Candy Corn: Your Friend and Mine
by Marjorie Ingall
Shut up, it is not disgusting. It is appalling and addictive and seductive, the rock cocaine of the confectionery world. Teenagers and adults may turn up their noses in favor of the Hershey's Fun Size chocolates (which, you'll excuse me, would be infinitely funner if they had more mass), but the little children know. Candy corn rules.
Candy corn lends itself to both nibbling and snarfing. You can delicately work your way down the triangular niblet shaft, daintily devouring each color tier in precise librarianesque succession. Or you can throw great corn-syrupy handfuls into your yawning maw, quivering in sugar shock like a Beavis on a bender. Which method is more "you"?
Candy-corn-consumption-method is a fine window onto the eater's personality. Are you mindful or mindless in your experience of the world? The kind of carefree person who plunges in and grabs life with both hands, sucking down all it has to offer while ignoring subtleties and quiet beauty, or the careful kind of person who is attuned to life's tiny pleasures while missing out on big fun through his own anal-retentive control-freakitude? Just asking. (Don't ever fall in love with someone whose candy corn habits are different from yours. It's better to fall in love with someone who hates or is indifferent to candy corn than one who eats it differently from you. It's a recipe for heartache.)
Candy corn, on the vile candy scale, is nowhere near as gross as Marshmallow Peeps, wax lips, or those bright orange pumpkins that are made of candy corn substance but are rendered putrid by their oversized, mutant, chewy density. It's akin to the Oreo conundrum -- the balance of cookie and creme is perfect, so futzing with Dubble-Stuf (or however they spell it) made it sinister and WRONG. An abomination unto the Lord.
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