“Is that all the corn you have left?” I asked the man at the Woodstock Farmer’s Market, with maybe just a hint of panic in my voice. Because, after all, here it was full summer in northern Illinois where corn on the cob is pure gold, but all he had was just one small bin, maybe fifteen or twenty ears of corn.
“That’s not corn anymore,” he said.
It seemed an odd thing for him to say, because I’ve seen plenty of corn in my day, and those green thingamajobbers seemed to fit the description. So I grabbed a bag of caramel corn from his stand (which it could be argued isn’t really corn anymore), and asked him to explain.
He picked up an ear and peeled back the husk to show the kernels. A hideous mass of grayish blobs peeked out right at the tip.
“Ew-w-w!” I said. It takes a lot to channel my inner pre-teen girl, but this did the trick. “What is that? Worms? Beetles?”
He shook his head. “Corn truffles,” he said.
“Truffles?” I said. “You mean like truffle mushrooms?”
He nodded. “It’s a fungus, and it tastes like truffles. It’s delicious. You can use it in recipes, or even eat it raw. People pay a lot for it. I’m sold out of all my regular corn for today, and I’m saving these for someone.”
I had a hard time imagining the first time anybody peeled back a corn husk, caught a glimpse of that hideous spore-spewing monstrosity lurking underneath, and decided to pop it into his mouth. But I guess you could say the same about oysters, and they’re delicious. We owe a lot to those daring souls whose first response after “Ew-w-w!” is to say: “Let’s eat it!”
I got my corn from another vender, and as soon as I got home I Googled “corn truffles.”
Of course I did.
Its proper name is Huitlacoche, or the Ustilago Maydis fungus that infects corn. That was a lot of hard-to-swallow words to roll around on my tongue, so I opened up the caramel corn to sweeten up my research.
Another name for the fungus is “corn smut,” which is easier to say, but just as hard to swallow when it comes to thinking of it as food. I always thought smut was just food for dirty thoughts.
It turns out that conditions have to be just right for the fungus to grow—just the right amount of rainfall, heat and sunshine at the perfect time—and it seems that this northern Illinois summer fills the bill.
Although most American farmers in the past considered corn smut to be a blight that ruined their corn crop, “corn truffle” is a prized ingredient in Mexican cuisine, selling for as much as twenty dollars a pound. The flavor is described as ranging from earthy and nutty to smoky and even sweet, like a black truffle.
Today, some farmers try to infect their corn crops intentionally with the fungus, but it is a challenging process because conditions must be just right, and the time to harvest is limited.
And according to the National Institute of Health, it’s not a good idea to encourage its spread, because Huitlacoche is considered a phytopathogen—another hard-to-swallow word—and spreading it would be a plague, to their way of thinking.
Add to that the efforts of the USDA to develop strains of corn that are resistant to fungus of any kind, and it’s no surprise that it would be rare to find it growing on that corn you just picked up at the farmer’s market.
It’s rare enough to me that, after years and years of enthusiastic corn-eating, I’m just finding out about it now. I went looking for fresh, sweet, golden Illinois corn on the cob, but stumbled across a monstrosity that some consider to be an even finer delicacy.
Go figure.
It wasn’t for sale, but if it had been, would I eat it?
Well, if you’ve read this column for any length of time, I think you know the answer to that question. Some people consider freshness dates on their food to be warnings; I think of them as challenges. That green brick in the fridge that used to be a block of cheddar? Well, it’s still yellow, soft and tasty on the inside, isn’t it?
But still, that green spore-dusty stuff on the outside of the cheese is the part I throw away. Would I buy an ear of sweet corn and just nibble on the invasive mold growing on it?
I would give it a try if I found it listed in a recipe at a good Mexican restaurant, like Antigua Mexican Grill in Woodstock, which is one of my favorites. But would I pick up a raw ear of corn, peel back the tip, and nibble on the gray grimy smut at the end?
If I do, please don’t be too quick to pass judgment on me. After all, you’re the one sitting here reading a smutty column.
TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com
