candy apples revisited

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.

500

I recently noticed on my Blogger dashboard that this post would be my 500th.  It seems a significant milestone, so I've been trying to come up with a suitably significant post.  Something that encapsulates the past three years since I sat at a desk at my former job. With less and less to do each day.  Becoming painfully aware that the end was nigh.  Trying to come up with new and creative ways to fill the hours.  And since it was August and my mind was of course on Halloween and since I had been discovering and reading several Halloween blogs and since there were only so many hours in a day I that I could spend on Facebook, I thought, why not begin my own Halloween blog?   It was meant to be seasonal, active throughout September and October, shutting down in November.  But I had enjoyed it too much and I missed it.  So since then, I've tried to find a little bit of Halloween in every season.  And now here I sit, three years later, trying to create a post worthy of being Number 500.

I got nothin'.

So I'll simply share one of my favourite Halloween photographs and move on to post number 501.

From the Mahone Bay Pumpkin Path.  Where there are always so many interesting faces to encounter.

halloween night

It was an enjoyable Halloween night in spite of the rain. And in spite of a grasshopper that turned out more "cute" than sinister. And in spite of the chaos that resulted from having a sci-fi convention coincide with Halloween. At least next year, with Halloween on a Monday, I'll have a day to catch my breath.

Lights out for another year.

the treats that got away

In my earliest memory of Halloween, I'm trick-or-treating with my cousin, who's almost a year younger than I am. Oddly, I have no memory of what my costume was that year. Perhaps it was the cat costume in this photo. Perhaps not. It was likely a similar vinyl outfit, the kind with the plastic mask held in place with the flimsiest of elastic bands. A homemade costume couldn't possibly compete with cheap plastic. But the costume is not the part of the evening that lives in my memory.

We lived in the country on a dark rural road, next door to my cousins, and my mother walked with me to their house where, together with my aunt and young cousin, we were to go trick-or-treating. Because we were small and because the distance between houses was big, we went by car, with my aunt stopping at each driveway as my cousin and I ran up to the house for treats. It was thrilling. My plastic pumpkin grew heavier with each stop.

Until the fateful stop when my cousin refused to get out of the car.

It seemed another trick-or-treater, much older, likely a teenager, was dressed as a police officer. My cousin was terrified. Apparently, he had been told that if he misbehaved, the police would one day come for him, and he now feared that this day had finally arrived. He was scared to death. In tears. He could not be convinced. There would be no trick-or-treating at this stop.

So, it was back into the car for us as we drove off to the next house in the opposite direction of the "police officer". I was highly chagrined. Then and for a long time afterward, I could only dream of what wonderfully delicious treats I had missed out on that night. I could only dream about the treats that got away.

hot dogs and pizza

I must commend the Humpty-Dumpty potato chip company of the 1970's for its ingenuity. The plastic trick-or-treat bag I'm holding in this photograph is no ordinary plastic bag, purchased for the sole purpose of trick-or-treating. No, its purpose was two-fold.

When purchased, it was filled with miniature bags of potato chips to be distributed on Halloween night. Then, once empty, the bag itself could be used for trick-or-treating. Ingenious. But with one obvious flaw. It couldn't be used by the resident trick-or-treater until its contents were given out to visiting trick-or-treaters. By which time, Halloween night would be over. Hence the need to transfer the little bags of chips into another container. To free up the original bag.

I was always willing to assume responsibility for this task. And if a few of those tiny bags of chips went missing during the transfer process . . . well, it couldn't be avoided. An occupational hazard. Especially where hot dog and pizza flavoured chips were concerned. My favourites. A preference clearly not shared by many since they were discontinued after a few short years. But what wonderful years they were. Luckily, we lived in a rural neighbourhood. With a long uphill driveway. And few trick-or-treaters. We really didn't need all those bags of chips.

400

The Blogger dashboard tells me that I am about to make my 400th post. That seems a large and significant number, so I searched for something appropriate. Something memorable. Something truly worthy of Post #400.

Hmmm . . . 400 . . . 400 . . . I could think of nothing. So, instead, I've decided to go with something neither memorable nor worthy.

In honour of my 400th post, the acknowledgement that I've probably eaten well over 400 miniature bags of Halloween chips in my lifetime. A number that continues to grow annually.

hello hideous kitty

A couple of Octobers ago, on a family trip to Salem, my children were given some money to spend as they pleased. There was no shortage of Halloween-themed merchandise in the stores. I believed they would have difficult choices ahead. My daughter, however, then around fifteen, made a purchase relatively quickly. Actually, very quickly. In the first store she entered. A purchase that she, and only she, was thrilled with.

