I once left a dozen ears on my counter for four days. I kept thinking, “I’ll grill them tomorrow.” Tomorrow became a lie. By day four, the silk was brown and the kernels looked like they’d seen some things. I peeled one back, and it had the texture of a soggy flip-flop.
That corn went straight to the compost bin with a small funeral. I stood there, holding the husk, and made a silent vow: Never again, my sweet corny friends. The fridge would have saved them. The counter betrayed them.
