Tuesday Recommended: Chuckles

The third installment in an occasional series of brief recommendations.

After my grandfather died this past spring, my aunt sent me a small box that included “a few of his favorites,” as a note explained. Inside, she packed was a couple of bookmarks of impressionist paintings that he liked1, a handful of York peppermint patties, some Goetz’s caramel creams—and a pack of Chuckles.

My grandfather was a pretty fit guy, and a relatively healthy eater, but he also never met a snack he didn’t like, and he had a sweet tooth. He loved a Dunkin’ donut or two. Toward the end of his life he became inseparable from a bag of low-salt Lays potato chips. &c.

Most readers, I think, will have some experience with a York patty and a caramel cream, though they’re not, I’ll admit, the candy that lights up that top spot on Family Feud. Chuckles are an altogether different category. Hell, I know what they are and I still feel like I don’t, you know?

Chuckles are sugary, fruit-flavored, gummy-like candy that comes in a pack of five. They’re produced in Mexico by the Ferrara Candy Company, and are made primarily of starches, syrups, and sugars. They’re somewhat ovoloid or cylindrical in shape, depending on how you’ve been handling the package, about the size of a quarter, and probably weigh about five grams each. They’re neither particularly sticky nor dense, but they seem slightly more viscous than say, a large gummy bear. They’re a good candy. Not overwhelmingly sweet, but still sweet. And probably terrible for you.

But here’s the best thing about Chuckles:

Every package of Chuckles includes five candies, arranged by flavor, in this specific order indicated on the package: cherry, lemon, licorice, orange, lime. It’s a seemingly insignificant detail, but it completely revolutionizes the experience of eating the Chuckle. As an American, for instance, I loathe the taste of black licorice. But in a Chuckle? Armed with the knowledge that the vile licorice is preceded by the decadent lemon and will be followed by the amiable orange, I can enjoy the licorice’s bitter tang. Chuckles bring a form, order, and meaning to the sugary candy experience while most others bask in chaos, insisting on ambiguity and chance. Consider for instance that one of the most popular Air Heads flavors is “Mystery.” Or that the taxonomy of the Starburst flavor universe is all but completely obscured in a pastel-citrus haze. The Chuckle’s proposition is almost antithetical to what we assume a candy experience should be. It is considered, dignified, even stately.

So today’s recommendation is to go on and get yourself some Chuckles. Remind yourself that, at times, there is order and meaning in the universe.

And do not be tempted by the devious and unprincipled Chuckles Mini.