Who says Candy Corn can only be enjoyed in October? Not the manufacturers of candy corn, who also produce a green and red version for Christmas, and a pink and white version for Valentine’s Day. But why stop there? If there was any justice in candy consumption, Candy Corn would be enjoyed every month of the year.
Candy Corn deserves a permanent spot on candy racks in between M&M’s and Reese’s Pieces. Chocolate-based treats get all the good candy press and it’s not fair. Seriously, what’s a sugar and corn-syrup fake kernel gotta do to get some respect? This is not a rhetorical question. I genuinely want to know.
Why do I care so much? Because I’m horny for Candy Corn. Not a bad slogan, actually. It might get the much-maligned candy some attention.
Don’t get me wrong: Candy Corn isn’t good. To call it “disgusting” would be putting it mildly. But Candy Corn tastes foul in such a unique way that I can’t eat just one. Every time I bite into its semi-soft waxy sweetness, I try to figure out what the hell I’m eating. Before I realize it, I’ve eaten the whole bag. As Bow Wow Wow says, “I want candy, I want candy, I want candy, I want candy.” If they were brave, they would have added the word “corn” to that clarion call.
Candy Corn is both the bastard stepchild of actual candy and the hated cousin of corn. It was invented by Willy Wonka wannabe George Renninger in the 1880s. Or Rascally Renninger, as nobody called him. No word on how many whimsical candy-related deaths he may have caused while trying to teach an impish young boy that all of our actions carry consequences.
Of course, the advent of this internationally-ignored candy was met with a general shrug. It wasn’t beloved, it wasn’t reviled, it just was. So they kept making it.
It says a lot about a candy when the main selling point is that it “has three tempting colors!”
Honestly, it feels like a stretch to call Candy Corn a “fine” candy. But the heart wants what the heart wants. And my heart wants Candy Corn.