GROWING UP WITH DURIAN: CANDIES, CHAOS, AND CRUSHES

MOST PEOPLE MEET DURIAN LATER IN LIFE, often with trepidation. For me, it was different. I grew up in the Philippines, where durian is a local favorite, and in my house—and the cottage-industry candy kitchen attached to it—it was everywhere. My family ran a confectionery making durian and mangosteen candies and preserves, so the sweet, pungent aroma was a constant presence. Honestly, it was probably the reason I had bad teeth growing up, but I wouldn't trade those sticky, custardy memories for anything. While this smelly, spiky fruit can be intimidating for outsiders, for me it was as normal as breakfast.

I still remember one chaotic afternoon: my middle brother and I—he was probably eight, and I two years younger—snuck into the confectioner's area where a swirling pool of steaming molten durian candy mass bubbled hot in an open cauldron. Liquid glucose and sugar syrup were cooked down with buttermilk powder, durian folded in, the air filling with that unmistakable warm dairy (and durian) sweetness—a smell that never quite leaves you. My brother, curious as ever, made a quick dip with a spoon, and the instant it touched the mixture he yelped—the spoon was scorching. A small splash of the hot liquid candy flicked onto my right thigh, leaving a scar that's still visible today. After that, the candy-making kitchen felt a little more dangerous, and it was strictly off-limits for us kids from then on—but it was still magical: the smells, the textures, the sticky, sweet chaos that made childhood so unforgettable.

Fast forward to high school, and my candy antics took on a bold, new purpose. I tried to win over my best friend—the one I really wanted to go steady with—by showering her with durian and mangosteen candies and preserves 'borrowed' from our factory. She turned me down—a few times over the course of three school years—before we each went our separate ways to university. But here's the kicker: many years later, we ended up getting married. Sometimes a little persistence, sugar, and nostalgia really does work its magic. That, of course, is another story.

Durian has a reputation that precedes it. It's called the "King of Fruits" in Southeast Asia, yet it's banned from hotels, buses, and public transport in many places for its infamous odor. People either adore it or recoil in horror. For outsiders, it's shocking. For me, it was familiar. The spikes on its shell looked intimidating, yes, but after years in our candy-making workshop, those spiky exteriors were just part of daily life.

Cracking open a durian is almost ceremonial. Inside, the flesh is soft, custard-like, and rich, a stark contrast to the aggressive shell. The flavor is a puzzle: sweet, buttery, nutty, sometimes slightly oniony, with vanilla-like undertones. Texture and aroma combine to make it simultaneously luxurious and challenging. I've always found it fascinating how this fruit can be both polarizing and addictive. Each bite is a little adventure, one my childhood made completely ordinary.

Culturally, durian is more than just food. In the Philippines, it's a beloved staple, celebrated in markets, desserts, and even festivals. The candy side of my upbringing meant I understood its versatility: it could be eaten raw, made into jams, folded into sweets, or transformed into ice cream. It was woven into daily life, celebrations, and work alike.

Durian is not subtle. It doesn't tiptoe; it commands your attention. Growing up with it, I learned to appreciate its intensity, the way its flavors layer and linger. It's a fruit that demands curiosity, patience, and an open mind. And maybe, just maybe, a toothbrush afterward. Growing up with durian in the smells and chaos of our candy-making workshop gave me a love for this spiky, unforgettable fruit that I still carry today. But there's something magical about it—a sticky, spiky, unforgettable kind of magic that has defined a lot of my sweetest childhood memories.

As for my wife, she's moved on to durian puffs and ice cream—careful to bring everything home fully sealed for our B-train ride back from Koreatown in Manhattan to Brooklyn, just in case she wants second helpings after a proper sampling in the city. (APJ)