Memory Lane: Detasseling, Port Tenderloins, and Dirty Old Men

The one thing I love to do when I go back “home” to I-O-W-A, is eat. Now, you’d think the food would
be pretty bland back in the land of hogs and field corn, but it’s some mighty fine eating at Café M-O-M. Back in the day we had a lot of recipes that were found on the back of Campbell Soup cans. But, then, everyone did. We didn’t get a lot of fresh produce in winter or know or care about healthy eating. Meat, potatoes, and some canned hominy and we were good to go. One day, we all grew up and moved away, and wow…Mom became a spectacular chef. She whipped up sauces and made meals from scratch of a quality that would put most big city restaurants to shame. She knew the theory and could execute.

I always wondered why she could make such a transformation, but I get it now. She no longer had kids around and had time to do it and time to enjoy it without the pressure of having to mass-produce carbohydrates and protein for our hollow legs. Now, I go home and she puts out a spread every meal that warms the cockles of my heart. But, most of all, I love her homemade noodles. I think they are the best in the world—she, on the other hand, thinks her mother’s are superior.

Iowa, particularly the area I was raised, is known for its world famous pork tenderloin sandwiches. Everyone thinks they know the best place to get one. Some people even make a study of it. Deep fat fried and served on a toasted humongous bun, They should use it for a recruiting tool for new residents and businesses.

I had been a short order cook in high school and applied to cook at a restaurant on University which was famous for its tenderloins. The owner actually had the nerve to say he could hire me as a waitress, but I was a girl, and would flirt with the boys cooking, so I couldn’t cook.

Once, I thought I’d get a job with Cenex because it actually paid minimum wage, and most jobs didn’t pay that much. Detasseling corn in the sweltering hot Iowa summer was about as miserable job as anyone could have. I got past it by imagining the paycheck I’d receive at the end of the week. I lasted one day.

The next day, I got a job at a full-service gas station at the corner of 18th and Waterloo Rd., where the manager, who can only be described as an old lech, slapped my butt every time he saw me. As disgusting as that was, I believed deep in my heart that being a gas jockey with hand prints on my jeans from an old lech beat the hell out of being a farmer.

I had to go to France to appreciate Iowa. ~ Grant Wood

Copyright 2011 Lori Hahn