Candy Crime
by Dorothy Woodend
My mother used to play a cruel trick on us when we were young. When we made our weekly trek into town to buy food at the health food shop she’d say “Okay, you can have one sweety each.” The words barely left her lips before the four of us beelined for the confectionary display, tripping over each other, snarling and snapping like a pack of tiny wolves. Wherein began the most concentrated form of deliberation I have ever known. Hopping from foot to foot, eyes screwed tight, small brains working feverishly, trying to figure out which of the health food sweets actually bore the closest resemblance to real sweets. The pickings were slim — seedy sesame bars, gummy bears or rancid black licorice — it was enough to break even the toughest and most decisively minded child.
That wasn’t, however, the worst of her crimes. Sometimes, with a beckoning smile, she’d hold out some brown squares of what looked like chocolate. “Is this really chocolate?” I asked. “Of course” she said. Most children worth their salt, if you approach them with quote, unquote ‘healthy sweets’ will stand up and say in a loud clear voice, “Bugger Off, you old bag” but we were desperate. Greed overtook caution and we snatched the brown bits out of her hands and stuffed them down. For a fraction of a moment, everything was bliss, then creeping horror, the taste invaded your nose and mouth, musty, foul, like licking a tree trunk. It wasn’t sweet chocolate, but the foul pretender, Prince of thieves, CAROB!! While we spat and retched my mother would say, “Why are you being so silly, it tastes just like chocolate” and laugh and laugh.
Is it any wonder I was driven to candy crime?
It started with Aero Bars — sweet, popping gently on the tongue, seductive Areo bars — I got hooked hard, and soon my young life became about how to get sweets, where to get sweets and how many sweets could I get. And for that I needed money. When you’re small, your economic prospects are few. You really only have two options, you can work or you can steal. Since working involves work, something I am still categorically opposed to, stealing seemed like a reasonable alternative. Having been tricked into eating carob, I figured my mother owed me. And there, flopped open, was her purse. In went the hand, out came the money and off I went to buy Aero bars. It was that simple. Or was it?
Having lived with the guilt for 25 years, I can honestly say deprivation is not the answer, nor, obviously, is subterfuge. Once I moved out of the country, I made it my business to eat as much candy as possible to make up for those years of sweet starvation. Many cavities and a few too extra pounds later, I have learned some things about candy and kids. The sin is greater than the sinner. My son can’t even speak English yet, but he knows sweets when he sees them. Having literally wrestled chocolate out of his hands, I have some sympathy for my poor, well intentioned mother with her vile carob.
When you are a child, sweets are God. Better than food, almost better than toys, better than money. In fact money is simply a means to get more sweets. Sweets can turn the most angelic golden aired little angel into a whining, thieving, maniacal, shrieking sugar junkie, who will do anything for another fix. Most first brushes with the law stem directly from candy. Children are not stupid. Well, okay they’re a little stupid, but what they l