I am not proud to admit that I have avoided fresh corn for years. I don't mean I wouldn't eat it. Au contraire. Nothing is lovelier than crisp, sweet, just-picked summer corn. It doesn't require one thing. I mean, I wouldn't pick it up at the market. I wouldn't get too close, certainly wouldn't touch it, and under no circumstances would I ever, ever, actually buy it.
It all goes back to a particularly traumatizing experience as a girl. I was shucking fresh corn for the first time. Enjoying the excitement of stripping off the husks, tugging at the silky strands on the inside. I had gone through maybe 2 or 3 ears, when, to my horror, I looked down to see that crawling in and among all of the glossy, pale-yellow kernels of corn on the ear I was working, were what looked like millions of little white maggoty-wormy-buggy things. Well that did it, my romance with shucking summer's bounty of sweet corn ended there. I didn't care what I was missing. As long as that was possible, I wanted none of it.
So here I am at the farmer's market, seeing the giant heap of corn, with endless possibilities swirling through my head (with chopped avocado and cherry tomatoes for a quick salad; cooked in coconut milk for a rich soup; tossed into a cast iron for sweet, crumbly cornbread.) Was I really ready, after 20 years, to face this demon? I wasn't sure. But, I at least felt secure enough to, with just two quick fingers, pick out 4 ears and toss them into a bag.
Last night, I decided I was ready. It was do or die. I kept the water running, so any unexpected guests in my corn could be quickly disposed of, and I had a large trash can right by me, so in case of panic, I could toss it all. Thankfully, there was nothing to be seen inside those hulls and beneath the silk but beautiful, fresh corn, which was so sweet that I couldn't help but pop a few handfuls of raw kernels into my mouth as I sliced it off the cob.