Not the Malaysian kind or the crapass grocery store chocolate kind, but the kind of candy that you stop and devote a good few minutes to enjoying, doing nothing else but savoring the calories that add nothing to your life nutritionally but make you feel happy and indulgent.
Yum.Īnyway, as I was saying, Kleypas = candy. Or those really rich sweet candies made from real sugar and not high fructose corn syrup – the kind that are swirled into really fragile lacy shapes and come wrapped in individual bits of paper at the holidays. More like Cadbury imported (random trivia: Hubby’s favorite Cadbury bar is called “Whole Nut” and he can’t eat one without giggling like a 12 year old boy). But not candy like “Oh, it’s 3pm and I’m starving and in the grocery checkout and hey that Twix bar from God-knows-how-long-ago looks pretty tasty” candy.
I wouldn’t call Kleypas novels my crack, however. I know the story isn’t going to demand too much of my brain or toss me into a hot maelstrom of overblown emotional angst. Even as my brain questioned the possibilities and the circumstances of a happy ending for the two protagonists, I smiled and read along anyway, because her historical romances are comforting and happy in the way that soft flannel and hot cocoa are reassuring. Candy once said that Lisa Kleypas is her romance novel crack, and I can see why.
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