Eating Candy

Is there a word or concept that sums up my lifelong passion for sweets better than “Candy”? I don’t think so… Yes, “Chocolate” is a contender but as a child, before Chocolate ascended to its rightful place atop the Pantheon of my sweet preferences, it was incorporated into the concept of Candy. So, for narrative purposes, let us allow Candy to be the winning word here.

What follows are some memories that reflect and reveal aspects of my lifelong relationship with sweets. This relationship has been constant, intense and, at times, rapacious. As a person who is, on the whole, very lazy and not inclined to vigorous physical activity, it is fortunate that in my late teens I found a form of exercise that I loved which has enabled me to consume sweets with measured abandon: swimming. It is inexplicable to me that I love to swim as I do because effort is involved, but I acknowledge the following: besides the therapeutic appeal for me of the water aspect of swimming (one swims in water, for the uninitiated), it is an exercise that I can perform while lying down. I do appreciate the license granted me, through swimming, to consume sweets without apparent physical consequence. Some of the ways in which I exercise this license are detailed below.

Early Beginnings: My Candy Collection

As for many North American children, Hallowe’en was and is an important Candy Holiday, second only (IMO) to Easter. (Not many Jewish children looked forward to Easter as I did, and still do, for the discounted candy after the Day.) As a child of 7 or so until my preteen years, I kept under my bed a curated collection of candies, collected on holidays or through purchase at the local small grocer up the street, which I would share with a few special friends. Mostly, however, I would take out one of the two medium-blue boxes (how well-I remember that shade of blue!) which housed my collection and pore over them nightly like a scrawny copper-headed Midas. Some of the items became, over time, inedible, but no matter. It was their visual appeal that was the point: garish, unnatural colors promising exotic, otherworldly transports of sugary pleasure, intellectually-perfect combinations of ingredients – these were the appealing facets of my Candy Collection. Ultimately, most of it was to be tossed, uneaten, tried-and-disappointing, and/or ultimately unappreciated for their designed purposes, but their possession nonetheless valued.

I think I was a lonely child.

Candy Consequences

One would imagine that all of the candy I consumed in my childhood would have ensured an intimate knowledge of a dentist’s office, but I could honestly brag to those who dared to regale me with their personal dental horror stories that I did not have ONE SINGLE CAVITY. I was indeed being honest, but what I professed was far from the truth. Yes, two of my dad’s brothers were local dentists – one of them was, according to my mother, a “Dentist To The Stars”, although it didn’t occur to me to wonder what Stars of Interest would live in Cincinnati so as to take advantage of the stellar dentistry available there. But neither I nor any of my sisters ever saw these uncles as one of their patients. Actually, none of us sisters ever saw any dentist until I turned 13, at which time I discovered that my boasts of healthy, intact teeth were baseless, that I had many cavities that now urgently needed to be attended to. Watching that long, large-gauge Novocain-filled needle approaching my waiting soft cheek via my open mouth was an experience that became a familiar event, only to be echoed years later when I became sexually active (usually with far more enthusiasm than I brought to the dental setting, I might add). The Pied Piper had to be paid for all of that candy consumption and quite fittingly my teeth, already grey and unattractive with tetracycline staining, became pied with amalgam and porcelain patches. As an adult I brush and floss daily, religiously, with fine effect. Those ancient fillings still exist and have been maintained, a crown or two added to the mix, but I report happily that my continued indulgence in candy consumption coexists happily with excellent dental health.

Disgustingness Of Which I Shall Not Speak, and Excesses Of Which I Will

I WON’T describe the hand-sized ceramic painted egg, still in my possession, that used to contain my years-old chewed-gum collection. Even I recognized that it was disgusting, as I will happily admit whenever one of my sisters or a friend reminisces about my Gum Collection. If I had continued the habit, I could make all sorts of jokes about the need for Gum Control Legislation when I was very young, etc., but these are cheap jokes that would necessitate revisiting my vile impulse to retain heavily masticated wads of chewing gum. I WILL describe, below, a few notable and happy memories of my taste for sweets that are illustrative of the extremes to which I will go in pursuit of my sugary pleasures.

Bag O’ Cordials

When my older sister got married, my parents organized the rehearsal dinner. The table accoutrements were to include flowers and bowls of chocolate-covered cordials. If you do not know what a chocolate cordial is, I will enlighten you as best I can without you actually experiencing one: it is a small, approximately half-inch (1.25-1.5 cm for my Canadian readers) diameter ball of chocolate that enrobes a nucleus of liquid liquor-inspired flavoring such as rum, mint, chocolate, raspberry, blackberry brandy – you get the idea. At the rehearsal dinner my mother, at whose knee I learned to worship the glories of chocolate and other confection, forgot (!) to put out the cordials. After the wedding, when I had to drive back to Ann Arbor where I was working at the time, my mother asked me if I wanted the forgotten cordials. Assuming it was a rhetorical question, I nonetheless answered, with alacrity, in the affirmative. She then hauled out and presented me with a large Hefty garbage bag filled with cordials. To say that I was delighted is like saying that Trump is not really the best POTUS that we’ve ever seen: why say anything with such inadequate words? This bag was the size of the large-mesh sacks filled with a dozen soccer balls that coaches haul out for practice drills, but instead of net it was black plastic, approximately 3 feet in diameter, and filled with chocolates. I’ll just leave that description lying there for now.

