This weekend, I made corn chowder. It wasn’t the right season for it. Here in Spain, I’m not sure if there actually *is* a corn season. The only fresh sweet corn that I’ve found here has been a few sterile naked cobs, neatly squared off at the ends, husked and safely encased in plastic wrap and styrofoam trays. So far (ten months into this Spanish adventure), there have been no wooden crates heaped with leafy green ears and silky-golden brown tassels. There have been no strangers chatting about the summer weather and town events as they strip down each ear, and no squeal of the husk pulling against the shiny, perfect kernels. Maybe I will still find that here, someday and somewhere, but not…