“Tim’s breath always - always - smells of corn.”
This from my sister during a brief pause in the conversation last night at dinner.
“Except when he eats creamed corn. Then it doesn’t smell like anything at all,” she added after a moment’s scrunch-nosed thought.
This was presumably a segue from the discussion of one of Tim’s more surprising actions of the evening: ordering the corn ice cream off the dessert menu.
When it arrived, it came inside an actual cornhusk and was the creamy color of French Vanilla. I guessed it would be less bizarre than, at first blush, it seemed it would be. After all, I reasoned, cornbread is sweet - after a fashion.
This ice cream smelled strongly of raw corn and, delighted at our trepidation, Tim dug in with gusto.
“It’s not bad,” he said. “exactly."
After another spoonful and a moment of thought: "It tastes like corn.”
We pressed him.
“Well, it doesn’t taste like cornbread as much as corn juice.”
This brought a joyful horror to all of us.
Tim ate about half of the stuff before giving a kind of full-body shiver that started from his head and moved down his arms. He set his spoon quietly down on the table and pushed the plate of ice cream away from him.
I got up to go to the restroom and stumbled on the leg of my chair to everyone’s delight.
“It’s an old tequila injury,” I explained. “Acts up sometimes - always tells me when I’m drunk.”
Tim’s breath, it was reported to me later, had not even the faintest trace of corn-smell after eating the corn ice cream.