When I was little, I didn’t like chocolate.
So Halloween was challenging for me. I would go trick-or-treating with my sister and all the neighbor kids, and I would be dressed up as a tomato, or a clown, or a cowgirl, or a Hawaiian grandmother (muumuu, old lady hat, big glasses). While everyone ran up to the door and grabbed fistfuls of candy out of plastic cauldrons, I would sort of bid my time around the edges of the group, and then I would sidle up to the grown-up wearing a witch’s hat…
and ask if they had any raisins.
And because this was 1991, and I was five, and had a speech impediment where I couldn’t say my R’s, what I would actually ask for was “waisins.” And every single person on my block would disappear into their house to check their pantry, and rummage around in there until they turned up a single-serving box of Sun-Maid raisins from god knows how long ago.
At the end of the night, my sister would dump all her candy out and sort it and I would just gradually work my way through red box after red box, my short little fingers digging into pull waxy little clumps of raisins out, separating them and eating them one by one.