Sex is good, but not as good as fresh sweet corn.
How I wish I’d been the one to express that sentiment, but it was Garrison Keillor who initially uttered it. Yet as true as this ism may seem—or rather, considering I’m a newlywed, as true as it may seem for some of you—there are times when it’s tempting to step out on sweet corn.
Each summer there comes a moment when, regrettably, late-season corn loses a little of its luster. At least for me. It has for as long as I can remember. The corn of my childhood was ample, grown in fields that were a mere 20-second sprint from our kitchen. Evenings at dusk my brother and I would sit on the back steps and lazily shuck and shuck and shuck as the cicadas droned their mesmerizing drone. We’d take the corn inside to the waiting pot of boiling water. Then we’d do what most folks do. Which is to say, we ate it straight off the cob. Every single night. A simple ritual that invoked nothing more than butter and salt yet satisfied more than just the palate. It was perfect.
Until sometime in September. That’s when my sweet corn ennui set in.
Still does. After years of pondering this puzzling behavior, I’ve concluded that it has nothing to do with being lulled into complacency by the previous weeks of abundance or the fact that anything else coming into the local greenmarket has usurped any of my affection. (What, like kabocha squash?) Late-season corn simply has a propensity to be somewhat…starchy. There. I said it. One day it will be milky and wildly sweet, the next it will be crushingly disappointing. Blame it on the vagaries of the earth’s biorhythms.
Still, I succumb to its lure, lugging home armfuls this time of year, hoping disappointment isn’t inevitable. As a result, I’ve managed to develop some coping mechanisms along the way. There are no rules with corn that’s more starchy than sweet. Just a few things I’ve come to respect. Namely that tough, unyielding kernels retain, deep inside, an innate corniness. And unlike early corn that just flings its essence at us, with late corn it’s up to us to tease it out.
As in corn off the cob. Lopped off with a sharp knife, even ho-hum kernels take on new potential. (Cue the theme song to The Love Boat, thank you.) But I’m not talking about cooking the corn on the cob and then slicing it off. This is a nifty, if not exactly innovative, trick—but it has no business here. It’s best reserved for height-of-the-season corn that’s still insanely sweet and requires only the slightest, if any, embellishment. What I mean is corn taken off the cob prior to cooking and them lent some oomph. When quickly roasted, grilled, or sautéed, late-season sweet corn can be revelatory. The sugars caramelize, the exterior begins to crisp, the kernels even begin audibly to pop. It’s like the soft-porn equivalent of corn nuts.
What comes out of the oven or the skillet is surprisingly versatile. See for yourself. Mostly I just sort of ad hoc what comes next. An extra glug of olive oil is always nice, all the more so with sprigs of cilantro or opal basil. I could blather on about the embellishments I tend to turn to, whether out of practice or whimsy, but being just a bit voyeuristic, I’d rather hear how you fancy your late-season corn off the cob, given your druthers. Care to share?
Off the cob and onto the baking sheet
Carefully slice the kernels from the cob and strew them on a baking sheet. Drizzle with a scant amount of olive oil, toss well, and rattle the corn kernels into an even layer. Place the baking sheet in a hot, hot, hot oven (anywhere from 400 degrees on upwards), shaking the sheet occasionally, and cook until the corn is sizzling just a little. You decide whether to yank the sheet from the heat when the corn is just slightly tinged with brown or to wait until it pops and chars a bit. This takes 5 to 10 minutes or so. Watch it carefully. Drizzle the corn with additional olive oil. Finish with a shake of salt and pepper.
Off the cob and into the skillet
Slice the kernels from the cob and into a skillet, preferably cast-iron. Toss in some kernels and not a lot of butter or olive oil over mediumish heat and let it cook a little, stirring only if you must. It’s up to you whether you pull the skillet from the heat when the corn is just slightly burnished at the edges or you wait until it actually audibly pops and chars slightly, typically 8 minutes or so. Embellish with salt and pepper, if you please.
Photo © 2007 Eric Crowley. All rights reserved.
Renee, great piece. You take me back in memory to how my grandmother had her way with corn: also sliced off the cob before cooking, then dumped in a skillet to cook (yes, a cast-iron one, perfectly seasoned). But here’s where she parts company with you. Butter. An obscene amount of butter, with just a bit of salt and pepper, and she’d stir it frequently and cook it down until you couldn’t hardly identify a single, discreet kernel. She was a true Southerner and the vegetables (unlike those cooked by my “Yankee” mom) were always soft, soft, soft. And did I mention soaked in butter? I haven’t made her recipe often for just that reason, but it really was late-summer heaven.
Sweet! Very visual story. My late corn-off-the-cob fix starts similarly to yours. Caramelize it in a skillet or in the oven (or even in a grill pan on your Weber if you’ve got it fired up). Cool a tad then stir into homemade guacamole (avocado, minced garlic, jalapeno, lime juice, salt, pepper). Or…start with browned butter. Add corn kernels. A hint of lemon-thyme. Maybe a spritz of lemon if you feel inclined to tone down the richness. Spoon over fish.
Wonderful and evocative piece—thank you. Back in Rhode Island, we called that late season corn, “horse corn.” But it had to be pronounced correctly: hoss cohn.
Thank you, Phil. Hoss cohn is brilliant—and evocative in itself. Now why didn’t we have something clever like that back in Iowa?
Renee – I guess you did not call late-season corn “horse corn”? Did you have a name (other than “late-season corn”)? I have lived away from New England for almost a half-century, but kept my accent (much to my Midwestern wife’s chagrin) The first time my wife met my mother, Mom had misplaced her car-keys and was walking around muttering, “Now where the hell are my car keys!” But my wife asked me, “What are ‘cockies’?”)
I love that story, Phil! At least there’s an actual reason for needing to translate between wife and mother, whereas with most such relationships, things are a little more complicated…
And no, we didn’t call it “horse corn.” I don’t think we had a name for late-season corn, other than supper. I just relied on a little extra butter come late summer…
One of my favorite ways to make late-season corn is to saute it with onions, garlic, red bell and poblano peppers and to season the mixture with salt and — the critical touch — smoked Spanish paprika.
Now if I could just figure out what to do with the last of the fat Big Boy tomatoes. I know it’s heresy to have had enough of those, but the little Sun Golds were better.
Thanks, Jean. And I agree, it’s difficult to go back to anything else after having had the Sun Golds. Perhaps a deconstructed gazpacho? I whir my less-than-stellar tomatoes in the blender, strain them, and use the juice as a base for finely chopped red onion, cucumber, bell pepper, even corn off the cob, whatever pleases you. It’s light and refreshing and can be served as-is or as a sort of puddle around some seared fish or made more satisfying with the addition of some rice. Just a thought.