There is a sweetness in the grassy scent of a perfectly green, perfectly shaped cob of corn. Still in the husk, it is a mark of summer, a symbol but also an immediate and real pleasure for those discerning enough to give their complete attention to the moment and the moment only.
There is a sweetness when you puncture the hot kernals with your teeth, tempered with the burn, the feeling of those thin skins as they work their way up between your teeth, to be teased out later with a toothpick or an athletic tongue. But you wait to cleanse your palate- or I wait- because I like the flavour to linger, I like to taste not only its own savour, but the memories of back yards, of barbecues, of warmth, of my fleeting little history and the moments when I was innocent of dignity. It is impossible to look refined when eating corn on the cob, and that fact itself is nearly as delicious as the act of doing it.
There is a sweetness- no salt, no butter, but virgin yellow- in the simplicity of a boiled cob. Hot water, add corn, and it must be wondered if, in the rearing of this species (for it was engineered into edibleness by the Aztecs) those original makers found the same recipe, the same simplicity. If they, round their campfire, before their stone pots, decimated cob in hand, sought out the root of each remaining morsels still embedded using whatever teeth they had. Just as we did as children, when lacking for a few teeth was no obstacle in search of the sweetness.