Edgy Mama

I became engaged in a passionate discussion about Easter candy on Tequila Mockingbird’s site yesterday, and I have decided that I have no choice but to write about my new favorite book, Candy Freak, by Steve Almond.

At the risk of sounding dramatic, I think this book has changed my life. For the first time since high school, I feel that I can be completely open about my lifelong candy habit (I’m coming out, I want the world to know). It’s always a relief, regardless of your obsession, to know that there is someone who is worse off than you—in my case, that person is Steve Almond. So, thanks, Steve, for that gift, and for giving me the strength to testify (like a good Southerner).

I can’t remember a time when I have not loved and longed for candy. I am not particularly interested in other sweets. Cake, cookies, even ice cream, are not necessary for my survival. Candy is. I have lovely memories of childhood candy fests, mostly around what Almond calls “the freak holiday”—Halloween, and my ICS (Initial Candy Supplier).

My ICS was Norman’s–a decrepit, shack-like gas station and random goods store within walking distance of my house (Atlantans—Norman’s is now The Country Store at the corner of Mt. Paran and Northside). Norman’s was owned and presided over by, surprise, Norman, an overweight and rather dour middle-aged man. My boy next door and I (occasionally with various other neighborhood kids) would, whenever allowed (and sometimes when not), make the trek to Norman’s. We would spend whatever money we had on scads of nickel candy and the occasional 25-cent candy bar. I vividly remember spending a great deal of time in my boy next door’s tree house, trading and eating mounds of candy. A trampoline was positioned next to his tree house, so we could, in fits of blood sugar overload, leap from the tree house onto the trampoline (I’m still not sure how large amounts of candy plus spastic bouncing did not equal copious barfing).

My most traumatic candy experience occurred, predictably, the Halloween when I was six. After a highly successful night of trick or treating, I fell, exhausted, into my bed. I awoke the next morning and was immediately aware that something was wrong. The huge plastic pumpkin that held my stash was no longer hanging on the closet doorknob, but was lying on the floor. A trail of ripped wrappers, smashed chocolate, and half-eaten lollipops led across the room to the bed of my EIGHTEEN-MONTH-OLD sister. She lay asleep, with an angelic grin on her chocolate-smeared mouth, hardened corn syrup matted in her wispy hair, and food coloring staining her footie pajamas. She had managed, in a move so cunning it took my breath away, to climb over her bed rail, pull the pumpkin off the door knob, and, in what must have been an orgiastic frenzy, to devour or ruin all of my hard-earned Halloween candy. I have never forgiven her.

When I was fifteen, I spend a month of summer vacation on a bus stuffed with other teenagers, traveling across the country on “Western Tour.” It was the first time I had left the South. The only memory I have of this trip (other than being on the bus) is of touring the Ghiradelli Chocolate Factory in San Francisco.

Several years ago, I spent 19 months running a capital campaign for an independent school in the Boston area. I helped raise over $10 million dollars for the school. A few years later, my former boss said what she most remembered about me was that I was the only person she’d ever known who could identify each and every flavor of Jelly Belly jelly beans (without using the box’s cheat sheet). I was inordinately proud.

So, in the spirit of Almond’s confession, candy currently in my home includes: a bag of fun-sized Snickers bars in the freezer; half a bag of mini Reeses cups (half went into Easter eggs for my son’s school Easter egg hunt); two dark chocolate bars (hidden from my spouse–who traded beer for chocolate three months ago and has managed to lose weight!); a large basket of mixed candy (left over from various holidays) from which my children get to pick one thing for dessert each night; three bags of bulk candy containing Swedish Fish, Fruit Sours, and Jelly Bellies; and a box of 50 Incredibles’ Brand Fruit Snacks (candy masquerading as potential health food—“more fruit juice added”).

So, if you, too, are a Candy Freak, read Steve’s book and let go of the “guilt hammer” (I erroneously feel that Steve is my friend now—I need to call him by his first name.