When winter's chill sets in, the streets grow more honest.

The wind shows no mercy—first your nose tips red, then your fingers stiffen. People walk faster, speak less, their expressions seem frozen too. Yet it's precisely at times like these that certain things suddenly become “useful”—not in a practical sense, but in a way that pulls you out of the cold for a second.

Candied hawthorn on a stick is one such thing.

It’s so straightforward: a string of red berries coated in a layer of hard, shiny sugar. Before you even take a bite, it catches your eye. That sugar shell is like thin glass, reflecting light like a rare winter luxury—not expensive, but undeniably dazzling.

I've always believed the charm of candied hawthorn lies in its “sound.”

That crisp “crack” when you bite down is exceptionally clean, like snapping through cold air itself. It's not the light, airy crunch of a chip—it's a substantial crack with a slight echo. Hearing it, your heart relaxes: Oh, so I can still be delighted by such small things.

Only then does the flavor take center stage. The hawthorn's tartness charges forward, unapologetically sharp and unforgiving; the sugar's sweetness follows close behind, embracing it with equal boldness. The two forces wrestle in your mouth, neither conceding defeat—the tartness makes the sweetness shine brighter, while the sweetness tempers the tartness's edge. After finishing one, your tongue lingers with a trace of stickiness, like words left unsaid.

I've seen many people act unlike themselves when buying candied hawthorn.

The usually cautious suddenly stop worrying about sugar; the restrained suddenly fear no sourness; even those who seem cool will smile unconsciously upon receiving that crimson string. Candied hawthorn holds a gentle magic: it lets us briefly set aside “what I ought to do” and bring “what I want” out into the sun—even if that sun is cold.

It’s also perfect for sharing, though the way we share it is peculiar. You’ll offer it, saying, “Try one,” not so much to share the sweetness as to share that snap. That sound is like an unspoken agreement: We're both in winter now. Don't push too hard, don't hold on too tight. Just finish this bite first.

Winter foods often serve two purposes: warming the body and softening the heart. Hot soup handles the warmth; candied hawthorn takes care of the latter. It doesn't burn your mouth, yet it lights up your mood a little. Like a small string of festive lights, secretly hung on an ordinary day.

Sometimes I wonder why candied hawthorn sticks feel so essential in winter.

Perhaps because they mirror winter itself: hard on the outside, soft within; bright on the surface, tart at the core; crisp to the eye, yet trailing a lingering tail. You expect pure sweetness, but it stings you with sourness first—a reminder that life isn't all sugar. Yet it does deliver sweetness—unabashedly, unapologetically sweet.

So every year when the cold sets in, the moment I spot that crimson string at the street corner, I still slow my pace.

Not because I'm hungry, but because I need to hear that snap. Like a confirmation: I'm still living my life, not being lived by it.