I’m not a happy little Vegemite

There was an advertising campaign in the early nineties that revived the whole black-and-white “I’m a happy little Vegemite” campaign from the ‘60’s, and it was updated in colour and yet still filled with footage of kids of all ages engaging in the sort of strenuous activity that preoccupies children: jumping on a trampoline, popping balloons, running through a sprinkler on the lawn, etc.

It was all good wholesome stuff, and nostalgic for many.

What used to jar me out of reality was the final image of a chubby, happy baby sitting in a high-chair, with Vegemite smeared over his mouth and face, and globs of it clinging to his fat little chipolata-like baby fingers. This kid had obviously been shoving fistfuls of Vegemite into his toothless craw like it was chocolate sauce, and was going giddy with the salty insanity of it all.

I remember first seeing this, and being shocked out of my fucking mind.

Much like when a bright light is suddenly shone in your eyes and it takes a while for the afterimage to fade, so too did my mind flare out to whiteness when I beheld this hell-spawn. It was a least a minute before any thoughts started trickling in through the phosphor fog, which is a good thing, because in that space I’m pretty sure I’d forgotten how to make my heart beat.

Actual child-beast from ad not pictured

Subsequent screenings were viewed with a mixture of awe and revulsion, with a smattering of scientist’s curiosity. What manner of hellish chimera was this child? Was it even human? And if not, what hideously demonic womb issued forth this gibbering salt-fiend?

The most frightening thought of all, was what happens when chubbo’s fingers scrabble at the last smears of Vegemite in the jar and there’s no more left in the house? I’m thinking the terrible Mephistophelian poltergeist fury unleashed would make even Damien shit his pants. Twice.

What has brought this anti-Cupid back from suppressed memory is that recently I have been indulging in some Vegemite and cheese sandwiches -- a bit of Australian culinary culture that reminds me of home. It’s also bloody tasty, and even though I’m a good cook I can whip one or two of these bad boys up in a minute.

Here’s your recipe guide:

Ingredients

Two slices of bread
One slice of cheese
Vegemite
Butter/Margarine (optional)

Instructions

1. Lay out both slices of bread.
2. Optional step: spread butter or margarine on the bread.
3. Place the cheese on one of the slices.
4. Using a butter knife, smear a thin coating of Vegemite across the cheese.
5. Place other slice of bread on top of cheese

Congratulations! You have now formed what the scientific community calls a “sandwich”.

Girls eating sandwiches can be hot

I have been hand-crafting these wonders for years, and when it comes to the ol’ Vegemite and cheese sangers I am Jamie-fucking-Oliver (only with 100% less twunt).

All of which is a concern, as recently instead of step 4 being the creation of a uniform veneer of Vegemite across the unsullied cheese, I’ve become more like Pro Hart or Rolf Harris, in that I dip my knife into the jar like it’s a bucket of paint and I liberally smoosh huge chunks of the vegetable tar onto the cheese. Uniformity is out the window, and it’s not uncommon for me these days to bite into a section of sandwich to find a huge bolus of Vegemite there.

Most damning is that sometimes I eschew the cheese as a foundation for the Vegemite and attack the bread itself.

Maybe I’ve lost what it is to be Australian, or maybe my diet over here doesn’t include enough salt -- but I do know that I’ve been voraciously attacking these sangers with the gusto usually left to a cow stampeding toward a fresh salt lick.

The last thing a salt-lick sees

I should probably impose a Vegemite moratorium for a while. Just ban myself from it for now. I know that what’s left in my current jar cannot withstand many more attacks…

…but then again I also know where a ready supply can be had.

You sexy, sexy temptress