Purse Candy
My maternal grandmother kept a big glass jar of candy in her kitchen. It was always filled with starlight mints and gelly orange slices. My mother was obsessed with something called “Nips,” a kind Werther’s-esque hard candy with a coffee- or chocolate-or caramel-flavored center1. I have inherited, through my maternal line at the very least, this desire to finish off a meal with a little taste of something sweet. For me, it’s almost always chocolate, or a cookie. Or, best of all possible worlds, a chocolate cookie.
I never have to worry if there is something sweet in the house. The answer is always yes. It’s just a matter of thinking through what I have on hand and where I’ve put it. Among those who know me well, my tendency to horde sweets is not as fabled as my ability to ignore them. Gretchen Rubin would characterize me as a “moderator” (as opposed to an “abstainer”), but I think my ability to hold onto the dregs of a box of Thin Mints until Cookie Season rolls around again is less a feat of willpower than one of forgetfulness.
In 2015, I joined a fancy Beverly Hills church choir at the same time as a man and woman my own age, a married couple. As you might expect of three people in their early 30s who move to LA and immediately seek out an Episcopal church choir to join, we had a lot in common and became fast friends. It was these friends who first started joking about my “purse candy.” (The first time you’re surprised to find a full candy bar in your purse, your companions are amused; the third or fourth time, they give this propensity a name.)
Purse Candy is not candy that I actively plot to keep on hand. It’s more like a reliable, delightful accident. I’ll be at the checkout counter at Rite Aid and spot some candy bar variety I’ve never seen before — chocolate-cookie-studded Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, say, or some new-to-me variety of Ritter Sport. My roommate of three years worked in a candy store for a while; I couldn’t visit her at work without picking up SOMETHING. And once the jewel-box Compartes shop at Century City lures me in2, it feels rude to leave without buying a $10 bar of fancy chocolate. So, into the purse it goes. By the time I get to my car, my mind is elsewhere. Then a day or two passes.
And then, the best part of all. I find the candy. A little gift from past-me to present-me. Who cares that it was sent by accident?
In all seriousness, this weird habit is one of my favorite things about myself.
A couple years back, my married friends from choir moved an hour outside of the city, but we still managed to see each other a couple of times during Quarantine Year. On one of my visits3, they surprised me. Minutes after I arrived, they exchanged a quick glance. “Oh, I have something to show you,” He tossed off, as She appeared nonchalant. He disappeared into the house for just a second. When he returned, he put a picture in my hands. Well, not a picture exactly — an ultrasound image. And that’s how I found out my friends were having a baby. You see, they knew I loved nice surprises.
This past Saturday, now that we were fully vaccinated, I finally got to hold their nearly 4-month old son. For most of an afternoon and evening, we sat on their back porch. We eventually decided to split a pizza. We took the dog along for a walk around the neighborhood. We hugged hello and goodbye. And in between, that baby let me hold him and bounce him around and attempt to have a conversation with him, as if I weren’t a stranger at all.
And it was all so easy, so natural, once we got started, that I almost failed to notice how every second of it — visiting friends, sharing a meal, holding a baby — it was all total Purse Candy. Something I’d forgotten to expect, forgotten to look out for, until, at last, I found it right where I’d left it.
I never hear anyone talk about these, but they’re still for sale; I very occasionally pick up a box at the grocery store for nostalgia’s sake.
I ALWAYS think that this time they’re going to be giving out samples, like at the Ghirardelli store I lived near for most of my 20s.
The 4th of July, when COVID rates in California were relatively low.