Frog Corn

I told Willem that you can’t grow a spat of frog corn and expect to get rich. Only the goblins buy it and they only pay in cantrips like wart removal and hinge repair. Still, at the end of the season Willem had an eighth acre of squat green stalks, and when you folded back those tough husks it was a checkerboard of slimy greens and browns that peeked out at you. The stuff tastes like sour soil and smells like attic must, and if you boil it (the goblins, amazingly, eat it raw) the whole cob turns as hard and black as volcanic glass. The only reason Willem tried growing it at all was that he got a sack of the seed free off Merl Lankard when the old cuss was purging the contents of his hog shed. Now we’re ten days into Midautumn and Willem’s roadside berth is boasting apples, pumpkins, and a bin of unshucked frog corn labeled, with intentional ambiguity, “fresh ears.” And I’m sitting here tapping my pipe and waiting for the first prudent vagabond to amble by and look a little too closely at what they’re buying. You find your own fun on a slow day in Crow’s Town.