corn snobbery

I have a friend who’s well on his way to becoming a wine snob. Which is great, since he’s legitimately 21 (I of course am not, quite) so I can hand him $20 and expect something fully drinkable by dinner. He eats the same way, like he’s tasting a new wine, constantly evaluating his food, snuffling at it before he meticulously sticks it with a fork and tries the first bite. And he does this everywhere – even truck stops. He’d never survive out here in the midwest, where the height of gustatory interest involves a tender chunk of meat with complicated grill marks. To prove your dominance over the animal, you snarf it up as quickly as possible, and you don’t stop in the middle to thoughtfully analyze what it might have been eating last month. Commentary is to be limited to appreciative grunts that can be uttered with the mouth full, and a contented sigh once you’re finished.

So I’ve decided to become a corn snob. I have impeccable credentials — I grew up in Iowa. With some technical terms and a quick stop by the corn cam, I should be able to intimidate people at supermarkets across the country. Corn, my friend, is subtle, and for a nominal fee I can help you unravel its mysteries…

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