The Controversies of Corn on the Cob
And the itty, bitty miracle in every kernel.
Watermelon tops my list of warm weather delights, but corn on the cob is what makes me wistful. Plump, golden kernels that squirt starchy juice and leave silky fibers stuck in my teeth, sweet corn is, for me, the quintessential food of summer.
Born and raised in Indiana, corn was my landscape growing up — row after orderly row of towering stalks lined the rural roads over which we traveled on long bike rides or to nearby towns for tennis tournaments. I’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest for more than half my life now, and I eat corn only a handful of times each summer. But without fail, the first bite takes me back to the heartland — a reminder of lazy days at a lake cottage, contentedly fatigued from inner tube games, humidity easing just enough to sit outside for dinner. After the sun sets, mosquitos and no-see-ums attack my ankles, while the sky sparkles with stars and fireflies accompanied by a chorus of crickets.
My mother-in-law, who lives in Vincennes, happily reports when the first ears of corn arrive at the market every year. Better than turning the page on a calendar, it’s her seasonal system for tracking time — in the same way crimson leaves mark autumn, a dusting of snow heralds winter, and spring begins when daffodils punch through freshly thawed earth, the appearance of corn signals the start of summer.
Corn Controversy
Corn on the cob is not without controversy. There are hard choices to make: boil it in water on the stove, steam it in foil over a fire, or cook it in the husk on a grill? Apply a pat of butter with proper manners and a knife, or fold back the paper and handle the whole stick of butter like an oversized crayon? Tidily hold the ear with mini plastic corn cobs poked into each end, or grasp it directly with butter-smeared fingers? And most debated of all: crunch straight across, from left to right, with a typewriter-like return for each row, or spin it like it’s on a spit, nibbling the circle of the circumference? I have my preferences but am, for the most part, open to others’ idiosyncrasies. That said, there is a technique I still struggle to understand — taking random bites that leave islands of kernels separated by bare patches of cob. I haven’t found a way to get behind that.
Tiny Miracles
As a kid, and now, shucking has been my job. It’s oddly satisfying to peel layers of green leaves and pick out countless strands of fine silk. Before reading Robin Wall Kimmerer’s lush and lovely Braiding Sweetgrass, I had no inkling, nor had I even been curious about, the significance of corn silk. Turns out, an ear of corn is the ultimate mother. The cob is loaded with upward of 1000 eggs, each attached to a silk that tunnels under the leaves and emerges at the tip of the husk to make itself available for pollination. Tassels at the top of the stalk drop pollen grains that are carried by the wind. They land on a silk and send a pollen tube down its length to fertilize the ovule — in essence, every single kernel is an itty, bitty corn baby. Although the window for pollination is only about 10 days, this wonderful feat of pro-creation succeeds for roughly 500 to 600 kernels per cob.
It’s funny how something can be so familiar, a consistent presence in the background of my history, but I still didn’t know it, or even notice it. Now, when I shuck corn, or scoop up a handful of popped kernels, or sink my teeth in to savor the sweet taste of summer, not only am I flooded with Midwest memories, I send out a note of gratitude for the improbable magic contained in each bite. And, I can’t help but wonder what other miracles I may be missing.
