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There are certain recipes that don’t really belong to anyone, though we all like to pretend otherwise. This Shoepeg Salad (or “shoe peg”—I’ve written it both ways, not sure which is proper) is one of those dishes that just floated through my life without much explanation. I can’t say who made it first. My mother swore it came from her neighbor back in Tulsa, but then my sister insists she saw it on a church potluck table in Mississippi in the late seventies. And me? I just know it showed up one afternoon in a Tupperware bowl on my back porch, left by our friend Sherry after she borrowed my sewing machine. That was ’93 or maybe ’94, because I remember still having the old linoleum in the kitchen—the green marbled one that always looked dirty no matter how much I scrubbed.
Funny how a taste can tie itself to a stretch of years. I remember eating this salad straight out of the bowl, standing barefoot on the back deck while my kids were chasing fireflies. My son, David, would always call them “sky bugs” because he couldn’t quite say lightning bugs yet. That summer was sticky and loud, the kind where you didn’t care if the cucumbers were soggy because the mayonnaise cut through everything anyway.
And it’s simple. Almost too simple. Sometimes I feel like I should fuss it up more, but then I remember the last time I tried that—adding black beans and avocado—and my husband gave me that look, the one that says: “Why did you go and change a perfectly good thing?” So here it stays, unchanged except for the size of the cucumbers I dice and the way I sometimes sneak in more vinegar when no one’s watching.
Why You’ll Love It
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It tastes like summer picnics without the ants (though truthfully, there were always ants).
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You can make it in ten minutes, though I often get distracted and it takes me twenty.
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It’s forgiving. I’ve used limp tomatoes and cucumbers that had gone a little soft, and no one complained.
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My kids, now in their thirties, still ask for it whenever they come home. They swear it tastes like “childhood,” which is flattering and heartbreaking all at once.
Ingredient Notes
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Shoepeg corn: This is the star. If you can’t find the white shoepeg kind in cans, don’t panic. I’ve used regular sweet corn in a pinch. It’s not the same, but I’ll admit most people didn’t even notice.
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Cucumber: Peel or don’t peel—it depends on your mood and your peeler. Sometimes I leave the skin because I get lazy, other times I peel them completely, remembering my grandmother used to say the skin was “where all the bitterness lives.”
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Tomatoes: The recipe just says “diced tomatoes,” but I’ll tell you—if you can get your hands on a good garden tomato, it makes all the difference. Store-bought ones in January? They do the job, but they don’t sing.
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Red bell pepper: Adds color and crunch. I’ve used yellow when that’s all I had, and nobody staged a protest.
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Green onions: Scallions, spring onions—whatever name you use, don’t skip them. They keep it from sliding into blandness.
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Mayonnaise: Use what you like. I’ve gone through periods of devotion to Duke’s, then Hellmann’s, then even homemade when I was feeling ambitious.
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Vinegar: White vinegar works, but I once accidentally used apple cider vinegar, and it gave a sort of sweet twang that was actually nice.
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Sugar: Some people leave it out. I leave it in. Life needs sweetness in unexpected places.
Instructions (in my own scatterbrained way)
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Get yourself a large bowl. Bigger than you think you need, because every time I underestimate, I end up chasing corn kernels across the counter.
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Toss in the corn (drained, please, or it’ll be a soggy mess), cucumber, tomatoes, bell pepper, and onions. Give it a stir just so it looks colorful and makes you feel like you’re halfway done.
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In a smaller bowl—or honestly, I’ve mixed it right in a coffee mug before—whisk together the mayonnaise, vinegar, and sugar. Don’t overthink it. If it looks smooth, it’s done.
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Pour the dressing over the vegetables. Stir gently, like you’re folding laundry and don’t want to wrinkle it.
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Cover the bowl—plastic wrap, foil, or that old cracked Tupperware lid that doesn’t fit quite right—and chill for at least an hour. That hour makes the flavors marry, though sometimes I sneak a spoonful right away because I have no patience.
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Serve cold, preferably with something grilled, but honestly, I’ve eaten it with potato chips as a dip and it worked fine.
Variations or Substitutions
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Add a can of black beans and some cilantro for a Southwestern mood. Just don’t tell my husband.
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Use sour cream instead of mayo—lighter, tangier, though the texture is different.
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Swap vinegar for lemon juice if you’re feeling fancy.
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Add diced jalapeños if you want some bite. I tried this once for a Fourth of July party, and the kids refused to eat it, but the adults went back for seconds.
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If tomatoes are sad and out of season, use halved cherry tomatoes. They hold up better.
Storage & Reheating Tips
Well, there’s no reheating here—this is a cold salad. But storage is another story.
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In the fridge, it keeps about 2–3 days before the cucumbers start to look weary and the dressing gets watery.
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If you know you’ll have leftovers, sometimes I mix the dressing separately and only toss half the salad. That way, the veggies don’t drown before you’re ready.
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I’ve never frozen it—please don’t try. Corn maybe, but cucumbers turn into something tragic.
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Sometimes I eat it straight out of the container at midnight, standing in front of the refrigerator with the door wide open, even though my mother’s voice still echoes: “Close that door, we’re not cooling the whole neighborhood.”
Closing Thoughts
This salad is nothing fancy. And maybe that’s why I hold it so close. Some recipes are about ceremony, soufflés rising, or cakes layered just so. But this? This is the opposite. A handful of cans, a few vegetables, and a creamy dressing that clings in all the right places.
I think of it as a bridge—between hot afternoons and cooler evenings, between the children running barefoot in the yard and the quieter nights now, when the house hums with nothing but the refrigerator. Sometimes food is just food, and sometimes it’s a container for memory, for the blurry edges of summers that were both exhausting and golden.
If you make it, let it sit an hour. If you can’t wait, well, I understand. And if you decide to throw in jalapeños or extra sugar or whatever makes sense in your kitchen, don’t be afraid—it’s just salad.
But don’t be surprised if twenty years from now, someone asks you for “that corn salad you used to make,” and you find yourself smiling at how something so small stayed so large in someone else’s heart.
Shoepeg Salad
Ingredients
- 3 cans white or shoepeg corn drained
- 1 large cucumber diced
- 2 tomatoes diced
- 1/2 red bell pepper diced
- 5 green onions chopped
- 2/3 cup mayonnaise
- 1 1/2 tablespoons white vinegar
- 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
Instructions
- In a large bowl, combine the drained corn, diced cucumber, tomatoes, red bell pepper, and chopped green onions.
- In a small bowl, whisk together mayonnaise, white vinegar, and granulated sugar until fully combined.
- Pour the dressing over the vegetables and toss gently until evenly coated.
- Cover the salad and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before serving.
- Serve chilled.
Notes