People keep asking me what weird food cravings and aversions I’m experiencing as a result of It’ll, and I disappoint them when I say, “nothing odd, really.”  Of course, my non-pregnant palate doesn’t have a “weird” rating on it, so that should be taken into consideration.  I could eat raw oysters all day every day, I’ve never met a piece of sushi I didn’t like it, I frequently add Doritos to my hiking sandwiches in the summertime for that perfect salty crunch, and on the day after Thanksgiving, I would cry if I didn’t get to layer sweet potatoes, green beans, dressing, turkey, giblet gravy, and canned and fresh cranberry sauces in a bowl, nuke on high for 3 minutes, and dive in with a spoon.  Clearly, I don’t have issues with food “touching” on a plate, nor am I picky in the least.

Anyway, Honeydew and I discovered the candy shops of Galveston on our last morning there.  Oh-em-gee, you talk about happy as a fat kid in a candy shop?  Substitute pregnant woman for fat kid and up the bliss factor x 10 – I was in heaven.  Which is a bit weird, because although we’ve established that I like just about everything, candy shops do not normally hold much allure for me.  For that many calories, hand me a slab of caramel cake, rum cake, or coconut cake.  Or maybe some of mama’s boozy chocolate chip cookies, or a fresh blackberry pie.  Homemade peach ice cream?  Topped with real whupping cream?  Please and thank you.  I generally choose real desserts, not candies.

But there was something about this candy store.  The primary candy colors and sugar granules sparkled under the bright lights, and I found myself salivating.  And then the chocolate cases caught my eye.

And then I noticed that this lovely candy shop featured decidedly Southern delicacies.  And as my quest to educate Honeydew about my childhood, and all that makes me who I am – the smell of a freshly turned cotton field in the Georgia sunshine, the amethyst gleam of blackberries in the briars lining a red clay Virginia creek bed, the saltiness of cornbread cracklins left behind in Grandma Betty’s cast iron – is never done, I felt justified in purchasing some Southern candies.  Honeydew, who never met anything sweet he didn’t like it, did not deter me from learnin’ him.

And so we let divinity melt on our tongues.

And we bit into the earthy goodness of pecans and caramel, properly pronounced PEE-cans and CARE-A-MELL in the world of my youth.   I would like to point out that there are, after all, two “a”s in “caramel.”  Where all this “KAR-mel” pronunciation springs from, I do not know, but I think it hurts the second A’s feelings and should be stopped.

Dark chocolate covered Lay’s potato chips.  I don’t know that these are traditionally Southern, but such a union smacks of Dixie to me.  We are, after all, the chubbiest part of this great nation.

And chocolate dipped Twinkies.  I actually resisted these, because I don’t think any form of Twinkie could be more sublime than that of the deep fried variety, but they did look intriguing.

And y’all.  I was a happy, happy woman.

And having stepped on the scale this morning in my very own bathroom, I am just as happy to be back in Babb, hundreds of miles from any candy store, where no one’s ever heard of the divine-ness of divinity.  Which, I keep telling It’ll, is a good thing.  Really.  I don’t miss it at all.

Ok.  Who’s got a recipe?

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