So, I drove back to Ann Arbor. Because it was June and a typical midwestern hot and humid summer was raging (very memorable because my sister’s wedding was outside. Nothing like a profusely sweating server handing you a bread roll at a celebratory feast to ensure that the weather details stick in one’s memory), I kept the garbage bag of cordials in the air-conditioned car interior with me, not trusting it to the oven of the trunk, and they made it back to my place intact. My life that summer then developed a lovely version of Cocktail Hour (Cordial Hour!), namely me going for a vigorous swim in the local 50m outdoor pool after work

and returning home to eat a bowl of cordials while lying in the hammock that bisected my bedroom. Talking on the phone or reading a book – both were activities happily enjoyed while swinging in my hammock and popping cordials like popcorn. It was a happy summer, even when I’d land an occasional amaretto-flavored or mint cordial (blecch). And all too soon, the cordials were done. Good Times.

They’re Mostly Air

I enjoy Rice Krispy Treats, more so when I add a few cups of chocolate chips to the mix. The resulting 9″x13″ tray of treats that sported dramatic smears of melted chocolate, as well as clusters of congealed chocolate chips nested amidst marshmallowy puffed rice, was an easy and quick dessert that was always welcomed by the whole family. After supper, we would each have a healthy-sized square, a good 2″ tall, of Rice Krispy treat, and the remainder of the treats would be covered with cellophane wrap.

On one occasion after I had made the treats, I was at home the following day and, without going into the details, I finished the entire pan of Rice Krispy Treats avec chocolat. Not wanting to suffer my family’s slings and arrows regarding my gluttony, I then made a new pan of Rice Krispies and chocolate, carved out (and ate) a healthy strip of treats from this new batch and then rewrapped the pan. No one was the wiser until several years later, when my husband overheard me telling this story at one of his work functions. He looked at me with awe and admiration for my resourcefulness, and queried me to ensure that I had truly achieved such a thing: “You did what?”

They Freeze Very Well

I had been having a difficult time. My daughter was not 100% happy with her weight at the time, wanted to start a diet and was twigging my fears regarding rampant weight loss. What parent can be happy in such a circumstance?

On this particular day, I dropped off my daughter at her doctor’s office for a consultation regarding her diet intentions, a plan in place for us to meet up afterwards. Walking around the neighborhood and passing the time, I stopped in at the city’s best-established commercial chocolate shop. As always, I asked if they had any available “seconds”, chocolates that are less-than-perfect and thus heavily discounted. The lovely woman behind the counter took a good, hard look at me and evidently saw something in my face. In a gentle, hostage-situation-worthy voice she asked me to stay where I was. She disappeared into the back and re-emerged moments later carrying what looked like two plain shoeboxes – slightly oversized, shoeboxes that could house a pair of sassy mid-calf boots, not just Keds. She set the boxes down on the counter in front of me and explained that these chocolate-covered salted caramels had just come in and they were mine for the asking. She named the price and I, being very thoughtful and measured when it comes to buying uncommon volumes of chocolates for my personal consumption, told her that I needed to take a turn around the block, and that I would return in 10 minutes with my well-considered answer to her generous offer. I had walked twenty paces outside the chocolate shop before realizing, “Who the hell am I kidding?!” I did an about-face and went to fetch my chocolates, all 12 pounds of them.

Yes, I bought 12 pounds (give or take) of salted chocolate caramels. At one time. With the intention of eating them on my own. This woman/Angel taped the boxes closed and suggested that I freeze the chocolates in plastic bags as they would keep very well like this for a very long time. She was being polite, expressing concern that the longevity of the chocolates was a real issue. I paid and thanked her from my heart.

By now, it was time to retrieve my daughter and so I made my way to our meeting place. In a sad attempt at camouflaging them, my boxes were carelessly covered by our city’s weekly free newspaper and carried under my arm that was farthest from my daughter who, possessing a critical eye, would have something to say about my new acquisitions. We returned to our car and went home, the boxes unremarked upon.

Later that day, in private, I prepared aliquots of chocolates to be frozen, small plastic baggies each holding about a dozen salted chocolate caramels. I treasured and savored those bulging baggies over the coming months (yes, mere months), extracting a baggie here and there for jaw-tiring treats (especially when still half-frozen. Defrosting can take too long) that were sweet spots during a very difficult time. I appreciated then and treasure to this day the memory of that Woman, Keeper of the Chocolates, behind the counter when she responded to me, an eerily calm customer with taut nerves, with the currency of chocolate, backed by the Gold Standard of her kindness.