When I was a kid, you knew it was summer when one of my parents dug into the back of the utensil drawer to pull out the corncob-shaped corn holders.
Those bright yellow plastic handles and long metal prongs were the sharpest tools my sister and I were allowed to handle. One could argue that we didn’t really need corn-on-the-cob holders, but this was the ritual, so every time we picked up corn from the grocery store or the Amish-run farmers market, we pulled out those holders.
My grandmother, who lived about a mile away from us in my small Missouri town, also had a set of dachshund corn-on-the-cob holders, but she saved those for special occasions.
Gaga was often present for these summer dinners, when the sound of cicadas was as thick as the humidity, and I can remember sitting on the back porch shucking corn with her or