Vegemite is much maligned by those who don’t understand it. I know this for a fact, because I was born into the PB&J Culture (yes, capital ‘C’), far, far, away across The Big Pond (yes, capital ‘T’, capital ‘B’ and capital ‘P’). But then, through no fault of my own, I was abruptly uprooted and thrust across The Big Pond into The Culture of All Things Vegemite, where I was magically expected to ‘take root and flourish’.

I didn’t like it. I wanted to start a revolution when running away didn’t work. At age 7.

Vegemite, I felt at the time, was an evil and foul crime against humanity. I was cruelly and mercilessly ridiculed for my PB&J’s in the Culture of All Things Vegemite, and truly wanted to gag at the sight of two hundred cheese and vegemite sandwiches every lunch time, but mastered self control.

However, I did gleefully discover some small measure of revenge in watching my tormentors being forced to drink horrid little glass bottles of rancid milk at morning recess that had been sitting in the hot summer sun all morning. Hahahahaha, I’d laugh to myself. Serves you bloody right, you culture-less mongrels. (My parents, of course, would have none of that, bless them. Rancid milk was decidedly off the menu for their daughter and they duly informed the headmaster.)

But then I went and made a new best friend who just happened to be a devout believer in All Things Vegemite; cheese and vegemite sandwiches, tomato and vegemite sandwiches, vegemite toast with fried eggs on top, vegemite toast ‘soldiers’ for stabbing runny boiled eggs; her mother even made a gravy with vegemite as stock.

So, because I wanted to feel as though I was truly sharing all aspects of life with my new best friend – both the ups and the downs – I determined that I must learn to like Vegemite. I shan’t lie; it took pocketfuls of courage, but the taste was inevitably and eventually acquired. And now? I simply can’t live without it.

There was a point to that bit of idiotic rambling if I can just remember what it was. Oh yes! It’s this: why can’t food just become The Religion – and we flush all the rest?

Turkish Delight confessionals, anyone?

Licorice pillow fights?

I can’t really see a Chocolate Pudding Regiment declaring war on a Strawberry Pudding Regiment, can you? I mean, Vanilla would always come between them to smooth things out, right?

And how many baguettes are going to warn fields of wheat to prepare for Marshmallow Ascension and not allow themselves to be harvested and milled?

Holy Book of Corn Flakes? (although they do make an amazing crunchy coating for fried chicken, y’know!)

Peanut Butter Heaven with 77 Eternal Rivers of Chocolate Sauce?

You’ll have to excuse me; I’m clearly not well at the moment…