Mistah Greenjeans...he dead.

We, all of us, have our inadequacies to overcome. Whether shy or short...pallid or pustular, we learn to live with our shortcomings and, I suppose, become better people for it. But it sure does feel good to get one over on grim destiny.

I, for my part, have been corn-challenged.

Each year, for a decade or more, I've planted row upon neat row of Silver Queen, Chesapeake Bi-Color, Country Gentleman or another of their hybrid cousins, only to see them topple, wilt, become stunted, or turn into a sickening worm-infested goo.

It should be said, I'm not exactly a brown thumb when it comes to growing vegetables. For 20 years, my wife and I have been most successful with our tomatoes (last year, we put up 72 quarts), squash, beans, peppers, cucumbers...even brussels sprouts.

But when it came to corn, my motto was "Sure to die by the fourth of July."

Not this year, however. The ears have been fat, sweet and legion. I stand a-maized. (Insert polite chuckle here.)

Of course, this is all rather ridiculous, since I, like everyone, drive in this season past acre upon acre of towering corn stalks, interrupted by nary a runt seedling. And I suppose if I were a farm kid, the fact of planting a seed and producing a couple of dozen corn plants would be about as interesting as putting coins in the machine and getting back a candy bar.

But as a kid from the suburbs, it really does seem magic to me. There's more complex encoding in that little wrinkled seed than in anything merely architectural or digital. (Oddly, I never felt that way about producing children. But then, they don't taste good slathered with butter. Or maybe they do...)

For the next two weeks, in any case, I'm going to enjoy the marvelous and rare privilege of cooking and eating an ear of corn that's no more than ten minutes off the stalk.

Do you suppose I qualify for a subsidy?