When you’re young you think about the goals for your life and set high standards for what you what to achieve. Never did I imagine that one of the hardest goals I would face in deep middle age is not eating anymore Halloween candy.
It doesn’t help that my happy place is dreaming about cakes, cookies and cobbler. When I’m stressed, stuck in traffic or sitting in a meeting bored to the point of falling asleep it perks me up to let my mind roam to things like hot milk cake with caramel icing or a compote creeping crust cobbler.
Based on this personal history it’s a given that I would have an issue with saying no to sweets which is why I always buy Halloween candy I don’t like. This year though something happened. I rediscovered the wonder of the Milk Dud.
I have a vague memory of liking Milk Duds as a child, but only if the other candy choice was a Pixy Stix. This is why I felt safe buying a huge bag of assorted Kit Kats, Milk Duds and Almond Joys – a trio that I thought, didn’t do much for me. Until late on Halloween night when I opened up a mini box of Duds and had an epiphany. Milk Duds are magnificent.
I was a goner. That sweet, sassy, chewy caramel with a chocolate chaser was a sensory delight. I couldn’t get enough. By midnight I had probably consumed, okay I’m not telling you, it’s best that some things are kept private.
Let’s just say that I might have aggravated my carpal tunnels by all the mini boxes I opened. I reasoned that the excessive chewing required in consuming a Milk Dud might be like when you eat celery and all the jaw exertion cancels out the caloric content of the cruciferous veggie. Yeah, whatever, I know that’s wrong, but at midnight it sounded so right.
I had the Milk Dud fever bad. The next day I had to talk myself down from going into Target and buying more Halloween candy at 50% off. Finally, I had the strength to go cold turkey and white knuckle through a very arduous week of not eating candy. Then, just as I was pulling myself together and only thinking of Milk Duds, maybe 25 times a day, my husband ruined my life. He brought a man into our home and I fell in love. Head over heels, crazy in love.
The truly terrible part about all of this was that my daughter also shared the same feelings. Yes, shockingly we were both in love with same man. Don’t judge. This guy is a cutie and it doesn’t hurt that his backside is covered in white fudge icing. Yep, this mother daughter love triangle was with the Trader Joe’s Mini Gingerbread Man.
He’s perfect. The relationship starts off with a satisfying crunch, then your taste buds get the kick of a perfectly spiced gingerbread and it finishes with the velvety sweetness of the white fudge glaze.
It’s a taste bud extravaganza. Sadly, this mother/daughter romance for the gingerbread gentleman lead us to fight over who got him and in a desperate act of keeping “Gingey” only for me I absconded with the bag and locked myself in my bedroom.
Finally, maternal instincts kicked in and I agreed to share – sort of. I had already hidden at least 10 of the guys in my closet. The next day when the bag was empty I told my husband that was it. No more gingerbread guys are allowed in our home.
I decided to put family first even though it’s killing me and sometimes I think I hear my gingerbread suitor calling for me. But, I can do this. I will do this, at least for this month. Once December hits all bets are off. I mean how can anyone go through Christmas without a gingerbread man?
Snarky in the Suburbs 