Every October, millions of adults stand over a plastic cauldron and make a decision that reveals their entire character: which candy do I give away, and which do I ‘accidentally’ leave in the pantry for myself. This is that list, with the pretense removed.
We ranked these the way a trick-or-treater would, which is to say ruthlessly, with a deep suspicion of anything that comes in a pastel wrapper. Disagree all you want. Your opinion is welcome in the comments, which are, as it happens, turned off.
Jump to an entry (20 picks)
Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups
The undisputed heavyweight champion of the pillowcase. Salty, sweet, and engineered so that the ratio of chocolate to peanut butter is exactly right, which is a thing nobody has ever successfully argued with. Every other candy on this list is auditioning for second place.
If you hand these out, you are the house everyone remembers. If you hand out the pumpkin-shaped ones, you are a house that understands the assignment and also has a finer sense of occasion than most of your neighbors.
Snickers
A candy bar that is basically a small meal wearing a chocolate coat. Peanuts, caramel, nougat: it has more going on than most people’s weekends. It also survives a hot pocket, a cold porch, and a three-hour hunt through a neighborhood, which is more than we can say for the average parent.
The only knock is that it’s a commitment. You do not nibble a Snickers. You finish it, and then you stare at the wrapper like it owes you money.
Kit Kat
The only candy that comes with a built-in decision tree: snap, share, or hoard. It’s light, crisp, and weirdly elegant for something stuffed in a plastic pumpkin next to a Dum Dum. It also makes a deeply satisfying noise, which is the closest thing candy has to a personality.
A Kit Kat is the safe bet of Halloween. Nobody has ever been disappointed by one, and nobody has ever been thrilled. That is a very respectable place to live.
Twix
Cookie, caramel, chocolate, and the permanent question of left versus right, which has split families. It’s the candy equivalent of a decent brunch: crunchy, a little indulgent, and over before you’ve fully committed.
The real power move is eating one finger and saving the other for later, then losing it in a coat pocket until March. Good candy, bad impulse control. A classic pairing.
Milky Way
Soft, sweet, and criminally underrated, mostly because it gets lumped in with Snickers by people who didn’t read the label. No peanuts means no allergy panic, which makes it a quiet hero of the neighborhood handout.
It’s the candy bar that shows up, does the job, and gets no credit. We respect that. We also recognize it as the exact energy of the guy who always brings the good folding chairs.
M&M’s (Peanut)
Little shelled peanuts that somehow taste like a better version of a chocolate bar that doesn’t exist. They come in a tiny bag, which is the correct size for a trick-or-treat haul, and they are the only candy where you can plausibly claim you’re eating a snack, not a dessert.
The plain version is fine, but nobody is writing songs about fine.
Butterfinger
Crispety, crunchy, peanut buttery, and so aggressively textured that it gets stuck in your molars until Thanksgiving. It has a devoted fan base, who will tell you about it at length, and a skeptical majority, who will quietly trade it for a Jolly Rancher.
We sit in the middle. It’s good, it’s weird, and it feels like something from a candy bar your grandfather would have loved without ever saying so.
Sour Patch Kids
They start out sour and end up sweet, which is the arc of every decent sitcom character and also of every child who ever lost a tooth. The sugar-coated gummy is a minor miracle of food science, and the tongue burn is part of the experience.
Fifteen of these in a row is a mistake. We’ve all made it. We’ll all make it again.
Skittles
Taste the rainbow, as the slogan says, and the rainbow tastes like fruit candy that has never seen a real fruit. They’re colorful, portable, and perfect for fistfuls. A single Skittle is boring. A fistful is a lifestyle.
The only crime is the debate over whether the green is lime or apple, which reveals everything about a person.
Starburst
The chewy square that somehow made chewing feel like a job. The flavors are strong, the wrapper is a pain, and the pink ones vanish first, because the universe has priorities.
A Starburst is a small, sticky argument with your own jaw. It always wins, and you always come back for more.
Nerds
A crunchy, tiny, two-flavor gamble in one box. Pouring a box of Nerds into your mouth like a cartoon character is its own kind of freedom, and getting a few stuck in your throat is the price of that freedom.
The Nerds Rope, with its gummy center and crunchy shell, is a different animal. It deserves a spot in the pantheon, and if you disagree, you’re wrong.
Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Bar
The standard, the baseline, the candy bar your house stocks when it can’t figure out what else to buy. It’s fine. Honestly, it’s fine, with the faint tang that people either love or pretend not to notice.
There’s nothing wrong with it, and nothing that makes you cheer. It’s the beige sweater of Halloween candy.
Tootsie Roll
The candy that proves chewing can be a personality trait. It’s old, it’s dense, and it’s in every bowl in America, mostly because it’s cheap and shaped like something you can hide in a pocket.
It’s not bad. It’s just not good enough to pick when there’s a Twix in the same bowl.
Jolly Ranchers
Hard candy that a child will mostly use as a tiny weapon against their own back teeth. The flavors are bright and the burn on the roof of your mouth is real, but the shelf life is infinite, which is more than we can say for most things we love.
They are the dependable cousin you see once a year and are glad to see for forty minutes.
Smarties
A tiny chalky disc that, in a fair world, would be a pill. Yes, they are sweet. No, nobody remembers choosing them.
As a Halloween candy, a Smartie is something you receive in bulk and give away with identical enthusiasm. It is the candy equivalent of a firm handshake from a stranger.
Dots
A gumdrop with the structural integrity of a stale pillow, and a texture that suggests the factory made it by accident. Some people love them. Those people also love gas station sushi and will not be reasoned with.
Your jaw will sit with this decision for several hours.
Peeps (Halloween Edition)
Marshmallow in the shape of a bat or a ghost, which is the same marshmallow in an Easter shape wearing a different costume. They are best left on the counter overnight, where they become something closer to a hockey puck, which many people prefer.
As a concept, Peeps are fine. As a candy, they are a dare.
Candy Corn
The tri-color teeth of autumn, a candy so polarizing that it has its own annual debate. It tastes like sugar, wax, and the faint ghost of a marshmallow, and yet it appears in every bowl in the country, as if there’s a rule.
There is no rule. Please stop buying it. We say this with love and also a little with dread.
Black Licorice
The candy that exists only to prove a point. Some people really do love it, the way some people love a gym membership they never use. For the rest of us, it’s a punishment dressed as a treat.
If you hand out black licorice, you are the house that gets egged, and honestly, you’ve earned it.
Raisins (the Tiny Box)
We understand that you meant well. You are a good person, trying to be a healthy one, and we salute you for it. We also salute your house, from across the street, on our way to the next one.
A box of raisins in a trick-or-treat bag is not a treat. It’s a note from the principal.