Sweet corn

"There are four main pleasures of life," Dad used to say. "Sweet corn, and the love of knowledge, and the love of God, and the one you boys thought of first." He winked at us. "The hitch is that nobody can have all four. No, sir. You have to sacrifice one. Most people I know gave up the love of knowledge. I gave up the fourth one. I have no idea where you children came from."
--Garrison Keillor, Woebegon Boy

I had corn on the cob yesterday, one of the sublime pleasures of my existence. Butter dripping, salt sprinkled, trying to hold it while touching it as little as possible because it's so hot but I don't care; it's half-gone before it's cooled enough to hang onto comfortably.

I saw it at the grocery store and thought I didn't completely want to be left out of the Fourth of July-type festivities. With no possibility for fireworks (I had to be at work around dusk, after all) I thought corn on the cob was a nice way to partake of summer tradition.

Some people eat corn on the cob in rows, nibbling across until the other end is reached, and then returning to the left side a bit farther down to start in again. Always reminds me of a typewriter. I'm waiting for their cheeks to go ding for the carriage return. I'm not a typewriter; I spin mine, eating all the way around and moving from left to right in a gradual spiral pattern.