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Candy Baron
Here it is, the Candy Baron. I’m starting to feel ill. A brief history first. When we were young, my sister Kelsey and I were loaded up into the old GMC Safari along with all the necessary provisions and whisked away for the great family summer vacation somewhere in continental North America. It was an annual tradition, one Kels and I could count on as reliably as the arrival of Christmas or Easter: once exams were over and school was done, it was family vacation time.
I hope I’m not sounding ungrateful here, because I’m not. Just as my parents prophesized before we set out for yet another trip to some place I had no interest in, I have come to cherish those vacations now that I’m older. Actually, even back then I think I can say I enjoyed every single vacation we went on—even the Science Alert Summer, wherein we visited several spots around Alberta referenced in the grade 7 science curriculum—but I had to act cool and pretend I didn’t.
Of all the trips we took and places we visited as a family all those summers ago, there was one vacation in memory when I dropped the façade and made no pretense about how much I was enjoying
Fisherman's Wharf
Fisherman’s Wharf, ground level. myself. This despite the fact that I was making my first foray into those ambivalent teen years. The trip in question was our own Canadian version of the great American road-trip to Disneyland. It was one of the greatest Hoffman family vacations ever (you can’t go wrong with a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth): a Shakespeare festival in a Midwest-American town, Vegas, the Grand Canyon, and the main attraction, Disneyland, itself. The memories of our trip to Disneyland and back have stayed with me even now that I’m in the twilight of my 20’s. But of all the memories, perhaps the most vivid in my recollection is how I came to hate saltwater taffy. Yes, saltwater taffy, that deliciously sticky candy enjoyed by millions.
I didn’t always hate saltwater taffy of course. In fact, I used to love the stuff. The problem was I loved it too much. We were in San Francisco exploring the famous Fisherman’s Wharf. Near the end of the pier-cum-shopping arcade I found what I thought must be heaven: a confectionary specializing in saltwater taffy. Hot damn! They sold by the pound and there were rows upon rows of barrels piled high with
Candy Baron
Alright. I can do this. Baby steps to the door. Baby steps to the door. every flavour imaginable—from root beer to boysenberry to neopolitan—all for our taking. Oh it was ecstasy, I tell you. But after gorging myself on nearly my entire share of the pound of taffy Dad had purchased for Kelsey and me to split, and the subsequent drive north along the winding California coastline, I soon discovered the agony.
It was all I could do to fight back the urge to vomit. I draped my head out the van window as best as was safely possible because the onrushing air eased my nausea slightly. That and my dogged determination to keep down my lunch and all that saltwater taffy were enough to get me through to the next bathroom break. By this time, incidentally, I had been keeping my vigil against vomit for the better part of an hour, an impressive feat for a kid a few days past his 13th birthday I think. When we finally pulled into a Wendy’s parking lot, I exited that van like it was about to blow up. It wasn’t the van that was in danger of blowing up, however. So dire was my peril that I couldn’t even make it into the Wendy’s restroom.
Fisherman's Wharf
Same thing but taken from the upper level. Instead, I raced straight toward the dumpster behind the restaurant. It was definitely not my proudest moment, and as a result, I was so completely turned off saltwater taffy that I’ve never touched a piece of the candy since. Even the sight of saltwater taffy has been enough to induce those feelings of nausea again.
But it’s odd how life works out sometimes, isn’t it?
Fast forward 13 years. I’m on my way back to Edmonton for my sister Donna’s wedding. I have an insane 12 hour layover in San Francisco and there’s only so long you can amuse yourself at the airport museum and by looking at the plaques of inductees into the Bay Area Sports Hall of Fame. So I decide to head into town and wander around the pier area. Well lo and behold I wind up back at Fisherman’s Wharf. Now at this point I wasn’t thinking about that rather unfortunate experience half my lifetime ago which started from that candy store at the end of the pier, and at first its significance didn’t even register with me when I actually saw it again (possibly owing to the jetlag). However, as I passed the
Candy Baron
Whoa, look at all that saltwater taffy! Who wouldn’t be tempted to overindulge in a store like this? store and stopped to gawk at the rows upon rows of barrels piled high with every flavour of saltwater taffy imaginable, I was suddenly overcome with a feeling of déjà vu coupled with a pang of nausea. Before long it occurred to me that this was the very store which precipitated the complete and utter collapse in my ability to resist temptation those many years ago. I snapped a couple photos to show to the many people I’ve shared my sad tale of how I got turned off saltwater taffy with (that’s quite a few of you, I’m sure. And even more now), and beat a hasty retreat for fear of having to lean over the guard rail down by the Alcatraz observatory.
I didn’t get very far, however, before I stopped and turned back. “Here I am,” I thought, “after coming thousands of miles to San Francisco, only to find myself back at the source of my suffering so long ago.” I was convinced it was a sign of some sort. I’m not sure of what exactly, but that’s just the type of silly thing I believe: everything is a sign of something or another. In this instance,
Harbour Seals
These were the harbour seals I was watching when I ate my first piece of saltwater taffy in 13 years. I reckoned that my arrival at this confectionary was a sign of being offered a chance for redemption. I plucked up my nerve (a strange thing to say about going into a candy store, I know), headed inside, grabbed a basket and proceeded to fill it with the most appealing taffies. After handing over my American money, I went down to the pier’s end to watch the harbour seals. There I unwrapped my first piece of saltwater taffy in the 13 years since my last visit to San Francisco.
That first piece was a little strange. After all, this was not a sweet I’d been accustomed to for a very long time. It wasn’t too bad though and I didn’t feel like vomiting so I decided to indulge myself with another piece. It was even better. Years of revulsion to saltwater taffy were soon evaporating, but I wasn’t going to forget what happened last time. No way. After that second piece, I put the bag away, watched the seals a while longer and then continued with my exploring. Sure I had a few more pieces sporadically here and there during the day, but as testimony to the success of
Candy Baron
Let's have a closer look. my resolve, not only did the bag of saltwater taffy make it all the way back to Edmonton, there were still pieces left in the bowl at the parents’ when I returned to Hiroshima. I had succeeded. I had faced my demons and beaten them back, and having done so I am able to once again enjoy the delicious taste of saltwater taffy.
Now, at long last I can end those costly therapy sessions.
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kelsey
non-member comment
rootbeer?
did you get rootbeer? i didn't get to try! perhaps (fingers crossed) i will find my way to san fran in october. but that has a very small possibility.