I have made no secret of my disdain for candy apples. Beginning with my earliest childhood memories, I have never understood their attraction. Nor the esteem in which they are held by so many. It always seemed that, once you managed to penetrate the thin, sticky, tooth-shattering exterior, you were left with simply a mealy, half-chewed apple. What was so wonderful about that?
In later years, I tried re-creating candy apples myself. Believing that my own creations would be far more delectable. They weren't. So I dismissed the idea of candy apples entirely. Oh, they were out there. I saw them. I witnessed their continued inexplicable popularity. But they no longer had a place in my life.
And then a co-worker began to wax eloquently about the joys of candy apples from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. Possessing a lifelong interest in chocolate, I am of course familiar with this store. And I pass their display of candy apples each time I enter the store, en route to the chocolate and fudge. I've never had any interest in trying their candy apples, however. They could dress them up all they liked; at their heart, they remained . . . candy apples.
But she insisted. They were delicious, she said. Unlike any other candy apple. And they used their own chocolate. And maybe that was the word that weakened my resolve. Chocolate.
So I broke down and bought one. The Skor Apple. With caramel and chocolate and Skor toffee bits. It was huge. And pricey. And likely enough to feed six people.
And it was indeed delicious. The small slice I had was more than enough. Working alone, it would take me days to finish this. And as I savoured the layers of caramel and chocolate and toffee, I reflected upon the success of this particular apple. Why had it succeeded in pleasing me when so many others had failed so miserably?
In the end, I came to the conclusion that the secret is in the candy-to-apple ratio. Thick, thick, thick layers of candy surrounding an average sized apple. Maximum candy; minimum apple. Clearly the secret to success. That, and an absence of red sticky coating.
In later years, I tried re-creating candy apples myself. Believing that my own creations would be far more delectable. They weren't. So I dismissed the idea of candy apples entirely. Oh, they were out there. I saw them. I witnessed their continued inexplicable popularity. But they no longer had a place in my life.
And then a co-worker began to wax eloquently about the joys of candy apples from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. Possessing a lifelong interest in chocolate, I am of course familiar with this store. And I pass their display of candy apples each time I enter the store, en route to the chocolate and fudge. I've never had any interest in trying their candy apples, however. They could dress them up all they liked; at their heart, they remained . . . candy apples.
But she insisted. They were delicious, she said. Unlike any other candy apple. And they used their own chocolate. And maybe that was the word that weakened my resolve. Chocolate.
So I broke down and bought one. The Skor Apple. With caramel and chocolate and Skor toffee bits. It was huge. And pricey. And likely enough to feed six people.
And it was indeed delicious. The small slice I had was more than enough. Working alone, it would take me days to finish this. And as I savoured the layers of caramel and chocolate and toffee, I reflected upon the success of this particular apple. Why had it succeeded in pleasing me when so many others had failed so miserably?
In the end, I came to the conclusion that the secret is in the candy-to-apple ratio. Thick, thick, thick layers of candy surrounding an average sized apple. Maximum candy; minimum apple. Clearly the secret to success. That, and an absence of red sticky coating.