It was the ugliest stuffed black cat I had ever seen. It wasn't plush. It wasn't posable. It wasn't well-crafted. It was simply a hard plastic cat form covered in a thin layer of cheap fur. I was appalled. I was then promptly reminded that I had said their money could be spent as they pleased. And I had said that.

So the hideous kitty returned home with us, riding in a place of prominence in the back seat of the car. Upon arrival at home, it suffered some damage to its tail when my faithful cat Lucky mistook it for an unwelcome intruder onto his territory. Unfortunately, it survived. Since then, it has remained in my daughter's room and mercifully, out of my sight.

Until now. After her most recent bedroom-cleaning, it appears that she has fallen out of love with hideous kitty. And so it has come to me. With instructions to "put it with the Halloween stuff".

I suppose I'll have to find a place for it. Somewhere. Or perhaps I can put it down next to Lucky. And let him finish the job he started.

eighteen halloweens

I have discovered a rift in the space-time continuum. There is no other explanation. Because I cannot possibly have an eighteen year-old daughter when I am barely past eighteen myself.

Apparently, however, she will be turning eighteen within mere days. And that has me feeling nostalgic and sentimental. And old. I am filled with an odd mixture of pride and amazement that I was actually instrumental in helping another human being navigate eighteen years of life and reach the cusp of adulthood. Much like the feeling I experienced on her first birthday when it occurred to me that I had successfully kept a helpless individual alive for an entire year.

While I am inclined to reflect upon the past eighteen years through meandering reminiscences and anecdotes and well-worn platitudes, I thought it might be preferable to simply condense those years into a series of photographs. Halloween photographs. As I pored over old photographs and made my selections, I was overcome with memories. And with immense relief that my daughter does not read this blog.

So in honour of her eighteenth birthday, here are Eighteen Halloweens:

1992 - Year Of The Baby As An Excuse For Dressing Up Even Though We Weren't Going Out And Had No Trick-or-Treaters Because We Lived In An Apartment

1993 - Year Of The Felt Bats

1994 - Year Of Insisting Upon Dressing Up As Favourite TV Character

1995 - Year Of The Super-Hero

1996 - Year Of Allowing A Small Amount Of Make-Up To Be Applied To Face (For The Last Time Ever)

1997 - Year Of The Winter Jacket Under Costume

1998 - Year Of Insisting Upon Store-Bought "Cute" Costume

1999 - Year Of The Homemade Ghost

2000 - Year Of Refusing to Wear Mask Or Make-Up

2001 - Year Of The Cardboard Masterpiece (But Still No Mask Or Make-Up)

2002 - Year Of The First Repeat Costume (And Still No Mask Or Make-Up)

2003 - Year Of The Pizza

2004 - Year Of The Cat/Raccoon/Random Animal (And Finally A Mask!)

2005 - Year Of Dressing As A Vampire Using Own Teeth (Braces Went On The Next Day)

2006 - Year Of The Werewolf

2007 - Year Of Insisting On Wearing Beloved Werewolf Mask Again Despite Parent's Alternative Suggestions

2008 - Year Of The Werewolf - Part Three (Parent Has Now Given Up)

2009 - Year Of The Salem Trip (Because I Couldn't Bring Myself To Include Another Werewolf Photo)

jalapeno and pizza

Potato chips are not among my favourite snacks. I can live quite happily for months at a time without ever having a potato chip pass through my hands. Occasionally, however, there comes a time when a new potato chip appears on my radar. And I try it. And I become addicted.

This is the situation in which I currently find myself with regard to Jalapeno Kettle Chips. I'm sure that, in time, this addiction will pass. But that time is not now. And recently, while devouring the latest bag of crispy, spicy, greasy goodness, I paused for reflection. I reflected upon the times throughout my life in which I have become seriously enamoured with a specific flavour of potato chip.

It hasn't been as often as one might think. Frankly, the ordinary and ubiquitous flavours of Barbecue and Salt & Vinegar and their ilk hold no attraction for me. No. To truly captivate me, a potato chip flavour must be somewhat more unusual. Like jalapeno. Or pizza. Pizza . . .

My mind drifted back. Back to the days of my childhood. Back to the last time I was addicted to a potato chip (apart from a brief love affair with Miss Vickie's Original when they first appeared). Back to the 70's.



In the photo, I, along with my two younger cousins, appear ready to dash out the door and embark on an evening of trick-or-treating. The bags we are holding represent a clever marketing strategy by the Humpty-Dumpty chip people. These bags were intended to serve a dual purpose. When purchased, they were full of small bags of chips to be distributed to trick-or-treaters. Then, the bag itself was meant to be used as a trick-or-treating sack.

There was one flaw in the plan. The bag had to be emptied of its original contents before it could be used for trick-or-treating. And if one or two or ten of the little bags of chips went missing while being transferred from one container to another, who would know?

The Humpty-Dumpty organization had clearly reached a pinnacle of creativity in the 1970's. Because in addition to the standard flavours of Barbecue, Plain, and Salt & Vinegar, they introduced new, bold, never-before-seen flavours of chips. Like pizza. Ahhh . . . pizza chips. How I loved them. They were unlike any potato chips I had tasted before. And with so few chips in each bag, it became necessary to eat several of those little Halloween bags to feel satiated. Several little bags that were quietly gathered and eaten while my parents were downstairs, distracted by The Price Is Right. Looking back, it amazes me that any bags remained for the trick-or-treaters. My mother must have suspected something and hidden some away.

Sadly, it seems that I was the only child who adored pizza-flavoured potato chips. It seems that no one else shared my addiction. Because as suddenly as they had appeared that one Halloween, pizza chips were gone. Never to be seen again. Not at Halloween, nor at any other time of year. It would be a long time before I would find a potato chip to which I could feel such devotion. It would not be until many years later. Until the discovery of my beloved Jalapeno Kettle Chips.

a dollar store halloween

My Halloween costume box consists of an accumulation of masks, capes, and other assorted costume components that have been gathered over the years. Each year, many of them find new purpose as part of a prop. Or as part of a family member's costume. While others languish at the bottom of the box, patiently awaiting their turn in the spotlight. And each year, I sort through the collection with a critical eye, deciding what should stay and what should go. There have been numerous casualties over the years. The flashing devil horns. The foam wizard hat. The cheerful pumpkin costume my daughter wore when she was eight.

But regardless of the ruthlessness of my intentions, I can never seem to part with these masks. These valuable dollar-store acquisitions were among my earliest Halloween purchases. And with the exception of the skull, most haven't been given a home within my haunt in many a Halloween. Yet I find myself unable to let go. Unable to say good-bye. Even though I could replace them for a handful a Loonies.

Perhaps one year, my theme will be "A Dollar Store Halloween". And they will finally be given their chance to shine.

ahh . . . the good old days

There are certain books that I simply refuse to part with. Some have been moving around with me for years. Others were favourites of my children when they were small and the stories inside were too deeply loved to ever let them go. Arthur's Halloween falls into this latter category.

For anyone unfamiliar with Marc Brown's Arthur stories, they tell of the adventures of Arthur the Aardvark and his assorted animal friends. None of which appear particularly animal-like. Especially in the television version.

One scene in this book always interested me because it seemed to be a throwback to an earlier, simpler time. In it, Arthur's sister, DW, boldly goes trick-or-treating alone to the spooky old house that everyone else is too terrified to approach. Arthur and his friends watch in fear and wait for her to return. When she doesn't return, Arthur enters the house and finds his sister sitting contentedly in the kitchen enjoying juice and cookies with a lovely old lady. Having discovered that visiting with neighbours over homemade treats is far preferable to running from house to house for candy. It's a lovely story. Charming. Sweet. Totally unrealistic.

First, trick-or-treating children have been carefully instructed and conditioned to never enter the homes of random neighbours. Second, they wouldn't want to. The trick-or-treaters in my neighbourhood are moving so quickly in their quest to amass as much Halloween loot as possible within a relatively narrow time frame that their costumes are often a blur to me. They're off before the treats hit the bottom of the bag. Stopping for juice and cookies and a neighbourly chat? Unimagineable.

But was it always this way?

I can clearly recall the Halloween nights of my childhood. Trick-or-treating at neighbours' homes. Neighbours with whom I was already familiar. And it wasn't unusual for my fellow trick-or-treaters and I to be invited inside. To stop for a while and perhaps have a drink of pop (as if more sugar was needed) while our hosts admired our costumes and attempted to guess our identities. Time seemed to move slowly then. It was charming. Sweet. Totally unrealistic.

I lived in a rural area. We had a lot of ground to cover. On foot. Time was of the utmost importance. All I could think of as my friendly neighbours nattered on and on, was that we needed to get out of there. Immediately. Needed to get moving. Before treats were gone and lights were switched off. And we were forced to return home with only a meager fraction of the treats we might have acquired.

