Redisintermediation exemplar: John Cope’s Toasted Dried Sweet Corn

When we lived in Hanover, PA a few years ago, we started buy­ing boxes of a Lan­caster del­i­cacy: John Cope’s Toasted Dried Sweet Corn.

It’s good, and dif­fi­cult to repli­cate. No other corn­meal or bready prepa­ra­tions are sub­sti­tutes. There are no doubt a num­ber of deli­cious recipes pos­si­ble, but the one that is printed at the top of the box (or bag, these days) is still best, just as using Jiffy Mix for corn muffins is bet­ter than the super­nu­mer­ary sug­ges­tions of waf­fles or even johnnycakes.

Also, in re John Cope’s effort: it’s cheap.

Buy it from the man­u­fac­turer, or their dis­trib­u­tor, in 12-​​bag cases, and includ­ing ship­ping it’s less than $3.50 per box.

Zingerman’s Deli, here in lovely Ann Arbor, charges more than $11 for a sin­gle 7.5 oz tin. Because it’s arti­sanal, no doubt. Or maybe the tin is worth the effort, since it’s made by hand by Russ­ian Amish peo­ple specif­i­cally for Zingerman’s, and flown here sus­tain­ably or some­thing. Because that would be a $7 metal tin, I guess.

Plus ship­ping, if you don’t live in lovely Ann Arbor.

And if you search for it at Ama­zon, you can pay a mere 100% markup. Plus ship­ping and han­dling. Or for some kind of odd bulk repack­ag­ing I’ve never seen before, slightly less.

Let’s just sit our­selves down a minute, in these days of local com­mu­ni­tar­ian sen­ti­ments and eco­nomic cri­sis and belt-​​tightening and thought­ful econ­omy and direct com­pen­sa­tion of artists and crafts­peo­ple for their intel­li­gent work and sus­tain­able trans­porta­tion and stuff… and think about those alternatives.

Less than $3.50 per unit, net, for twelve you could share among friends. Said money sent direct to the man­u­fac­turer, I assume. At least closer to them than any alter­na­tive in the sup­ply chain.

Or $8 or more for retail pric­ing of the same vol­ume. In a metal bin, if you’re really fancy.

I note, by way of a fuck­ing point: It is not ille­gal, to date, for pur­chasers to enter into infor­mal agree­ments with one another to col­lab­o­ra­tively seek bar­gains by shar­ing infor­ma­tional or prac­ti­cal costs.

I’m going to spend Decem­ber think­ing about that, OK? The whole damned Black Fri­day of a month.

And my mind may wan­der from dried sweet corn to beer, or other foods, or books, or mag­a­zine sub­scrip­tions, or toys, or DVD rentals, or copy-​​editing one another’s writ­ing, or con­sult­ing refer­rals, or news­pa­per arti­cle writ­ing, or pho­tog­ra­phy, or design, or gar­den­ing, or build­ing houses and com­mu­ni­ties. It might make a bit of sense for me to look at car­toon­ish John Cope, with his stereo­typ­i­cal bushy beard, and think a minute.

Just one minute. Espe­cially if I’m tempted to play at Black-​​bumper sus­tain­abil­ity, and con­spic­u­ously con­sume arti­sanal foods with­out think­ing about the sup­ply chain that got them to me.

Winter squash caramel

The local (MIchi­gan, or even just Mid­west­ern) win­ter squashes are com­ing avail­able in the local pro­duce mar­kets. Mex­i­can win­ter squash is never hard­ened off enough, and lacks a sweet dry­ness that’s nec­es­sary for the way we cook it.

Which is: Cut the win­ter squash (but­ter­nut, acorn, del­i­cata) in half, remove seeds, place face-​​down on a cookie sheet coated lib­er­ally with peanut oil, cook at 400°F until brown burned crap comes out around the edges.

Here’s the trick (one even my lov­ing wife doesn’t under­stand or appre­ci­ate): Eat the brown burned crap.

As far as I can see, that’s the sug­ary juice of the squash, expressed and deep-​​fried in the peanut oil around the flesh of the veg­etable as it des­ic­cates and cooks. The nat­ural sug­ars toast, then burn in the oil. They make caramel. Not like the crap you get from cane or beet sugar. Deli­cious squash caramel. Good enough, and fla­vor­ful enough, that you should eat even the black puffy crunchy stuff.

No, really: try it. Bit­ter? Yes. But bit­ter in a deli­cious way.

[At this point I walk back over to the stove and scrape more black burned squash juice chips off the pan, and then reach in with my hands and pick them off and stuff the tini­est frag­ments into my mouth.]

This is good. This is Autumn, dis­tilled and puri­fied. Browned, the fla­vor of senes­cence and com­fort­able decline. The sweet­ness of mem­ory, the bit­ter­ness of unavoid­able demise, the promise of stock­piled proven­der, of things set aside and kept long after the world sleeps—long after that ephemeral green crap of Spring and Sum­mer can even be wist­fully recalled.