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NEXT Thursday, as they do every year, American families will sit down to a
misapprehension. They will celebrate Thanksgiving in the belief that they
are feasting on much the same dishes that were served at the first
Thanksgiving in Plymouth, Mass., in 1621.
Actually, we have very little firsthand information about what the
Pilgrims and Indians consumed -- a brief account of the event in a letter
written on Dec. 12, 1621, by one settler, Edward Winslow, and a slightly
fuller description set down 20 years later by William Bradford, the
colony's governor. (Matter of fact, we're not even sure that the Plymouth
celebration was the first Thanksgiving; rival claims have been lodged by
Virginia, Maine, Florida and, inevitably, Texas, but that's another tale
for another day.)
According to Winslow and Bradford, waterfowl, venison and wild turkey were
on the festive table, as well as cod and bass and other fish, plus wheat
and Indian corn. We know from colonial records that cranberries, a native
fruit, were available, but no
sugar to alleviate their tartness. Pumpkin may have been served in one
form or another, but no ham, no yams, no potatoes, no green beans, no
pies, no stuffing for the birds, which would have seemed tough and stringy
to anyone brought up on supermarket spheroids.
Corn, to which the Indians introduced the colonists, grew better in New
England than wheat or barley. The settlers dried it on the cob, scraped
off the kernels and ground them into meal, said Kathleen Curtin, the food
historian at Plimoth Plantation, a museum that documents the 17th-century
settlement. Cornmeal was used in bread and pancakes, as well as in soups
and stews.
Maybe that's why the dried corn that John Cope's Food Products has been
processing and selling for 101 years has always seemed to me such a
perfect thing to eat on Thanksgiving. More than anything except the
turkey, it is a link to our forefathers, something we all seem to crave --
especially in a nerve-racking year
like this.
Besides, it's all-American delicious. Rehydrate it with milk, and cook it
with butter and lashings of heavy cream -- c'mon, troops, this is
Thanksgiving, so save the diet for January. Dried corn tastes just as
sweet and satisfying as the fresh golden ears of July
and August. Maybe even more so.
I've been eating Cope's corn since my childhood, but not until this fall
did I make my way to the company's modest plant here in Rheems, a village
of 500 people set in the rural southwestern corner of the Pennsylvania
Dutch country, not far from Harrisburg.
Larry A. Jones, Cope's president, told me that dried corn is a relatively
minor part of the company's business, accounting for about $2 million in
wholesale sales every year. Cope's frozen foods bring in about $25
million. Dried corn is a niche business, and the niche isn't big, confined
largely to the area within 100 miles of here.
''As far as we know, nobody else makes it,'' Mr. Jones said. ''But people
who know the product tend to be passionate about it, especially for the
holidays. They want it every year. It's 10 percent of our business, but
it's 100 percent of our history. And it's a nice cash cow for us.''
Mr. Jones is the first outsider to run the company. For four generations,
men named Cope were in charge -- first Martin, then Frank, then
John,
and then Thomas L.
Martin Cope dried his first batch of corn on a coal-burning stove at the
family homestead near Manheim, just east of here, in 1900. He and his
Mennonite descendants kept at it through wars,
depressions, three fires in 16 years, floods, family feuds and
technological change.
When they started, drying was virtually the only means of preserving
vegetables. Canning was a curiosity, and freezing was unknown. A century
later, drying is the curiosity.
Thomas Cope chose the Air Force as a career, and at 62, long-limbed, fit
and handsome, he still looks every inch the colonel that he was, flying
big jets for the Strategic Air Command in Vietnam and elsewhere. But his
father was killed in one of the worst of the fires, and he felt obligated
to come home and run the family
business.
Not long ago, he refused a handsome offer from a big agribusiness outfit
to buy the company. Why? ''I guess I'm just stubborn,'' he said.
But my suspicion is that he thought that if he sold, the buyer would stop
making dried corn and concentrate on frozen foods. And he would not like
to contemplate that, because it would deprive the close-knit Pennsylvania
Dutch community of one more of its
traditions, already under assault from promoters who have turned Route 30
into a ticky-tacky Amish strip mall.
