Fourteen years ago, on a warm June day, I was sitting in a café on Ráday Street with my boyfriend. He was working in Budapest as an American diplomat, and his assignment was coming to an end in just two months. “Are you sure you’ll follow me—wherever I end up in the world?” he asked. Looking back, my confident “yes” was wrapped in pink clouds and a fair amount of boldness.
His job requires relocating every two to three years, and in that dreamy moment, I imagined myself strolling through Central Park, buying fresh basil at markets in Rome, and attending plays in London.
Reality turned out to be far more rustic, tangled—and wonderfully unpredictable. I volunteered for a children’s organization in Beijing, welcomed VIP guests at a luxury hotel in Washington, D.C., awaited the birth of my daughter in Senegal, applied my communication background to HR in China, taught Hungarian to enthusiastic Americans, worked as a full-time mom, and reported from Bosnia for Radio Bézs in Hungary.
My hobbies adapted to wherever we lived: I biked alongside thousands of locals through Beijing’s bustling streets, took online writing classes during the sweltering heat of Dakar, explored American graffiti in art galleries built on old Beijing factory sites, danced barefoot to African drums in the sand, jogged along the Pearl River in Guangzhou, and hiked the hills surrounding Sarajevo. For the past five years, I’ve been sharing my stories and reflections on our lifestyle on the Hungarian magazine site wmn.hu.
I was six when my classmate Jutka walked into school with a beautiful doll one day. “My dad brought it from the end of the world,” she said. I had no idea where the end of the world was, but her words stayed with me. Was there a cliff at the edge of it? What did it look like? Who lived there?
I didn’t know the answers, but I was sure of one thing: the place must be foreign, far away—and full of wonder. Since then, I’ve been to many places that fit that childhood vision. And this is where I tell those stories.
When I was a child, corn was never part of a proper meal – it was a summer snack, a salty treat, something that paired perfectly with thick wedges of watermelon.
On the outskirts of Nyíregyháza, a narrow road lined with arborvitae trees led to my grandfather’s house, where we grandchildren ran wild in the yard – climbing trees, swinging, jumping rope.
In the sweltering heat of July – because somehow, the short summer heatwaves always seemed to arrive in mid-July – we’d lean forward to eat watermelon, its juice running down our arms, before racing to the garden tap to rinse off the sticky sweetness.
After the sweet came the salty: hot, boiled corn. Then I’d start the cycle all over again. Maybe that’s when I fell in love with the sweet-and-salty combination – which, over time, grew to include the spicy and the sour, too.
My fondness for corn may also have been shaped by the scene across the yard, where golden ears of corn were hung to dry in a slatted wooden shed. That shed, cool and dark, sometimes sent chickens scurrying out from underneath – and to my child’s eye, it always seemed a little scary. But those sun-colored corncobs meant safety. They anchored the scene. They made everything feel okay.
Mexican Street Corn
Later, during my university years – when money was tight and meals were… creative – corn became one of my favorite little indulgences, right alongside bologna sandwiches and macaroni in meat sauce smothered with shredded cheese.
My best friend and I would drain two cans of corn, pour off the preservative-laden liquid, and mix the kernels with a small tub of sour cream (the kind with the bright red label) and just a touch of mayonnaise. On better days, we even added a squirt of mustard for extra flair.
We were obsessed with it for years – and honestly, whenever I need a bit of emotional comfort, I still go back to that nostalgic corn salad. It always helps me recalibrate my soul just a little.
2012 – Dakar, Senegal
I was expecting my daughter in Dakar, the capital of Senegal – the westernmost point of Africa.
In local culture, pregnancy isn’t something people announce publicly. One day, one of my husband’s colleagues walked into the office beaming with joy to share that his son had been born. He hadn’t even hinted for months that he and his wife were expecting.
As soon as I began to show, I was surrounded by extraordinary kindness. The vegetable vendor on the corner, Madame Joséphine, would always hand me an extra banana “pour le bébé”, thinking of the child as well. People let me skip the line, and shop assistants would carry my heavy bags out to the parking lot.
I also got my fair share of local superstitions. At seven months pregnant, I was eating a hard-boiled egg in the office when my French teacher rushed over, gasping, trying to stop me. According to local belief, if a pregnant woman eats an entire egg, the baby will be born mute.
I also learned that babies shouldn’t be tickled – apparently, it leads to stuttering. And if a child has hiccups, a piece of dampened thread is placed on the top of their head.
With Léna in a baby carrier strapped to my front, I learned firsthand why locals traditionally carry their babies on their backs: it’s believed to protect them from negative energies.
And yes, even in this new chapter of life, my beloved corn found its place.
Each morning, a young man would settle outside our office with a giant sack filled with fresh corn. Not just fresh – incredibly sweet and delicious, with golden kernels so flavorful that, thanks to enjoying them regularly with grapes, I managed to develop gestational diabetes in no time.
My Senegalese colleagues let me in on a little secret too: they cooked the corn in the microwave.
2020 – Guangzhou, China
Street corn is basically the Mexican cousin of the corn salad my best friend and I used to make during our university years. Just like ours, it has sour cream – but what makes it really bold are the coriander, chili peppers, Mexican cheese, and a squeeze of lime.
I first encountered it on May 5th, during a Cinco de Mayo celebration, at our favorite Mexican restaurant. What I once discovered back in my grandfather’s yard in Nyíregyháza – pairing sweet watermelon with salty corn – this dish took to the next level by adding two more flavors: sour from the lime and spicy from the cayenne pepper. A touch of cheese, a dollop of sour cream, and fresh coriander make it even more irresistible.
We parted ways with that restaurant – and with the city – under bittersweet circumstances and with a very sour expression. It was the day before we had to leave Guangzhou due to the coronavirus outbreak. We didn’t know if we’d ever return (and as it turned out, we never did).
The restaurant, once lively and filled with guests and Mexican music, echoed with emptiness. The usually bustling neighborhood had gone silent. Aside from us, there was only one masked waiter and an English-language TV crew filming a report.
Still – I absolutely adore that Mexican corn salad.
Preparation:
3 ears of corn
1 spoonful of sour cream
Feta cheese
½ lime
A small spoonful of salt
½ teaspoon cayenne pepper
Fresh coriander
Boil or grill the corn, then cut the kernels off the cob. Toss them with sour cream, crumbled feta, a squeeze of lime juice, salt, and cayenne pepper. Finish with a generous handful of fresh chopped coriander.
I boil the corn, then cut the kernels off the cob. I mix the sour cream with the lime juice, salt, and cayenne pepper, then stir it into the corn. To finish, I sprinkle fresh coriander and crumbled feta cheese on top.
Kedves Látogató! Tájékoztatjuk, hogy a honlap felhasználói élmény fokozásának érdekében sütiket alkalmazunk. A honlapunk használatával ön a tájékoztatásunkat tudomásul veszi.
