79. Marmite

I'm sure I must know some people who don't like Marmite, but they have never identified themselves to me. Or maybe liking Marmite is a subconscious requirement of mine when it comes to choosing friends. This is the thing about Marmite, it works on so many levels.

In French, 'marmite' is the sticky savoury stuff stuck to the bottom of the cooking pot - the stuff you scrape up with your spatula when nobody's looking and chew greedily with drops of greasy goodness on your chin. I think the English Marmite was originally the detritus from the brewing process - the left over yeast. Which makes it sound disgusting. The French get these things right.

Marmite, butter, toast. The holy trinity. The three amigos. Herself likes her Marmite spread generously, whereas (despite my lifelong addiction to salt) I prefer a meagre amount, but all the way to the corners.

Marmite and cucumber sandwiches. Marmite and lettuce sandwiches. Marmite and cream cheese on a sesame bagel. Marmite mixed with butter, spread generously on Mother's Shame, cut into quarters with the crusts cut off. I recently discovered Marmite, butter and swedish crispbreads from Ikea.

I have one further word for you: TWIGLETS. Yep, nuff said.

I don't think there has ever been a day since I left home that I haven't had a pot of Marmite somewhere about my person. It sits there, its yellow lid glowing warmly at me, waiting to adorn my toast with its salty savoury yumminess. It asks for nothing in return but that I do my best to keep crumbs and butter dollops out of the jar, and this I do with grateful thanks, and will do all my life.