For me, corn on the cob is the epitome of summer. I could eat my weight in it. And it's always that way. There are photos of me in our old family albums with golden sun-kissed skin and sun bleached hair, going full-out typewriter on some corn. It's like a rite of passage. Summer is not truly summer until there are sweet corn stands and signs on every other block.
I have some awesome neighbors who love food
almost as much as we do in our house. I'm often handed buckets full of maitake mushrooms that they've spent the day foraging for in the woods. Sometimes it's an armload of ginormous cucumbers, or a grocery bag with tomatoes, bell peppers, jalapeños, habañeros, and zucchini all tumbled in and vying for their spot.
A few weeks ago, I came home to find a couple dozen ears of sweet corn stacked on the table next to my side door. And a week or so later, they brought over another bag full of the slender green-husked, plump-kerneled corn.
