THE LAST OF MY MARMITE DAYS

"Ronnie Bray describes with his usual affectionate humour a savoury but sad treat as he gobbles up the final scrapings of his Marmite supply."

 The day had come. Wistfully, I looked at the bubble shaped brown jar sitting on the shelf in the kitchen cupboard and knew that it was the end of an era. The label looked as good as it did when I bought the jar a couple of years ago. Inside it was a different story. A few sad teardrops of diluted Marmite sat on the bottom of otherwise empty the jar. What seemed to promise bliss no longer held the resources to satisfy my passion.

 On my last visit to Batley’s Cash and Carry in 2002, I bought three catering tubs of Marmite, enough, if I used it sparingly, to last me for least ten years, figuring that was probably how long I had left if the heavens were kind. I had the dark brown jar I bought at ASDA in midsummer 2000. It lasted me through our wanderings to Arizona, Tennessee, Arizona again, and, finally, Montana, and now it was about to die.

 It is not that Marmite is unavailable in the Land of the Free. There are web sites catering for the sophisticated tastes of English ex-patriots, but prices are so very far from free. And being a Yorkshire lad, I will not spend my hard-to-come-by brass on overpriced goods, be they ever so necessary.

 Laura and Jason bought me a parcel of English goods for Father’s Day in 2001, stocked with Sarson’s Malt Vinegar, Coleman’s mustard, HP Sauce, Heinz Baked Beans, Beef OXO cubes, Batchelor’s Mushy Peas, and a tin of Dandelion & Burdock.

I did not dare not open any of them but spread them out like trophies on top of the fridge as a sign to visiting Americans of what I had relinquished in order to grace the United States with my presence. Most viewed them as if they were looking down a hole, and the polite ones muttered almost inaudibly, "How very interesting," and whispered behind their hands.

 I sealed the three tubs of brown goo from Batley’s with Gaffer Tape for their long journey west. When our covered wagon stopped in Montana, I put them in my store against an evil day, but fate conspired to deprive me of them one by one.

 A chance meeting with Elina, a Finnish girl who had lived in England as a child and become fond of Marmite, prised the first of the containers from my grasp. Next, my eldest son, Curtis, moved to Troy, so I lost tub number two. When my eldest daughter, Andy, now Americanised to AnnDee, visited us, I could not deprive her of something her soul loved, so pop went number three. That left me with the failing dregs of a 500g jar with an expiry date of Dec 02, which brings me right up to date.

 Today was the day that I had continuously postponed. However, it had to come, and come it had. I toasted one piece of bread and spread a little margarine, then with a broad-ended knife I captured what I could of the tiny tears of brown nectar, smeared it on the toast, and began to chew.

 Eating the confection was a happy-sad affair. Happy for the heavenly taste, but sad that I was presiding at the wake of an experience that I will not repeat until I return to the home of this deliciously delectable gentleman’s repast cunningly manufactured from an extract of yeast, exulting in the cognomen of the iron pans called marmites that once held roasted meats, from whence delicious dripped juices and deposits were scraped to make real gravy, and which has lent its name to one of the greatest alimentary delights available to kings and commoners.

It was the end of my Marmite days. I mourned their passing with a sigh. The jar I will replace in the cupboard as a solemn reminder of other times and other places

Copyright ? Ronnie Bray 2004 - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED