Raisins.

It was the first thing I thought of when my editor broached the idea of a “worst Halloween candy” story.

I always want to say “raisins,” when people ask me that, but the truth is I like raisins. I liked them when I was a kid, too. But they’re not candy. And so, I always felt a little cheated when people gave them out at Halloween.

I haven’t seen raisins in the pumpkin pails for eons, though. In all likelihood because GenX is now the primary candy-supplying demographic.

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And though we covet our status as the last generation to enjoy hands-off parenting, hose water and a pre-internet childhood, the raisins-at-Halloween nonsense is a form of abuse we refuse to perpetuate. It dies with us.

But candy corn lives forever. And man, is half the world pissed about that.

My editor, Cassie, is part of that half.

“It tastes and feels like wax,” she tells me.

She’s not alone.

Invented in the 1880s, candy corn was at first known as “chicken feed” since corn was what most chickens ate back then. (Amy Drew Thompson/Orlando Sentinel)

“Candy corn is probably the worst Halloween candy, in my opinion,” my friend, Content creator and food photographer Julius Mayo Jr. (aka Droolius) told me. “I really don’t like it. I never have. It might be cool to use for a colorful art project, but other than that, the taste is just pure sugar blah.”

The thing is, for every person who hates the stuff, there’s another who loves it. And every single year, in different Halloween candy polls, it takes top — and bottom — honors.

For example, in 2024’s “Most Popular Halloween Candy” poll from CandyStore.com, state-by-state statistics saw candy corn winning the category in both Maryland and Utah and placing second or third in several more, including New Mexico, Maine and Michigan.

But in a contest that neatly mirrors most elections these days, it’s likely that half the state would disagree.

Back in 2017, one Michigander — Brian Manzullo of the Detroit Free Press — did so quite publicly in a piece called “Michigan’s most popular Halloween treat is candy corn and I’m so disappointed.”

“Do better, Michigan,” the impassioned story begins. It’s a fun one. He calls everyone gross.

That same year, Vogue’s Elise Taylor was also inspired, penning “Candy Corn: You Either Love It or Hate It, There Is No In Between.”

In this romp, Taylor discovers the hard-drawn lines of her coworkers’ candy corn opinions.

“There wasn’t anyone who said, ‘It’s fine,’ put their headphones in, and went back to work,” she writes.

It was a point my own boyfriend made: “It seems like no one is neutral,” he said.

But that’s just it, both of us fall in the no-man’s land of in-between, of the middle, of meh.

Admittedly, I enjoy the candy corn aesthetic. They’re adorable and bright, and because I love Halloween, I’m always happy to see them return to the stores.

And while they’re certainly not Twix bars, I enjoy them in very small quantities if I happen to encounter them.

The very first one, in fact, fresh from a bag of Brach’s procured specifically for this story, tasted downright buttery. Sweet and nostalgic.

Granted, just three or four more, and I’d hit my limit, but it was all good feels.

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And the remainder, biding its colorful time in a goblet alongside some holiday decor on my countertop, will dwindle, piece by piece, over the next month as I and whomever else happens by grab an errant kernel or two for the same reason ill-fated climber George Mallory attempted to summit Everest — because it is there. (Unless it gets recycled into the boo-tique biscotti recipe I made for this column a few years back.)

Much like me, the beau is a handful-a-season candy corn guy. And it turns out, we’re not alone. Unlike the Vogue team of 2017, my own colleagues are a study in candy corn nonchalance.

“I like it, but I don’t seek it out,” Theme Parks reporter Dewayne Bevil told me. “Maybe the kind with the chocolate tip is my preference.”

“Maybe?”

“Not a strong preference, I guess,” he said.

Theater critic Matthew J. Palm gets paid to have opinions but was neither hot nor cold regarding the candy corn’s presence on the Halloween stage.

“I have a sweet tooth, so if you put it in front of me, I’ll eat it,” he said. “It’s fine, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to buy it or anything.”

Disney cookbook goddess Pam Brandon fell solidly in the middle, too, citing a “love-hate affair with the sugary, little devils.” A Halloween-season birthday, too, played a role in the way she imprinted.

“As a kid, parties always included a little bag of candy corn for my best pals to carry home, so I have that visceral nostalgia,” Brandon told me, noting that her daughter, Katie, shares both her love of fine food — and her affinity for candy corn.

“Now, she keeps a jar in her kitchen around this time of year, so, again, taking a bite — that tastes a little bit like candle wax —takes me back. You don’t eat it because it tastes good; you eat it to evoke a memory. And to create new memories for the next gen.”

Speaking of, my own progeny, a teen, dropped some similarly mature takes.

“I don’t think people will get it,” my editor said when I sent pics from my ‘Satan loves candy corn’ photo shoot. She’s probably right. But fellow horror buff Scott Maxwell LOL’d when I texted this one. People who like the stuff, he says, “are wickedly wrong.” (Amy Drew Thompson/Orlando Sentinel)

“It’s decent,” she said. “I like it, but I won’t eat a ton of it. It was better when I was a kid and is now more nostalgic than good.” She paused, thoughful. “No, it’s good. It’s just really, really sweet.”

Columnist Scott Maxwell is rarely neutral on anything. Candy corn is no exception. It was his hands-down pick when I broached the “worst Halloween candy” topic.

“It has a nasty texture, clumps together and is generally vile,” he told me. “I understand that some truly nice people can like candy corn. My wife is one of them. But those people are wickedly wrong.”

A little over the top, IMO, but he’s entitled (and amusing).

At least we can agree on bourbon.

Find me on Facebook, X or Instagram (@amydroo) or on the OSFoodie Instagram account @orlando.foodie. Email: amthompson@orlandosentinel.com.