Corn on the cob is about as genuine an end-of-summer tradition as any end-of-summer tradition gets and I am here for it. But it’s not because of the corn so much as it is the butter. It’s all about the butter.
My generation will remember when we’d put yellow flowers under our friend’s chins to see if there would be reflection on their skin (look, we lived before the internet, back when imagination was in play).
If there was evidence of a yellow glow (fun fact: there always was), you’d be declared to like butter. I didn’t need a yellow flower prediction. I loved butter.
When I was a child, I got caught plunging my Minnie Mouse spoon into the block of butter on the dinner table. The adults were horrified to watch me put that spoonful of deliciousness in my mouth and consume it in one bite. I remember it as a defining moment that made me different from the rest (read: weird). I was okay with it. Still am.
Is there anything better than hard yellow shards of butter melting into the rows of yellow and white bumps of perfectly plump corn-on-the-cob kernels? No, there is not. A dash of salt. Chef’s kiss.
Butter is a condiment. It is. Don’t argue. Like ketchup on French fries and mustard on almost everything (and yes, butter goes with mustard), butter goes with the best things in any food group.
Think about it. Toast without butter is dry. Don’t even dare put jam or peanut butter on toast if you don’t start with butter first. An English muffin without butter is illegal in some countries. Pretty sure. Butter is the foundation for all good things on bread. Any meat sandwich begins with the bread and butter, and then you slap some mustard on there, throw on some lettuce, lunch meat and bravo. Egg salad without butter? Don’t even.
This grosses the Carpenter out. If I make him a sandwich (it’s a twice-a-year thing), he sulks. “Is there butter on this?” Duh. That’s like asking if there is butter on the popcorn.
Why would anybody ever eat popcorn if it’s not drizzled in the most glorious goodness of butter (or butter by-product that tastes like the same magic sauce, but who cares because it’s popcorn and that is delicious)? The point is, I no longer make the Carpenter sandwiches. See what I did there? Butter for the win.
Don’t even come at me with margarine. Just don’t. Put the lid on that. That’s not food.
Butter belongs on all the good things, like sauteed mushrooms, crusty baguettes, pancakes, scones, salted crackers, warm vegetables, baked potatoes, lobster (the only way I’d even consider eating it), and pasta. You are never too old to eat buttered pasta.
Unless, like me, your body doesn’t like dairy. At all. A glass of milk would land me in a ball on the floor.
But butter? Oh, I’ll go down in agony for that. I’ll suffer just to see the little puddle of separated liquids on my plate after my morning toast. I’ll lick the knife after I’ve mangled a crusty roll with a not-so-graceful spread of ridiculously hard butter, because I can’t waste it. Also chip dip.
Stretch pants were made for my dairy issues. You’re all welcome.
Butter is a condiment.
And now I’m hungry.
