Summer produce is in full swing now, and we’re all enjoying the bounty of our gardens or local farmers.

But I want to rewind, just a bit, to last month when it was all about anticipation and first tastes of the summer season.

Our favorite farm stand is a short drive off Route 93 in Nescopeck Township not far from the historic Briggs Farm, which plays host to a massive blues festival each summer.

Everything grown from these rolling hills and fertile soil just seems to taste better than anywhere else we’ve sampled or places we once bought from religiously.

No, we don’t grow our own produce, even though both my husband’s family and my own had legendary backyard gardens.

My father had the entire back of our property — sans a small driveway in the grass from the alley — tilled and cultivated.

Onions, carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, squash, beans and corn, that I remember. I wasn’t a vegetable eater, so the wonder of his vast garden was lost on me as a child.

He would give me samples of raw veggies off the stem — just to see my reaction — and laugh or scowl when I made a face — or worse, spit out his treasures off the vine.

I was more interested in the sweet and luscious fruits growing all around his garden. We had three cultivated blueberry bushes and two wild “swamper” bushes, which produced the largest, sweetest berries.

We also had plums, cherries, peaches, apples and pears growing on trees in and around that garden.

To say we were rich, we were indeed. My father shared his bounty with neighbors, who in turn did the same, and everyone also enjoyed sharing in good natured conversations over backyard fences.

But my husband and I never got the bug to grow our own little garden on God’s little rocky acre, as I call it.

I’m happy I got grass to grow on the once mostly wooded back lot, which still has a towering canopy making it too shady and cool to grow anything but moss and mushrooms.

So, we rely on local farmers to produce our veggies, which brings me back to those first tastes of summer.

We really couldn’t wait for those first tastes, especially the sweet corn. We drive through farmland often visiting friends or shopping in nearby Berwick or Bloomsburg.

We ask each other what might be growing in a certain field, or remark about the height of the corn stalks — knee-high by the Fourth of July, or so the saying goes.

But by mid-July, we’re both craving fresh from the field sweet corn — knee-high or otherwise.

This year, I broke down and bought some corn from a different farm stand. It still wasn’t locally grown, and it was very sweet — I think it was a supersweet variety that is so popular now.

I’m not going to lie, it was good. But it wasn’t Harry’s sweet corn.

Harry owns Pumpkin Hill Produce farm and a no-frills farm stand off a narrow country road that we frequent every week once nature starts to give up her bounty.

His corn is by far the best traditional sweet corn around. It’s just crisp, juicy with a natural corn sweetness enhanced with a little salt and butter … ah yes, one of the best tastes of summer.

We stopped a week too early — maybe around July 19. I got some zucchini and got the word that corn would be coming soon … maybe by the end of the month.

Then, the last Sunday in July, my husband saw the social media post about Harry’s first sweet corn of the season. I think I was ready to leave in less than a half-hour.

We bought corn, Kirby cucumbers and large, green bell peppers for stuffed peppers during the week … that’s a mainstay meal once peppers come in, just like corn is a staple side dish.

As we picked through the large wagon of corn, a man with heavy Jersey/New York accent proclaimed, “You know it’s good if you can eat it raw off the cob,” and began peeling back an ear.

He did ask if we minded, and my husband said no, and then quipped, “As long as you don’t throw it back.” We all got a little chuckle, even as the man said he’d pay extra for that sample ear.

We weren’t surprised when he took that first bite and his eyes went wide and twinkled a little … nope, it’s that good.

That’s the first taste of summer’s bounty.

When we got done shopping, we made up some of that sweet corn for dinner — I don’t even remember what else we had.

Did it matter? We had fresh sweet corn.

As we devoured those first delightful ears of corn, my husband, I think, said it best: “I hope summer never ends.” Yes, let’s hope summer never ends.