MY father's family had its roots in the Pennsylvania Dutch country, too,
and although we lived in Ohio, my mother somehow always managed to find
Cope's green boxes with the bearded Amish farmer
on the label. She sent several to me every
Thanksgiving for the three years that I was in Vietnam. Now my wife,
Betsey, and I buy it in the supermarkets near our weekend farm outside
Gettysburg, which stock a vast range of local specialties, from scrapple
to Lebanon bologna, for their clientele of German and Swiss descent.
Surprisingly little of the corn that Cope's dries is grown in this part of
Pennsylvania, which has some of the richest farmland in the country,
thanks to generations of careful husbandry. It comes from many states --
Maryland, New Jersey, Delaware, New York and Massachusetts -- with the
biggest source in Pennsylvania in remote Potter County, on the New York
border north of State College.
Each year, Cope's contracts with farmers for the output of a certain
number of acres, ranging from 50 to 1,000, Mr. Jones said. Early in the
season, the corn comes from the Delmarva peninsula, between Chesapeake Bay
and the Atlantic Ocean. Late in the
year, it comes from upstate New York.
Through a network of contract field consultants, Cope's keeps track of the
crop, checking the amount of moisture in the corn -- the best clue to the
moment of optimum harvest. When they are ripe, beginning on July 1 and
continuing until late October, the ears are cut and the corn, still on the
cob, is hauled by truck to
Rheems. All of it is Silver Queen or one of several similar varieties,
which are known for their exceptional natural sweetness.
Speed is of the essence, because corn begins decaying more quickly than
most vegetables. Its sugars start turning into starch almost from the
moment the ears are cut.
Caramelizing those sugars is the essential element in the drying process,
giving the finished product its characteristically toasted flavor.
Once cut from the cob, the kernels are spread, 1,000 pounds at a time, on
a steel slab the size of a couple of pool tables. Heated from below by
forced air to a temperature of 190 degrees Fahrenheit, kept in constant
motion by rotary mechanical rakes so they do not stick or burn, the plump,
buttercup-yellow kernels
rest in a thin layer at one end of the slab for about 45
minutes, then in a thicker layer at the other for an additional 45
minutes.
Finally, they go into eight big steel bins to be finished off at 170
degrees for four to six or seven hours, until their moisture content
reaches 6 percent. The timing is affected by the outside temperature,
among other things. During this stage, the corn must be constantly turned
over by workers wielding big yellow plastic shovels, which means that
during the months when drying is taking place, the plant must operate
nearly 24 hours a day.
With the drying complete, the kernels are cut in two (''makes rehydration
faster,'' Mr. Cope explained), and the pieces are put through a centrifuge
to eliminate the fine dust that is generated by the cutting process.
At the end of the production line, the corn falls into boxes to await
packaging and shipment. It makes a splendid visual and olfactory
spectacle, the pieces glowing like bits of amber or burnished old gold and
giving off a smell so tantalizingly sweet that I thought Betsey would dive
right in.
''Isn't it something?'' Mr. Cope asked. ''Such a simple process, but it
gives you the taste and smell of corn roasted over an open fire, not just
in summer but all year long.''
Or as Governor Bradford rhapsodized three centuries ago on the shores of
Massachusetts Bay, a few kernels of corn are ''asgood as a feast.''
CREAMED CORN
Time: 45 minutes plus overnight refrigeration
2 7 1/2-ounce packages John Cope's dried sweet corn (approximately 4cups)
6 cups milk
1 cup heavy cream
3 teaspoons sugar
3 teaspoons salt
4 tablespoons butter
Salt and freshly ground black pepper.
1. Place corn in large bowl with milk and cream. Cover and refrigerate
for at least 4 hours, preferably overnight.
2. Add sugar, salt and butter. Transfer to saucepan and bring to boil,
stirring to avoid sticking. Reduce heat to low and simmer,
stirring occasionally, for 30 minutes. Season to taste with salt and
freshly ground black pepper.
Yield: 6 to 8 servings.
November 14, 2001, Wednesday
Copyright 2001 The New York Times Company |
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