The famous batch of taffy flooded by an ocean swell in Atlantic City created the paradoxically salty confection. This is the origin story—at least the one from Food Network.
I found my dad’s saltwater taffy stash when I was packing his room and I put some on his altar —I had to eat it eventually —in his honour.
After a few years of grief swilling, on a New Year’s Eve bath, my daughter delivered a warm handful of saltwater taffy where I untwisted, where paint glistened with misty sheen and bossa nova beats syncopated chewing.
Happily mediating on brine and candy, I would have been half drunk by then.
Legs blushed lobster red like the raspberry taffy I mistook for malt chocolate under dimmer on the fritz.
I bathed in the mix of light and dark like salty sweet in my mouth.
I soaked my salt away, creating new origin stories for myself.
Jessica Lee McMillan ©
Published in Blank Spaces Magazine, December 2021