A Skeptic Tries is a series examining our food resistances and what happens when we try them anyway. Next up, contributing writer Justine Lee faces off against her childhood enemy: Swedish Fish.
It started one afternoon in a classroom. I’d been celebrating the end of yet another grueling standardized test season with the rest of Mrs. Rosenthal’s fourth grade gang, and we’d all been distributed a hodgepodge of mini candies. From the responsibly portioned pile on my desk, I opted for a red Starburst, something I’d never sampled before. Right off the bat I was disgusted. The slab was tough as cement and my prepubescent fangs had to tug and pull for minutes (okay fine, seconds) to extract any flavor at all. Finally, my efforts were met with an overload of mystery-fruit yuckiness. As my classmates ate their sweets with glee, I sat in silent fury. This was SO. GROSS. I likened it to tasting blood-colored cough medicine that had hardened like the scabs covering my knobby knees.
An already picky eater, those mere seconds of arduous chomping gave me nothing in return and only crystallized my sensitive disposition. I was notorious in my household for the hunger strikes I’d orchestrate if my Frosted Flakes were the slightest bit waterlogged in whole milk. Meltdowns occurred when my mom tried to get me into French soft cheeses. And I was in the running for a Guinness World Record for the longest grudge held against fresh ginger. In other words I was easily set off and processed that one bite of candy as a cruel attack. Assuming all red candies would be similarly nasty, at the wise old age of nine, I swore an oath: I’d dodge fruit punch Starbursts —and all of their red disciples—forever.
I am, of course, in the minority. Red candy is America’s sweetheart. Most consumers prefer their fruity sweets in scarlet hues, and the candy aisle supplies what is desired. Starbursts FaveReds , a combination of reds (and pinks)—fruit punch, strawberry, watermelon, and cherry—in one packet, is one of the numerous cogs in Big Food’s deliberate ploy to cash in on the beloved color. Over the years I have come of age. I am super chill (almost) all the time! I’ve learned that cereal milk makes for dreamy soft serve and melted Brie is a petit luxury. A smokin’ hot food safety expert I knew in college once extolled the natural antimicrobial properties of ginger, so I started eating that too. And I’ve even developed a burning pash for the emotional bravado penned by Taylor Swift, the self-made red queen. But the crimson-stained candy remained untouched; the wounds endured.
That was, until recently. In an all-night race to meet a few project deadlines, the clock on my laptop hit bewitching hours and I sought out a snack. There, looming in the back corner of my otherwise bare pantry, I found a tall bag of assorted red candies. In all honesty, it came in a gift box. And in all honesty, it’s a miracle I didn’t trash it, but I hate food waste (even when said food is cursed). Holding the bag of Satan’s sweets in my hand, I teetered on the edge—do I or do I not try them?—until my rumbling stomach called the shots.
Source : food
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