I would die and not know, I once thought. The corn was gone—as if it had never existed. One moment it was there, fresh from the field, and the next, vanished. But it wasn’t a mystery after all. It had simply transformed into something better: wholesome bread that carried us through the day, as if it had feet of its own.

That’s how food used to be—simple, real, and full of quiet magic. Corn on the cob boiled gently with a pinch of salt, served alongside roasted vegetables or a warm lentil stew. Nothing fancy. Just honest food that filled the belly and warmed the heart.

And then came the bread. Not the kind from shiny plastic bags, but the kind made slowly, with care. Cornmeal bread, dense and golden, with just a touch of olive oil, water, and a sprinkle of herbs. It walked with us—figuratively, of course—keeping us full on long days in the garden or while watching the sky change colors in the evening.

There’s something comforting about knowing where your food comes from. When corn disappears, only to return in a new form, it’s a reminder that nothing good is truly lost. It’s transformed, reused, and repurposed in ways that nourish us differently.

Today, you can still make that kind of bread. Mix cornmeal with warm water, a bit of whole wheat flour, olive oil, a pinch of sea salt, and maybe a handful of chopped fresh rosemary. Bake until the edges crisp. Eat it slowly. Let the flavors speak.

Food doesn’t need to be complicated to matter. Often, the most meaningful meals are the quiet ones. The ones that seem to vanish—but leave you stronger, fuller, and connected to something older than time.

So the corn was gone, yes. But it came back—on feet. And we walked a little farther because of it.