It hit with surprising clarity and force. Driving back from Toronto recently, I was aimlessly pondering lunch options when I was struck with the sudden and urgent need to eat… Vegemite.
Yes, Australia. Be proud. The pretzels are already demanding lashings of the dark, gooey goodness that is our national spread. I haven’t eaten it in two years, ever since the onset of gluten intolerance spelled the demise of my love affair with the salty tar.
But that day, there was no denying it. I was going to eat me some Vegemite and damn the consequences!
And it was good. Oh my goodness, it was sooooooo good!!!! Why have pregnant women not been craving this for decades? Forget pickles. If sour, salty, dankness is what your palate craves, get ye a jar of the good brown stuff!
Vegemite is hard to describe to the uninitiated. It’s like Marmite, but denser and more bitter. Kind of like if you made really salty gravy, and then boiled it down to an impenetrably thick mess, popped it in a jar and then spread it on your toast. I’m salivating just thinking of it.
We’re not kidding when we tell you the stuff is made from the gunk left over from making beer. It’s yeasty and salty and strong and amazing. And that day it tasted like the best thing on Earth.
The next couple of days weren’t so nice. Turns out even the little bit of gluten in my Vegemite-and-salad sandwich was enough to set me off, but it was worth it. Totally, undeniably worth it.
And with that, I hereby reaffirm my oath of being Aussie, and welcome the two pretzels into the team. They’re gonna be happy little Vegemites, for sure.