Like a predisposition for depression, the love of licorice is something that you get from your parents. Either you love it or you hate it. When I tell people I like it, I am met with responses ranging from confusion to disgust to rejection. Loving licorice is regarded by many as an aesthetic abnormality, a perversion of taste. Its flavor comes from an underground root, not a fruit or an herb. Its impenetrable color comes from molasses. It is never advertised for in this country, because no new customers will be reeled in and tricked into liking it. If you want it, you know where to get it. At once old-fashioned and subversive, it is stylistically akin to one drinking strong black coffee. The affection for other black articles is similar, with varying degrees of hardcore-ness: black flowers, black underwear, black cars, black nail polish, black lipstick, black patent leather face masks...
