Columnist considers costly consequences of chewing crunchy caramel

I have reached the age of experience — that point in life where some of my dental work is old enough to vote, even old enough to have grandchildren. (If teeth had grandchildren. If there are baby teeth, why aren’t there grandmother teeth? That’s right. There are. They’re in the mouths of grandmothers. Enough wandering. Is this what blogging is all about?)

Anyway, some of my dental work is old.

When it turns fall and the temperatures cool down, even ever so slightly, I enjoy the occasional caramel. At 170 calories each, they’re not something I eat regularly. But Halloween isn’t far away and it’s one of those candies that bring soulful satisfaction.

I bought a small bag of caramels. Luscious, buttery caramels. Part of the satisfaction is the chewing. Nobody sucks on a caramel. It’s all about mastication. It’s part of the whole experience, not just the taste.

But crunch, crunch, crunch is not supposed to be part of the divine caramel experience. I was chomping on my onlay.

If you don’t have onlays in your own mouth, an onlay is a porcelain filling that looks more natural than a crown and protects the tooth that has a big honking cavity. Basically, it’s a restoration of the tooth that extends over the side of the cusp.

The onlay repairs just the part that’s damaged, leaving more of the tooth intact. Basically, it’s a fancy filling. Naturally, it’s not cheap.

But when your mouth is open (just before you pop in that villainous caramel) it doesn’t look like a bunch of silver, it gives the illusion your teeth are cavity-free. OK, it’s not just pretty. It’s supposedly stronger and lasts longer that your everyday fillings. So I’m told.

Until the caramel craving, this particular onlay lasted 18 years. I’m considering taking the part that fell out to ACORN and registering it to vote as Ms. Byte Mei.

I’d forgotten how expensive onlays were until handed the $1,500 bill. But I was cheered when a friend told me her husband paid $1,800 for his onlay. In my twisted rationale, I calculated I had saved $300. (There’s a reason Secretary of Treasury Henry Paulson hasn’t asked me to help out with the country’s economic challenges.)

My dentist says every year there’s a flood of dental appointments right around Halloween.

So apparently I’m not alone in thinking my aging teeth can handle all comers.

Here’s my ethical quandary: Knowing how expensive these caramels can be, what danger they hold for the unsuspecting, do I take them into the office and share them with the people who are my co-workers and my friends? It seems so wasteful to throw them out, but so wrong to expose someone else to the threat of dental destruction via caramels.

Save them and give them out on Halloween? For someone who advocates for the protection of little children, that seems downright wicked.

But then I remembered. Yes, there are people who loathe the mention of my name. Why not stash the dastardly caramels in my purse when I’m interviewing someone who I know dislikes me? Then sweetly offer one? Nah, even though it’s the right season, I don’t want to be seen as the wicked witch with the poisoned goodie.

I’m afraid if I don’t get rid of them soon, the craving will return and I’ll decide to take my chances. With my luck, I’d be back in the dentist’s chair chanting, “Drill, baby, drill.” My dentist, a staunch Republican and Sarah Palin fan, would do so with enthusiasm.

Halloween will never be the same if it’s caramel-free, but in these dreadful economic times, I can’t afford to indulge.

Assuming I have the fortitude to stick with my no-nukes pledge — whoops, I mean my no-caramel pledge — I’ll always remember my last caramel, just not fondly.

Halloween approaches. Learn from my mistakes. I won’t.

Jane Ann Morrison’s column appears Monday, Thursday and Saturday. E-mail her at Jane@reviewjournal.com or call (702) 383-0275.