By Vermont is in full lockdown. The governor ordered everyone to stay home — essential travel only, essential workers only, no gatherings. We comply. This is not difficult for two people who live on a rural road and whose natural tendency is to stay home in March and tap maples anyway. The pandemic has, in some ways, simply formalized what our March has always looked like. The difficulty is what it has done to everything outside the farmhouse.
David cannot visit. Karen cannot bring the grandchildren. Sarah cannot come from Portland. The farmhouse, which has been visited by family every few weeks for forty years, is now just Helen and Frost and me, and the sugarhouse, and the maple season that runs indifferent to what the calendar says is happening in the world. I am boiling every other day. The syrup tastes exactly right. The sugarhouse was built in 1921 and has been through things before, and it stands in the woods and does not care about any of this, which is the correct attitude.
I made baked beans on Saturday. The long Saturday ritual — salt pork, molasses, the eight-hour oven, the brown bread in the coffee cans — was more important than usual this week, in the way that ordinary things become important when everything around them has changed. The beans were the same beans. The process was the same process. The kitchen smelled the same kitchen. This was the evidence I needed that the farmhouse still knew what it was doing. The beans know too. I am relying on all of them.
Sarah called at eight. Helen got on the phone after me and talked for an hour. I listened from the kitchen. I don't know everything they said. I know it was important for both of them. Sarah is forty-one years younger than me and she is scared in ways that I am not, because she has small children and a practice and a world that has changed faster than she expected it to. I was scared once at her age. I did not say this. It would not have helped. I said we were fine. I said call tomorrow. I said she would. She did.
The baked beans were Saturday’s anchor, but I’ve been thinking all week about the other dishes that hold a kitchen together — the ones that don’t ask anything of you except that you show up and follow the steps. Mom’s corn pudding is one of those. Helen has made it every winter for as long as I can remember, and when I needed something to set alongside the beans that night — something that would fill the table even with just the two of us at it — this was the one. It bakes quietly, it smells right, and it comes out the same every time. That is exactly what I needed it to do.
Mom’s Famous Corn Pudding
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 45 minutes | Total Time: 55 minutes | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 1 can (15 oz) whole kernel corn, drained
- 1 can (15 oz) cream-style corn
- 1 box (8.5 oz) corn muffin mix (such as Jiffy)
- 1 cup sour cream
- 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted
- 2 large eggs, lightly beaten
- 1 tablespoon sugar (optional, to taste)
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
Instructions
- Preheat. Heat your oven to 350°F. Grease a 9x13-inch baking dish or a 2-quart casserole dish with butter or nonstick spray.
- Mix. In a large bowl, combine the whole kernel corn, cream-style corn, corn muffin mix, sour cream, melted butter, and beaten eggs. Stir until just combined — do not overmix.
- Season. Add sugar if using, salt, and pepper. Stir to incorporate evenly.
- Bake. Pour the batter into the prepared dish and spread it evenly. Bake uncovered for 40–45 minutes, until the top is golden and the center is just set (a toothpick inserted in the middle should come out mostly clean).
- Rest and serve. Let the pudding rest for 5 minutes before scooping. Serve warm, straight from the dish.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 320 | Protein: 5g | Fat: 17g | Carbs: 38g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 520mg