Growing up, my best friend had a candy drawer in her kitchen. I don't mean the kind of drawer with snacks and candy mixed in with other kitchen flotsam. I mean that some adult in her house had designated an entire kitchen drawer specifically for Jolly Ranchers, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and full-size Snickers bars. I spent many a sleepover at her house, watching The Nanny while painting my toenails, and accruing a childhood's worth of memorable anecdotes. But no matter what we did, my mind was only half engaged. The other half was in the kitchen, lurched over the candy drawer, trying to figure out how much I could take without anyone noticing.

Needless to say, I didn't have a candy drawer in my house, and as an adult, I never kept candy in my own apartment. Even after I quit dieting, I was so accustomed to thinking of myself as someone who couldn't handle the presence of candy in the house, let alone having it out for the taking. Then, last fall, I moved in with my boyfriend, and his candy bowl.

We moved into the apartment the day after Halloween, and somehow wound up with a bag of discounted Three Musketeers bars sitting on our brand new kitchen counter, amid all the move-in chaos.

"Can I put them in your turquoise bowl?" Harry asked. Looking around at the maze of boxes and bubble wrap, the thought of anything being unpacked sounded good, so I gave an emphatic thumbs-up.

Cut to: A few weeks later, the bowl now sitting on our coffee table, Harry noted how nice it was to have this little bowl of treats out, and maybe we could make it a regular thing. "For guests!" he added. I raised an eyebrow, wary of his motives. But, no matter. The Halloween leftovers would be gone soon, I certainly wouldn't be shopping for candy refills, and surely he'd forget about the whole thing, too.

Fade in: A few weeks after that, Harry came home with — how best to describe it? — a goddamn sack full of candy from a party supply store. Oh, there were Hershey's Kisses of all varieties, Lemonheads, Cry Babies, Gobstoppers, and those tiny toffee bars they sell at Ikea. This was my come-to-Jesus moment.

"So…this is going to be a candy bowl, officially."

"Yeah!"

"You'd like us to have a candy bowl, just out, like, forever."

"I would like that, yes."

It was one of those conversations you have very carefully. My mind swung between an old, familiar anxiety I felt around all processed sugar, and the brand new neurosis of someone who's just moved in with her boyfriend and has to choose her battles. That's when I looked down at the newly dubbed candy bowl and realized I didn't have to choose anything.

I'd been living with a candy bowl for over a month and had barely noticed it. I didn't think about it once, except when Harry drew my attention to it or a visiting friend asked if they could take a piece, please. I'd tell them, "Yes, of course."

"Are you sure? I don't want to deplete your supply."

"It's just candy, not meth. You can't have my meth."