Nordic witchcraft, black poison. That’s what I think when I filled the jar with that strange candy. The sepulchral night is mutilated with pink, white and yellow squares, on top of all the black cylinders. Geometry turned into candy. Infinite spirals, toxic cables. Children and adults gather to delight the coven of flavours.
Are you sweet or salty?
I want to know what you are, who you are and what you do on my palate, but I can't. I can't find a word to describe you. But, to whoever would ask, I will answer: it’s an acquired taste. Further from the taste of coffee, since your scent is not invitation to taste you. A smell between radioactivity, anise, and concentrated sugar. Some experts had stated that aversion to certain flavours could be innate. However, who could be born with a palate that could withstand such taste? One that, piece by piece delights me. I disliked you long ago, yes, I know. And still, from the gastronomic didactics, I learned to cherish you. You sweetened my life, or which is your taste, again? A taste that I still can't name.
Stop me, or I will finish this tiny mosaics. Each bite is an invitation to the poisonous game. Sweet, lie; bitter, practice. Medicinal liquor. My heart accelerates, my stomach suffers. I'm still under your spell! Now I salivate, I crave you, I bite you ... and once again, I insist, I learn to like you.