day. The memories remind you why you took the chance all those years ago. Love is perhaps the greatest risk any of us can take. We leave ourselves so vunerable, building a life with someone, collecting moments and memories, hoping things move with a natural progression. And then one day you go out to do something you’ve done a million times before, like shop for groceries, and poof—it’s all wiped away as easily as words disappear from a blackboard. You find yourself struggling to remember that those memories really did happen. They weren’t dreams, even though they feel like fragments of a life left shattered.
And so this last year has been about picking up those scattered pieces of my life. Putting them back together, to slowly see the whole puzzle again. Except the puzzle will never be complete because my story is far from over. The missing pieces now are the experiences yet to come.
None of this really has anything to do with homemade corn broth, but when I posted photos earlier this week while I was making it, many people began to ask what it was and how to use it. Hope you’re all having a peaceful, happy summer.
Homemade Corn Broth
makes a scant 6 cups
This recipe is now part of my new site, Simmering. It can be found here.
Thank you for the recipe, and as always for sharing so much with us. You my friend represent graceful vulnerability and strength, all in a beautiful package. Much love to you and the girls. So happy you continue to go to the beach xoxo
Jenna | The Paleo Project
Every time I read one of your new posts, I feel a little bit of your strength and courage come through the computer. I always finish reading and realize there are tears in my eyes, and a pit in my stomach and while I don’t understand the depths of your sorrow, I feel it so much and I wish I could say or do something to take away any of the pain. With love, Jenna
Beautiful post. Sending a lot of love and light your way.
I also wanted to share my favorite way for slicing kernels off the cob. I use a bundt pan … it serves as a way to hold the cob vertical, and collect the kernels. Here’s a good example of what I mean: http://blog.cookingchanneltv.com/2011/08/09/how-to-cut-kernels-off-the-corn-cob/
We are indeed the sum of our experiences.
Denise @ Creative Kitchen
You are so gifted with the written word. I’ve been a bit absent from the blogging/social media this summer, but you’ve been in my thoughts and prayers especially these past few weeks. I’m again so sorry for your loss…and those words, though heartfelt spoken don’t seem to do any justice.
You’re amazing…..a super mom!! You’ve been a rock for your girls this past year, even when you have no idea where you drew the strength. We were designed this way….thanks for being you, and coming here and sharing with us.
Sarah M Lasry
its day 273 since my husband told me he is leaving me, not the same – but the death of being a “we” and the thinking as a “we” still is hard to shake….
but along as i have my kid, and I am cooking and moving….there is a a large flicker of light at the end of my tunnel – it is the limbo, of not knowing what is in store for me, that i find the hardest sometimes to deal with…
but I agree with you and wish for you what I wish for myself…that all my puzzle pieces fall easily in place in the upcoming days and years
all the best,
Good Morning Jennie,
Wow. I just feel the raw emotion in your words. I can relate…..and of course once again you bring tears to my eyes this early in the morning.(I have to go to work) It is amazing how much you go through, how much you learn.It is a wonder in itself and to give yourself a pat on the back is progress in itself. Good job on the book, good job on your love and good job with the girls. You deserve to put up a plaque for yourself, a gold star on “the book of Jenny”. May your day be fine, your memories as well.
Love and rainbows,
For almost a year now I’ve been reading every single post you write, and in every one, tears come to my eyes because of your honesty and the rawness of your feelings and your writing. I send you and your girls many hugs and will continue wishing that your puzzle keeps finding many wonderful new pieces.
We get leeks in our community supported agriculture basket for several weeks throughout the year. I love leeks, but I’m always at a loss for creative things to do with them.
My husband is from New England, so he’s all about the corn chowder, creamed corn – really anything corn. This one goes in my keeper pile.
Also, your posts terrify and comfort me at the same time. I have been with my husband for about a decade now. We are expecting our first children (twins) any day now. Your posts bring home the idea that I could find myself raising them alone at some point. But watching you emerge over the past year into this new-you has given me hope that I could do the same if I was faced with a similar tragedy. So although it seems an odd thing to do, thanks.
Beautifully written, yet again Jennie.
We have a Timeshare at the Cape that we have never used. Reading through your posts, I am beginning to think we should. We live so close by, it’s a shame we never utilize it.
Maria in NJ
WooHoo the book is done and off to the publisher…great job Jennie!!
We have been seeing that red sunset here in Jerzee too, it really is very beautiful, when I see it, I thank God for being such a masterful painter…
I like how you keep the traditions going even though Mikey is not here…I love traditions…
one foot in front of the other…m
keep on keeping on jennie…..xxxx
I look forward to your cookbook, but the book we NEED is a compilation of these blog posts. Not yet, but in another year or two, a book of these essays about your journey forward would be something I would buy for myself and others. Your writing is so honest and captures your experience so vividly yet with such hope – it is moving and uplifting. You are living through my greatest fear and surviving with grace. It is very meaningful to me and many others. I hope it is preserved somehow, for when/if another of use may need it. You are doing an amazingly brave thing, writing it down.
You will be smile again! You worth it!
Love from Spain!
I’ve been thinking of you a lot these past few weeks. This post was beautiful and bittersweet. Sending you and your girls a big big hug…
You write so so beautifully. My Dad died 22 months ago – and I see every bit of the raw emotion you describe in your posts, in my Mom. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose your life partner. I do know though, how much comfort your words have brought her. Thank you for your beautiful words and recipes – I hang off every one of them…
Veggie Noodle Soup | Pink Basil
[…] like the simple taste of a basic chicken broth. However, once I discovered Jennifer Perillo’s corn broth, I had finally found a simple base for a delicious veggie noodle soup. I made a big pot early one […]