Marmalade, the bitter preserve of the devil

Of all the spreads and preserves on God’s green earth, marmalade, I loathe thee most.

Were I to have my way, every last jar of this disgusting, congealing, gelatinous stuff would be thrown on to an immense fairytale fire, to burn by the side of changelings and spinning wheels.

Marmalade, more than any substance known to man, deserves to be utterly wiped out of existence, to be vapourised, to become an unjam. Why?

Reason the first: It thinks it's special

If one were suddenly possessed by a maddening desire for marmalade (although it stretches my thinking) and set off for the supermarket, where is it to be found? In the “jam” aisle. Scanning the labels of its neighbouring produce, you will find raspberry jam, strawberry jam, blackberry jam. So why is marmalade treated differently? It’s only another jam.

It thinks it’s better than everyone else, so it decides to make up its own hipster title, and parades itself around as if it were on the cutting edge of the modern preserve scene. What’s wrong with being called “orange jam”?

Reason the second: It's a tease

You come back from the supermarket, you unpack the marmalade you bought (ignoring its obvious self-righteous tendencies), and you gaze at it. It’s golden-orange, with tantalising flecks of zest suspended in its glow. You spread it over a nice thick slice of toast, smelling the vibrant scent of oranges as it melts with the butter, soaking into the warm, crisped bread.

You crunch into it eagerly, and . . . it’s foul. It’s enough to make your face pucker and your tongue shrivel up and die.

If spite came in jars, if earwax was a spread, if hornets made honey, marmalade would be it.

Reason the last: 'Bitter' marmalade

What does marmalade even have to be bitter about? I mean, it leads a pretty cushy life.

It’s popular: go to any café for breakfast and you’ll find butter, one kind of berry jam, and marmalade on the table. It has tricked us into loving it, into forgetting its ugly taste like a mother who erases the pain of childbirth because she wants to have another baby.

Marmalade does not know injustice. Marmalade does not know inequality. Marmalade has never been betrayed by family, snitched on by a friend, or jilted by a lover. Marmalade has no cause for bitterness, and yet it continues to be a sulky, sour thing, lurking in the cupboard, waiting for its next chance to pounce.