One benefit of being stationed overseas as a military family has been appreciating things that Americans take for granted. I’m not talking about ethereal concepts like democracy and freedom. I’m talking about really important things that make a tangible difference in our everyday lives as Americans.

I’m talking about corn on the cob.

Yes, that sweet vegetarian delicacy indigenous to this great land of ours. With tasty rows of snappy kernels that sweeten in summer under silky strands and crepey husks. A seasonal supper bonne bouche that barefoot kids are ordered to shuck on the porch on lazy summer afternoons.

Ancient people indigenous to the American continents began eating corn thousands of years ago. Native Americans called it maize and ground it into their staple food — cornmeal.

Unlike Native Americans and early settlers who embraced indigenous foods, Europeans have generally been reluctant to eat corn straight off the cob because it was considered to be nothing more than hog feed.

So, for six years while stationed in England and Germany, our American family went without. It wasn’t easy, because, as far as vegetables go, corn on the cob has always been kinda special to our family.

My Navy husband first laid eyes on me when I was sitting in a rather unladylike manner on the deck of my family’s beach house, shucking corn. Unfortunately, I was covered in sand and my wet bangs had fallen into an unflattering middle part. Worse yet, the four thick rolls of my belly protruded between the top and bottom of my bathing suit. It took a shower and considerable work with my curling iron, but I was able to win him over at dinner that evening, not without help from a heaping plate of delicious Silver Queen corn on the cob.

Even my children have fallen under the sweet corn spell. Our middle child, Anna, has always been a worrier. One night when she was about 5 years old, I tucked her into bed, placing her tiny hands together under mine to say our prayers.

“Now I lay me . . .” I began.

“Mommy?” Anna interrupted. “Yes, Honey?”

“What happens when you die?” she said, her big eyes staring up into mine.

“Uh,” my mind raced, unprepared. “Well, you go to Heaven, Sweetie. Now where were we?”

“Yeah, but, what will happen to my body,” she specified.

As I looked into the worried eyes of my precious little girl, I could not reveal the reality of death and bodily decomposition. Panicked, I blurted, “Heaven is beautiful!” Her eyes still fretted, “And you can have anything you want!” Her brows still furrowed, “And, and, YOU CAN FLY!”

“Can I have purple wings, Mommy?”

“Yes! Yes! You can have purple wings!” I exclaimed, relieved to at long last please my relentless little interrogator. Her eyes fluttered with visions of purple feathers.

“Can I really have anything I want in Heaven?” Anna asked as I kissed her forehead.

“Yep, anything,” I replied, and turned to leave the room. As I flipped the light switch, I heard Anna whisper one last question: “Mommy, can I have corn on the cob in Heaven?”

“Yes, Sweetie,” I answered with a smile, “you can have all the corn on the cob you want.”

To this day, we can’t get enough of freshly boiled cobs rolled in butter, sprinkled with a pinch of salt and cracked black pepper. My husband haphazardly chomps at the cob, leaving tufts of missed kernels. I munch methodically from right to left like an old typewriter, occasionally stopping to chew and swallow. Due to expensive orthodontics as a child, Anna trims the kernels off with a knife. Lilly takes spiral bites around the cob like an apple peeler. Hayden, who despises all vegetables, seems disgusted by our shameless display of gluttony.

When every cob has been stripped of its golden pearls, we sit swollen, with buttered cheeks, giggling about the stuff stuck between our teeth.

We, the People of this great Nation, possess the unalienable right to enjoy distinctly American corn on the cob, a liberty which one should never take for granted. Give me hot buttered ears or give me death, I say! Let freedom and the dinner bell ring!

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com