I’m a Cornhusker. Always will be. I knew what the PIK program was before I hit junior high, for goodness sake. I grew up eating more corn in summertime than most people consume in a lifetime – and I loved every bit. It seems this love of corn has been passed down to my offspring, as well. The other night, Little NH tried her mother’s and my corn on the cob and proceeded to finish the better part of both of our ears.
There’s something really fun about eating corn. I still love it and get giddy when we manage to find some in the stores here. That and the process of slathering an ear with butter really gets the saliva glands flowing.
My greatest memory of sweet corn was when I’d sit out on the picnic table and keep my dad company while he cut the kernels off of grocery bag after grocery bag of corn. The raw, sweet ones were the payoff. He’d then bake it with liberal amounts of cream and butter and put it in seal-a-meal bags and freeze it. We’d have corn all winter long.
I left Nebraska a long time ago, but the Cornhusker state never left me. Pass the butter, please.