Candy Corn: The Sweet, Insecure Icon of Fall

Ah, candy corn. Every October, like clockwork, it reappears. You can set your watch by it, or at least your dentist appointment. There it is, in every grocery store, tucked in between the Reese's pumpkins and the Snickers minis. It’s everywhere—overflowing in bowls on office desks, scattered like confetti at Halloween parties, and mysteriously multiplying in your pantry. But let’s be honest: nobody really picks it first. Heck, most of us don’t even pick it second or third. It’s the candy that sits there like a wallflower, hoping that maybe this year it’ll be invited to dance.

Candy corn absolutely has self-confidence issues. Wouldn’t you? I mean, let’s consider its yearly existential crisis: it knows it’s not the Reese’s or the Kit Kat, the M&Ms or the Twix. It’s more like the distant relative of the candy world—sweet enough to come to the party but quirky enough that everyone keeps their distance until the good stuff runs out. Then, when desperation hits (or you're just too lazy to make another candy run), we all start munching away, out of obligation or curiosity—or maybe both.

But here’s the thing about candy corn: it’s sort of like that weird uncle you only see at family reunions. It’s strange, but oddly comforting. And just like how you might humor Uncle Bob’s stories for the tenth time, you’ll eat the candy corn because, well, it’s there. It’s always there.

The Great Debate: How Do You Eat Your Candy Corn?

Now, let’s get to the burning question: How do you eat your candy corn?

Do you just pop the whole thing in your mouth like some kind of savage? Do you savor it, color by color, starting with the white tip (which, let’s face it, tastes exactly like the rest of it, but we all pretend it doesn’t)? Or maybe you’re the adventurous type who’s ventured beyond the traditional cone and dared to try candy corn’s edgier siblings—the pumpkins, the bats, or whatever shapes the candy corn gods have deemed worthy of confusing us with this year.

But really, does the pumpkin shape make it taste better? I doubt it. Maybe it’s an illusion, like when you convince yourself that Fun Size Snickers have no calories. But who can resist a candy that looks like a miniature vegetable and yet contains absolutely no nutritional value? It’s like candy corn’s desperate attempt to rebrand itself—“Hey, look, I’m not just a weird cone-shaped thing! I’m festive and fun! Like a bat! Or a squash!” Nice try, candy corn.

And here’s another thing: Why “corn”? This is the mystery no one seems to address. I mean, let’s break it down. It’s not corn. It doesn’t taste like corn. There is absolutely nothing corn-related about it, except maybe the vague shape if you squint real hard after finishing your second glass of spiked cider. The only logical explanation is that someone, probably in a candy corn board meeting in 1898, thought “Corn’s a vegetable—people will feel better about eating a bucket of sugar if we make it sound healthy.” And somehow, it stuck. Classic misdirection.

Candy Corn and Us: A Love-Hate Relationship

Here’s where things get complicated. For all the jokes and grumbling, when the end of October rolls around, we still eat it. We all have a secret handful at some point, whether we admit it or not. Even if it’s not your first choice, it’s that awkward friend you can’t fully abandon because they’ve been around so long. When you finally take that first bite, there’s a small flicker of nostalgia. It reminds you of trick-or-treating as a kid, of the joy of dumping out your candy bag and discovering a pile of mysterious orange-and-yellow cones. Sure, they weren’t the most exciting find, but they were part of the experience.

And maybe that’s the secret charm of candy corn. It’s not the star of the show, but it’s always there, reliably sweet, a little weird, and entirely unapologetic about it. Candy corn is like the quirky underdog of Halloween treats—misunderstood but still loved in its own weird way. After all, Halloween wouldn’t be the same without its overconfident little cones sitting smugly in their bag, knowing we’ll give in eventually.

So, here’s to you, candy corn. You may never be the first pick, but you’ve earned a permanent place in our hearts and on our coffee tables—mostly because nobody else can finish the bowl.