Candy corn is the symbol of fall—of the cooler air, of the changing leaves, of Halloween, of Thanksgiving (and of my birthday). It is, admittedly, a bit "corny," but it's also a classic. Although it tastes saccharine, its traditional flavor is honey, and while Technicolor in appearance, it is also reminiscent of the American ears of grain that mark the season and color our history.
I can get Snickers, Three Musketeers, or Twix any time of year, and frankly—different as they are—they are all the same thing! Candy corn is inimitable and rare, more of a gem than a Ring Pop, more precious that a 100 Grand. I wait for three seasons until the autumn when I can scatter the candy kernels through the land like Johnny did with his apple seeds.
And so candy corn reappears each fall, the same yellow, orange, and white of October, a herald of a hundred-and-thirty-year past, and then refreshed for the modern year, making me gasp with glee over the new flavors and colors, like the proverbial kid in a candy shop.
I love that candy corn isn't a commitment; I don’t have to have a whole sticky, melting candy bar‐I can just happily graze on sugary kernels for three months of the year. I love that it's low in calories, and that it's based—at least ideologically—on corn.
I love that it's cheap, and that it lasts an eternity. I love that it makes so many of you out there positively sick, because then I have it all for myself. To me, it is the most charismatic, charming, deliciously cloying candy in existence. It is my sugar pie, honey bunch, and I am its sweetest thing, and we have a love affair for the ages.
Stay tuned for the anti-stance.