Arthur and DW visiting with a kindly old lady on Halloween night while their friends waited patiently for them outside? It's a lovely story. Charming. Sweet. But totally unrealistic. At least for any child who's ever pulled on a mask on Halloween night.

halloween mardi gras

Mardi Gras always reminds me of Halloween. And there is a perfectly logical reason for this.


For several years during the 1980's, the city of Halifax was home to a huge free outdoor Halloween costume party on the Saturday night prior to Halloween. Which came to be known as Mardi Gras. Apparently, it began spontaneously one year. Groups of people in costume filled the streets on their way to celebrate Halloween in the downtown bars, of which there are many. Each year brought more and more people, until it finally became a recognized event. One downtown street was officially blocked off for revelers. Other streets were un-officially blocked off by the sheer number of people, estimated at 40,000 during the peak years. It began in the early evening and ended . . . sometime later that night . . . or early the following morning.

The reason for its title of "Mardi Gras" is lost in the mists of time. There was really no connection to February's Mardi Gras. Other than the costumes. And the street parties.

I had the good fortune of being a university student in the city at the time. And as such, took full advantage of the celebratory atmosphere. Always eager to celebrate Halloween, my costume was planned well in advance and I either hosted or attended a pre-Mardi Gras party. Of course, creepiness and horror were paramount. As evidenced by my costumed party guests. I'm the one in the always terrifying Sylvester the Cat costume.



No photos exist of the events downtown. My only camera at the time was a large 35mm. And even I knew better than to wade through the downtown crowds carrying that. So when I remember Mardi Gras, I am forced to rely on my memories. Which are all good, if somewhat hazy.

Halloween Mardi Gras was one of the highlights of the year, each bigger and better than the last. Sadly, it eventually grew too big. And too problematic. Complaints about noise and damage and drunkenness began to escalate and led the city to eventually cancel it. But by that time, I had moved away. Taking my happy memories and my Sylvester costume with me.

laid to rest

It seemed appropriate in the wake of the failure of my pumpkin crop that the last few dead remnants of the vines should be given some sort of a tribute on Halloween night. After all, had events transpired differently, their spawn would have been there, rejoicing in the blustery chill of the evening. Alas, it was not to be. Instead, limp yellow rotting vines greeted the night. Interspersed with the sedum and hydrangea flowers at the base of the tombstones. A fitting farewell.



Of course, when I attempted to feature the vines more prominently in the photographs, the wind had intensified and repeatedly extinguished the candles at the tombstones' base. Why am I not surprised? Anything else would have made the pumpkin growing experiment less than a total failure.

cobwebs

This past Halloween marked a turning point. For the first time in recent memory, I did not use fake cobwebs in my Halloween decorating. And I was okay with that.



I have nothing against fake cobwebs. They have been an integral part of my Halloween preparations for longer than I care to remember. When used well, they enhance atmosphere. Creepiness. Visual appeal.

When used well.

And therein lies the problem. Not with the cobwebs. With me.

Because when it comes to fake cobwebs, I just don't know when to quit. I can't help myself. I try. I really do. I begin slowly. Stretching the webs until they are thin, gossamer-like and understated. But do I stop there? Do I simply walk away? No. Because if a few cobwebs are good, more must be better. And better. And better. Until finally, I am faced with this degree of devastation.



I was clearly out of control.

But this year, I resolved that it would be different. This year, I would not purchase fake cobwebs. This year, I would not open the extra bag of cobwebs purchased last year (because you never know when you might need more). This year, I would stop before I had even begun.

Halloween approached. Out came the tombstones. And the graveyard fence. And the dead trees. And the candles. And the torn cheesecloth curtains. But the fake cobwebs remained unopened. Safely out of sight.

Halloween night came and went. Completely free of fake cobwebs. And I was fine with it (or without it). It was actually quite liberating. I may never use fake cobwebs again. Much like silvery Christmas tinsel and plastic Easter grass, they will now reside only in the realm of distant memories and old photographs. But I'll keep that unopened bag. Just in case.

halloween night

At least it didn't rain. But it was windy. Very windy.



It was so windy, the jack-o-lanterns took shelter on the porch until the last minute.



It was so windy, I was going to snap this, the only un-staked tombstone, in two if I had to rush to secure it one more time.



It was so windy, candles were repeatedly extinguished and re-lighting them became futile.



It was so windy, the mourners shuddered violently on their cemetery bench.



Nonetheless, they remained stoic throughout the evening.



It was so windy, it made taking photographs difficult. Sometimes impossible.



But at least it didn't rain.

(More dry photos here)