Sticky Goodness

I remember thinking when I was very little, that those in their twenties were old. Not old in the way that grandparents are old but old in the sense that they had it together. Not that I knew what it was or what it meant to have it together, but in retrospect that's what I thought. Now I have reached that magical decade and I am rapidly regressing back to the level of an eight year old.

When I was eight, we never bought food that might be considered junk food or candy. My mother believed that junk food became a habit so she worked on instilling in us the habit of no junk food. She mostly succeeded. She failed on several counts though. Gummies of any sort were the first major failing, but mainly because she has a weak spot for them. Hazy childhood memories recall her getting back into the car after buying gas and passing back gummy worms. More recent memories contain us discussing the relative merits of sour versus standard gummy worms, (I'm for sour, my mother prefers the standard) and trying out the trantula gummmies in horrible hallowe'en colours. That was this hallowe'en. We enjoyed them.

Gum however was one thing my mother did not understand. We've learned it's best not to give her gum. It's a waste. Despite the virtual gum ban we grew up under, my brother and I can both blow and snap wonderful gum bubbles. All you need to imagine is: a seven year old, a five year old, a plane journey to England and an aunt who's packed enough bubble gum for the six hour flight. My aunt was taught to snap gum by my grandmother - a New Yorker. By the end we were sticky pros and the rest of the passengers couldn't wait to get off the plane.

Cotton Candy always fascinated me. I wanted some so badly. Pure sugar even if it was pink and blue was clearly junk food. Any amount of "but pleeeeeeeeeeease" was going to get nowhere. But we were at the circus museum and cotton candy was made for the circus. As we sat watching the clowns, my father left his seat and proceeded out of the tent. He returned with a bag of cotton candy. Since then cotton candy has been a huge treat. In my mind it's forever linked with my father and the bliss of having an irrational aching want for something fulfilled. He has a way of knowing and a way of coming through. Thus, despite my mother's best efforts, cotton candy sometimes managed to squeak by.

This week, I was at a hockey game. At the first intermission, we went to stretch our legs in the corridor behind the stands. Of course, it's lined with concession stalls. My friend is determined to get popcorn. I'm more hesitant. I've never eaten popcorn at a hockey game. I'm pretty sure my mother will find out about it and the consequences will be swift and punishing. As we approach the popcorn stand, I spy it - it''s bright blue and pink - it's cotton candy. Now by all the rules, cotton candy is ok because cotton candy is rare. I let out a squeak "Cotton candy!" Turning a quizzical eye on me, my friend utters the sentence of someone who has always had junk food at a game, "Why don't you get it?" I demur, "I couldn't possibly eat it all. Do you like cotton candy?" Turns out he doesn't. Turns out he's insane. "Just get it" so I do. I go back to my seat clutching my bag of cotton candy with a giant smile on my face.

So we watch the second part of the game eating popcorn and cotton candy. Apparently not everyone knows how to eat cotton candy. Cotton candy has to be treated delicately - you can't crush it or it quickly becomes sickly sweet. After being shown the proper way to eat cotton candy (I mean really), my friend decided that he did like cotton candy after all. So we sat and ate popcorn. The butter went all over our hands and leached through the bag so that whatever it came into contact with got butter stained. As is the way with popcorn, it goes everywhere. So we got popcorn everywhere. We sat and ate cotton candy. As is the way with cotton candy, our tongues and teeth turned blue, our fingers got a layer of sugar on top of the layer of butter. We were a mess. We were messier than any eight year old.

Luckily we had water and we had napkins. So we poured water on our hands and wiped them off with the napkins. We made a bigger mess. I'm pretty sure most eight year olds of my acquaintance could have done the job with more grace and elegance. I believe it's because I'm out of practise. When you're trying to figure out what it is so you can get it together, you forget the small things. You forget that you should only use two fingers for cotton candy and that you should eat popcorn with only one hand. You forget that going home sticky with a blue grin stretched ear to ear with popcorn stuck to your sweater is the sign of an evening well spent. It's amazing how quickly it comes back. It's also amazing how butter won't come off clothes and cotton candy dye lurks in your teeth. Maybe mother knew something after all. For I sure hope she knows how to remove butter over the phone.