A sugar addict faces her demon

Junior Mints, with their whiff of medicinal virtue, may be the perfect candy. Unless we consider Peanut M&Ms, offering protein and the smugness of legume consumption. Or perhaps Kit-Kats and Twix, which are practically just cookies.

Tootsie Rolls are meant to be eaten by the handful, as are Goetzee’s bulls-eye caramels, with their doughy outer rings and oversweet white middles; bite-sized Bit O Honeys you can twist into attenuated spirals. They pair well with the chalky deliciousness of York Peppermint Patties.

I can refuse cheesecake, tiramisu, crème caramel, any kind of pie, and rum-soaked, brandied, or flaming cakes. I’ll pass on profiteroles and clafoutis and shortcake and mousse. But show me a kid’s stash of Halloween candy, even in July, and I’ll plow through it. When it comes to sweets, I have the palate of a tween.

My father made a bet with my brother and me when we were kids. He wagered we couldn’t go a whole year without eating candy. I could resist anything but a challenge. At the end of each year we’d “win” a token amount – a dollar, maybe five by the time I graduated from high school. We could drink alcohol and smoke weed, but candy was off-limits.

This, naturally, turned me into an adult candy hound of the highest order. While I never buy whole bars, if there’s a bunch of minis around I will dive in, especially if they’re free. Free food doesn’t count against your health, as everyone knows. And, were I a calorie-counter, I might claim that free food doesn’t have any of those. Read more.