The street corn experiment that started with baseball

Published 12:13 pm Tuesday, August 5, 2025

Back in early March, I made my 11th trip to spring training with the Cleveland Indians — or Guardians, depending on how you choose to remember them. This was only my second time out to the Phoenix-Scottsdale-Mesa area. I used to be loyal to Florida, but once the team moved its training to Goodyear, Arizona, I followed. It helped that we had friends and family in the area. Lodging was easy, and so was the pull of long-standing bonds built around baseball, conversation and quiet desert evenings.

We caught six games in seven days, and like we always do, we made time for local bars, taco joints and neighborhood restaurants. This wasn’t a wild trip. My best friend is a retired doctor, and we were staying with another one. Most nights, I was in bed before 10. That said, there was still good wine, a strong margarita or two, and a rotating plate of things like tacos, enchiladas and a dish I had never paid much attention to before: Mexican street corn.

At one spot, we ordered it as a side — elote, they called it. Corn off the cob, charred just enough, tossed with a creamy, citrusy sauce, and sprinkled with cheese, spice and something smoky I couldn’t quite place. I don’t know if it was the dish, the setting or the company, but it hit just right. It was the kind of food you think about later, even if you don’t expect to.

Months passed. I was back home when our builder stopped by with a surprise: two dozen ears of fresh sweet corn, handed over with a grin and a simple instruction. “Shuck it.” 

That dish from Arizona came rushing back to mind. I figured I’d try to make my own version.

Now, I’m not the type of cook who takes recipes literally. I don’t measure precisely. I don’t hunt down cheeses I can’t pronounce or grind spices I’ll never use again. I cook the way I travel… loosely guided, mostly by feel, and always open to improvisation.

I took about eight ears of corn and stripped the kernels off. In a cast iron skillet with a little olive oil, I sautéed them until they started to brown and blister. I let them cool just a bit, then stirred in a couple spoonfuls of mayonnaise and sour cream. I didn’t have lime, so I used lemon. Cotija cheese wasn’t in my fridge, but feta was. I crumbled some in. A few chopped scallions went into the bowl for color and crunch. I added salt, pepper, a pinch of chili powder and just enough smoked paprika to remind me of that Arizona flavor.

I served it warm that evening, then tried it cold the next day. Both versions worked. It wasn’t the same as the restaurant’s, and I didn’t expect it to be. But it was good. Really good. It had creaminess, a little heat, some brightness from the citrus and the saltiness of the feta. It looked the part too, golden corn studded with herbs and spice, nothing too fussy or overthought.

This wasn’t about getting it perfect. It was about recreating a memory and making something satisfying with what I had. That’s what I like about food like this. It’s forgiving. It doesn’t punish you for substitutions. It welcomes them.

No rules. No measuring cups. Just a skillet, some fresh corn, and a memory worth chasing.