Corn (Zea Mays var. rugosa, or as the Native Americans called it, "maize") is delicious. Get some corn when it's in season, fresh from a farmer's market, with the silk still hanging off it, husk it, put it on a piece of foil, put some kosher salt, some pepper and a pat of butter on there wrap that foil up tight and throw it on the BBQ just long enough to heat it all up, and you've got little kernels of heaven right there.
If, against all the laws of man and nature, you find yourself with a cob left over, throw it in the fridge, and the next morning, mash up some left-over potato in a frying pan with some butter, cut the kernels off the cob, throw that in, and you've got some delicious hash.
Corn bread, creamed corn, corn chowder (or, as the Native Americans called it, "chow-DARE"), tortillas, nachos, tamale, all are delights.
And that, right there, that's the problem. When you hear some senator or agriculture-industry shill talking about "our corn farmers", that's what you picture right? Guy in a flannel jacket, up at the crack of dawn, seeing how high the corn is, and if it is, indeed at the height of an elephant's eye, harvesting it, and delivering it in quaint wooden bushels to market, where good solid folks buy it, and take it to corn roasts and fresh faced tots eat it while running around the county fair.
But no, I'm here to tilt at the windmill of Big Corn.