Maybe you like clam candy canes. That phrase sends shivers down most spines, but The Takeout is a safe space, a refuge where you can come, recline on our digital couch, and spill your darkest candy-related secrets. (Save the stuff about your weird dreams and Freudian resentments for your actual therapist, please.) In the spirit of fostering trust, we’ll share our unpopular candy opinions first. Then, you have to return the favor.
Those rejected candies pooling at the bottom of your treat bucket? Yeah, I probably want them.
As a kid, I was a dream trick-or-treat partner because I’ve always loved the “old-person candies” that no one else wants. Milk Duds, Junior Mints, Tootsie Roll Midges, Smarties, Peppermint Patties, and yes, candy corn. I welcome them all with open arms, and will probably trade you my Swedish Fish or Three Musketeers in exchange.
So I guess my unpopular candy opinion is that most unpopular candies are delicious. Don’t worry, though; I don’t inflict these bizarre preferences on others. Now that I’m old enough to be the treat giver rather than the treat recipient, our house stocks all the goods that normal kids like—Reese’s, Snickers, Starburst, Twix, Good & Plenty—just kidding about that last one. [Kate Bernot]
Firstly, let’s underscore the word “overrated,” which does not equate to “bad,” only that its outsized reputation does not match its true standing. For me, Sour Patch Kids are so enticing, but they almost always underwhelm. I’ve never had an SPK experience greater than a B+. It comes down to one trait: its texture. There’s more chew than I like, and once your molars sink into its sour patched-interior, the candy gums itself into the crevices. Dentists must love Sour Patch Kids because it gives them so much business.
For the record: I love me some coarse sour granules—if only they surrounded a candy the texture of Haribo gummies. This is why I maintain the best candies are, in fact, Haribo’s Fizzy Cola bottles. [Kevin Pang]
The popular joke every Halloween is that the smaller sized candy bars billed as “fun-size” is a misnomer. Wouldn’t a real “fun-size bar” be as big as your head? My unpopular answer to that is “no way.” Give me a mini-fun-size bar any day.
I realized this sentiment recently when my son pulled a full-size Milky Way out of his backpack, purchased for snack after school. I was aghast. I was tired just looking at that thing. I wouldn’t be done with that Milky Way way before it was done with me, and even then I would probably need a lie-down.
At this same time, I had been enjoying the plethora of fun-size candy bars available in the spirit of pre-Halloween mania. I know the ironic part is that I clearly was eating enough of these fun-size bars a day to equal one full candy bar. In our spirit of candy mashups, my favorite combo turned out to be a tiny peanut butter cup with a Kit-Kat: The light crunchiness of the Kit-Kat bar added some fun texture to the Reese’s, while the peanut butter boosted the flavor level of the Kit-Kat. It was perfect. I might have had three of those pairings in a day, certainly adding up to even more than a full candy bar.
But that’s the “fun” part about it. The fun-size lets me mix and match at will. It also—foolishly, but still—lets me feel like I’m not imbibing as much candy as I actually am bit since I’m only eating “fun-size.” And, honestly, I probably will continue to do so until I’m scraping the bottom of the plastic pumpkin Halloweeen-day haul—leaving the giant candy bars for someone else. [Gwen Ihnat]