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    Half-sour cucumbers, hold the salt

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    Copyright 2008-2015Slow Food Fast. All writing and images on this blog unless otherwise attributed or set in quotes are the sole property of Slow Food Fast. Please contact DebbieN via the comments form for permissions before reprinting or reproducing any of the material on this blog.

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Corn Season: I’m not supposed to laugh, am I?

I picked up my daughter yesterday afternoon and took her to the supermarket to pick up some fish for dinner. My daughter had bright–really bright, excessively bright– green hands, knees, and socks from a last-day-of-camp blowout involving something called “Ooblech!” (stretchy slime made of cornstarch, water, and way too much food coloring). It was so bright even the security guard at the entrance gave her a huge grin. It might have been because he was thinking how much washing I was going to be stuck with, or what the inside of my car must look like, but the fact remains. He grinned.

Although I generally don’t buy my vegetables at the supermarket due to (ahem!) food price allergies, they had very decent nectarines for 49 cents/lb., a genuinely good deal,  and ears of corn at 2/$1, which isn’t the best price ever but also not bad. And my daughter’s a known and dangerous corn freak.

So I was opening the ears of corn for her inspection. Surprisingly enough, she was the one who recommended that she not actually touch the corn this time. Very dignified, considering. But it didn’t last.

As we were sorting through the bin, a lady standing next to us turned to me and asked, puzzled, “Is it corn season?”

I gawked, I’m sorry to say. I tried not to. I know it’s not Oklahoma! here or anything, but really. It’s mid-July in Pasadena, hotter than Hades (finally, after a cool and cloudy couple of weeks known in LA as “June Gloom”). The corn is as high as an elephant’s eye, right? The supermarket’s dropped its normally inexcusable dollar-an-ear price to something approaching reasonable. All the signs are there. If not now, when?

And then I got real and remembered that for most Angelenos, there really is only one season: air-conditioning. So I took pity and a deep breath and said “Yes” as gently as possible.

My husband doesn’t see what’s so funny. When I tell him, the only thing he says is “August.” He ought to know, I suppose, since he grew up in southern Illinois, where they actually grow corn. But he eats the non-green corn without complaining.

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