At my kitchen table, I scattered the contents of the bag on a plate. There I was, back in Mrs. Rosenthal’s class; only now I knew better than to dive in straightaway. Instead, I began combing through each candy to decipher which to start with, thinking a process of elimination might increase my chances of making it out of this showdown alive. Naturally, red Starburst was a BIG NO. Mini Twizzlers? Waxy-looking trouble. Red Sour Patch Kids: I’d seen those mischievous ads, no thank you! That left Swedish Fish. They had wrinkles and cracked skin. Their little bodies were flabby and malleable. (I know, because I squashed and stretched four until they all resembled that stingray from Finding Nemo.) Maybe it was hunger-induced delirium, but something about their distorted faces made them seem more, I don’t know, approachable? And before I knew it, one swam into my mouth.
Chewing nervously, I waited in anticipation of another oral attack. But no such occurrence prevailed. In fact, the experience was tranquil. Like eating a ripe piece of fruit outdoors. The flesh was soft, but not disconcertingly so. For something made almost entirely of refined sugar plus Red Dye 40, it proffered a kind of subtle, respectable sweetness. And there was flavor—actual, pronounced flavor! Where red Starbursts fell flat, the Fish accentuated berry notes, rounded out with a citrus punch. I imagined this is how it would taste, perchance, if I was frolicking barefoot in the Swedish woods, stopping to pluck a lingonberry—and not chomping on a mass-produced knockoff. Hey, anything’s possible at 2 a.m.
Lesson learned: Don’t write off an entire category of food based on one bad encounter. Had it not been for slim pickings, had I not squashed four and eaten twenty (yep, twenty!) Swedish Fish in a late night spiral, who knows if I’d have tried red candy at all? I suppose this wouldn’t be a terrible life, and some people would argue that I’m better off without the added sugar. But I’d overcome bouts of adolescent picky-eating and prejudice towards other foods; red candy was my final test. Since those little Fish helped me swim upstream, I’ve archived a tome of self-imposed jurisdictions that, for a time, made me critical of all foods. And I’ve come out on the other side with a curious palate that, for the most part, serves me well.
We aren’t BFFs or anything, but Swedish Fish did take me on a journey of self-realization, introducing some other tasty reds along the way. Twizzlers eat like fruity gemelli. Red Sour Patch Kids are delish—though I hear they’re Swedish Fish in sheep’s clothing. No matter. As for the Starburst? Let’s say it evaded my efforts. I just didn’t want to go back there, and I’m all right with it. As Taylor Swift once said, “If something’s toxic and it’s only ever really been that, what are you gonna do? Just move on. It’s fine.”
At my kitchen table, I scattered the contents of the bag on a plate. There I was, back in Mrs. Rosenthal’s class; only now I knew better than to dive in straightaway. Instead, I began combing through each candy to decipher which to start with, thinking a process of elimination might increase my chances of making it out of this showdown alive. Naturally, red Starburst was a BIG NO. Mini Twizzlers? Waxy-looking trouble. Red Sour Patch Kids: I’d seen those mischievous ads, no thank you! That left Swedish Fish. They had wrinkles and cracked skin. Their little bodies were flabby and malleable. (I know, because I squashed and stretched four until they all resembled that stingray from Finding Nemo.) Maybe it was hunger-induced delirium, but something about their distorted faces made them seem more, I don’t know, approachable? And before I knew it, one swam into my mouth.Chewing nervously, I waited in anticipation of another oral attack. But no such occurrence prevailed. In fact, the experience was tranquil. Like eating a ripe piece of fruit outdoors. The flesh was soft, but not disconcertingly so. For something made almost entirely of refined sugar plus Red Dye 40, it proffered a kind of subtle, respectable sweetness. And there was flavor—actual, pronounced flavor! Where red Starbursts fell flat, the Fish accentuated berry notes, rounded out with a citrus punch. I imagined this is how it would taste, perchance, if I was frolicking barefoot in the Swedish woods, stopping to pluck a lingonberry—and not chomping on a mass-produced knockoff. Hey, anything’s possible at 2 a.m.Lesson learned: Don’t write off an entire category of food based on one bad encounter. Had it not been for slim pickings, had I not squashed four and eaten twenty (yep, twenty!) Swedish Fish in a late night spiral, who knows if I’d have tried red candy at all? I suppose this wouldn’t be a terrible life, and some people would argue that I’m better off without the added sugar. But I’d overcome bouts of adolescent picky-eating and prejudice towards other foods; red candy was my final test. Since those little Fish helped me swim upstream, I’ve archived a tome of self-imposed jurisdictions that, for a time, made me critical of all foods. And I’ve come out on the other side with a curious palate that, for the most part, serves me well.We aren’t BFFs or anything, but Swedish Fish did take me on a journey of self-realization, introducing some other tasty reds along the way. Twizzlers eat like fruity gemelli. Red Sour Patch Kids are delish—though I hear they’re