By the time I was a pre-teen, it seemed all my peers were an accomplished lot.

Some played musical instruments like they were ready to either turn pro or join the London Philharmonic.

Others were skilled woodworkers, mechanics, cooks and seamstresses.

There were singers, athletes, and Eagle Scouts, scholars, leather workers and outdoorsmen.

And then there was me.

When I look back — not through rose-colored glasses — I see Little Dopey Boy with one skill, and one skill only: I was a world-class candy connoisseur. Or maybe more exactly, I was a hopeless candy junkie.

Labels aside, the fact remains I was a quotidian and epic consumer of sweet stuff, limited only by a very limited cash flow.

My tastes can be fairly described as catholic. You name it, and I ate it … as long as it was loaded with sugar and food coloring (Red #2 dye probably my favorite).

All I have to do is close my eyes, and all those yummies parade before me …

Red Hots, JuJubes, Fleers Double Bubble, Snickers, malted milk balls, Popsicle, Atomic Fireballs, soda, ice cream and all chocolates except the dark stuff (I had to draw the line somewhere).

My specialty, however, was penny candies — not because of discretion, but funds: As a wee poppet I could always scrounge a few coppers, and sometimes a nickel was in my hot little hands. But dimes and quarters, on a daily basis, were less a struggle than a forlorn hope. So rather than ratchet up my tastes and work ethic, I lowballed both, which back in them days, Bunkie, was easy to do, since in My Home Town the penny candies all but grew on trees.

First, there were the Mom and Pop grocery stores that dotted the landscape. Gladd’s on Upper Broadway, Ruthie’s on Prospect Street, Donnelly’s on Lake Flower Avenue, Perry’s on Helen Hill, and others whose names have long faded into The Mists of History.

Woolworth’s had a candy counter that was a hypoglycemic’s dream-come-true, as did the Grand Union and A&P; each drugstore had its candy stash as well.

Then there were those small businesses I think of as health-food-stores-in-reverse, since their stock in trade was candy, tobacco products, and men’s magazines. Boynton’s (later called Wells’s, where Annie’s Crepes is now) was my sucrose-mad self’s version of Shangri-La. The place had it all: Popcorn machine in the front; soda machine (cooled not by motor, but by ice) in the back, and in between, a big glass display case loaded with the finest collection of penny candies.

Usually, I changed it up. Root beer barrels one day; Atomic Fireballs the next; Tootsie Rolls the day after that. If I was flush, I’d go high-tone with either candy cigarettes or a bubble gum cigar, or maybe a Charms lollipop or a box of Chocolate Babies.

My favorite was the Candy King itself — Sugar Daddy. They were a mere nickel, but provided a fine and extended culinary experience, since they were a hard caramel that lasted a long time. They also had entertainment value, as there was always a little rhyme on its stick, plus inside the wrapper were offers of exotic merchandise you could send away for. The cost was a certain number of outside wrappers plus cash (most of it costing either two or four bits).

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Aristocratic pretensions

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While my sugar mania lessened in my mid-teens, it didn’t disappear. Instead, it matured. And it was Regal Crown Sour Lemons what done it. They were a roll of hard candies, individually wrapped, and the only place they were sold (at least that I knew of) was Hoffman’s Pharmacy. They were also top-of-the line, costing a budget-busting 15 cents for a mere seven of them. Fifteen cents? For only seven? Yipes! For 15 cents I could’ve gotten three Sugar Daddies, or 15 root beer barrels, or a 16 ounce Royal Crown Cola (back when its competitors cost as much but came in 12 ounce bottles). Or I could’ve gotten a plain donut and a jelly donut, freshly made in Deissler’s Bakery; a Fudgicle and a Snickers bar; or a two-scoop ice cream cone at the Altamont dairy bar.

I’ve no idea what prompted me to buy the Sour Lemons in the first place. Maybe my aristocratic pretensions or my Anglophilia: Given their name and their trademark (which was a little crown), I thought they were made in England, to me a country chockful of Old World craftspeople, perhaps foremost among them, candy makers.

It turned out they actually were made in England, and done in an old-fashioned way, but I didn’t know that then. I only knew I was never the same after I popped the first one in my gaping maw. The experience was, to use a New Agey term, transformative. I didn’t know why that was; I only knew Regal Sour Lemons were more delicious than any candy I’d ever had. They had a combination of sour and sweet that to the sacrilegious ragamuffin I was, I would’ve labeled “divine.”

Unfortunately, their cost and my frugality kept them from being anything but a rare treat, and I kept my candy jones at bay with all the low-rent regulars.

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The low cost of inflation

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After I got out of high school and left town, my love affair with candy ended, replaced by my love affair with coffee and cigarettes. So the last time I plunked down my filthy lucre at Hoffman’s cash register was the summer of ’64 and I hadn’t tasted a Regal Sour Lemon since … till this week.

One day, for no apparent reason, I found myself thinking of Regal Sour Lemons. Specifically, I was thinking was how delicious I’d thought they were, back in my Gilded Youth. But then I wondered if, with all the wisdom I’ve acquired over the decades (along with wrinkles, scars, varicose veins and root canals), would I still find them even remotely as tasty as I did then?

The only way to find out was to get some. This was a hassle of and by itself, since I hadn’t seen them since My Glory Days, plus I didn’t know if they even made them anymore. With the dubious wonders of the internet, what would’ve been an impossible chore 30 years ago was now no sweat: I hit Google, punched in Regal Crown Sour Lemon and — Lo and Behold — there they were! Yep, they’re still being made, and yep, I ordered a bunch.

As soon as they arrived, I tore open the the roll, pulled one out, tore open its wrapper and put it in my mouth.

And guess what?

It wasn’t as good as I remembered — it was even better! Without wasting your precious time on a bunch of adjectives, I’ll just say it was as delicious a candy as I’ve ever had. Period.

I then did a bunch of research and found out they contain only natural flavorings and no artificial colors, plus they’re made in some traditional and costly process that’s all but died out among candy makers. And thus their high cost.

Oh yeah, and speaking of cost. The 15-cent rolls that sent me into arrears in 1962 now cost a few pennies short of a buck. So what cost two pennies a piece back then, now costs 14-point-something cents. In other words, one piece today costs as much as the whole roll back then. Damned inflation.

But catch this: Given the rate of inflation, today’s equivalent of 15 cents in 1962 is $1.48. So Regal Crown Sour Lemons are not only as tasty as ever, but they’re cheaper than ever as well! And thus they’re gonna become part of my permanent dessert stash.

Because let’s face it — as much as I love dessert, I love a bargain a whole lot more.