Malted balls. It's that time again.

I know it's that time because I've seen elsewhere various exegeses on the much-loved, much-maligned peep. Count my comments as malignant. I don't like peeps. Yeah, I often purchase them -- but only for the irony. Half of what my generation does is for the irony. Buying peeps is ironic; putting them in the microwave is just plain fun. And yeah, I'll often enough eat a peep -- but only grudgningly, because the good candy has already been consumed.

A malted ball, on the other hand, I'll often eat willingly -- because I too-easily forget that I don't much like them. But how can it be that I don't like them? They've been around forever, so there must be an established consumer base. So I know my reaction to the malted ball (the Whopper, if you will) is probably not representative of common taste. It's probably not even normal -- and I suppose that's why I can't quite accept the fact that I don't like them.

They look like the kind of candy that would taste good.

So I eyeball it, roll it between my fingers, test its airy heft, and toss it into my mouth for a quick crunch.

Blah.

There must be something wrong with me. But at least in my older age I'll remember my condition. That is, I won't accidentally purchase a bag of Whoppers for myself. In fact, I was in a Florida Wal-Mart not too long ago staring at a bag of Whoppers, musing again on my distaste for them.

"How could anyone like those," I said out loud, to no one in particular. "Malted balls."

That last part went over as if it were to someone in particular -- a woman who'd hovered the Easter-candy aisle about as long as I had. She smiled nervously and fled. What kind of conversation did she expect, hanging around in a convenience store at midnight?

Well, we've got some Easter baskets set up, ready to give the boys tomorrow morning. No malted balls there, I'm happy to say.