Monday, 24 September 2012

Field of Dreams indeed!

The season for corn on the cob is now well underway, therefore, as a brief tribute to that golden deliciousness I thought I would share some thoughts on the matter.  I fondly recall many summer evenings shucking corn on the back deck of my childhood home, the smell of it cooking, the butter and salt dripping down my chin and that first delightful bite.  This experience ranks as highly as fresh strawberry shortcake.

My husband is from Iowa, home to the Field of Dreams and one of the ultimate baseball movies of all time.

"If you build it, he will come" and "Is this heaven?  No, its Iowa."  One year my husband surprised me on Easter Sunday by stopping in Dyersville at Iowa's main attraction. Despite the fact that we had not hit corn season, it was pretty magical to be there.  My Dad was far more impressed with this quick roadtrip than any European adventure I have had, or ever will have.

Unfortunately, that is where the magic of corn ends for me.  Corn wreaks havoc on my body.  It is guaranteed that if I eat this, I will land on my porcelain throne in less than 30 minutes.
On summer nights I long to eat it, but only ever attempt it a maximum of once each summer.  On a long weekend.  With no plans.  With a toilet in very close proximity.  You only get burned once by an experience such as this.  That sweet, innocent-looking, unassuming corn.  Who would have ever thought that it could be so dangerous?   Explosions of flavour indeed!  Corn is such a reliable laxative that when I feel gassy or bunged up I will make a bowl of popcorn and then - hallelujah! - problem solved.  I do not find popcorn as potent as fresh corn, but it certainly does the trick.  
So, as you tuck into some of summer's finest, when it is uniquely acceptable to ingest copious amounts of butter and salt, I will be eating carrots.  Or celery, sans butter, thinking of the field of dreams.

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