Some of you who know me might be surprised that I think so. I’m really a salty, coffee-cream-only, once-a-month sugar cravings kind of gal. I’d rather eat a steak, well, used to rather than a pile of sweets hands down. Now, I’m more likely to have a Morning Star Tomato Basil burger with piles of cheese and spinach on a bagel as an indulgent treat. Or an americano with tons of room, and resultantly tons of cream, from Starbucks.
But I love the hell out of these mellowcreme pumpkins that start appearing six weeks before Halloween. They’re heartier candy corn. Made out of the same stuff. But I despise candy corn. It’s got a grainy texture and, as much fun as it is to eat one color at a time, it’s a wholly unsatisfying exercise and not worth the potential dental damage.
But the pumpkins are somehow soft when I bite into them. They’re half way between candy corn and taffy and they taste like butterscotch (which I also really dislike). They cause the saliva to flow generously and my jaw clenches with over-sugared spasms the very moment they pass my uvula. I like to pop a second one before the first is all the way down, and then the warm butterscotch goop coats the room-temperature curd of butterscotchy deliciousness. So the act of chewing becomes a marriage of two mellowcreme forms: rock and lava.
I didn’t allow myself to revisit this love until last year when, in a particular fit of escapism from my marvelous retail job, I bought a bag at Giant and a festive Halloween candy dish and I ate them. Pearl ate some, too. Brad thinks they’re gross. And he’s right. But they’re delicious gross.