Extract

I bloody love a good extract, me.

Specifically, Marmite. God damn. That shit (figuratively) is good. I mean, okay, “yeast extract” makes it sound a little like the byproduct of a medical condition, but it’s just so packed full of umami goodness that I can happily overlook that.

Mmmmarmite.

It wasn’t until my university days that I got on board the Marmite bandwagon. Previously I had fallen firmly into the “hate” camp. Then, one day I got really drunk. The post booze hunger hit hard and I needed savoury snackage. As it was toward the end of term, money was tight. So tight, in fact, that my own cupboard contained no food whatsoever. Not even biscuits. Not even cheese. Not even a lonely, mouldy crust of Tesco Value bread.

My flatmate, in a similarly foodless situation, sat in the corner watching as I scrimmaged for sustenance. Casually, cruelly, he suggested that perhaps I’d like some Marmite. Just a spoonful of that thick brown gloop would satiate my savoury hankerings for a week.

For the record, eating a spoonful of Marmite is not the most pleasant thing I’ve ever done. It burns a bit. But it was an epiphany. I LOVE Marmite!

Nearly a decade has passed since that watershed moment, and my relationship with Marmite has remained solid. Unwaveringly monogamous. Until six months ago.

A stay with a good friend in London saw temptation rear its head; she had no Marmite for our post-booze toast session. I queried how this could be so, and the answer shocked me:

“I prefer Bovril”

I was in no mood for experimentation, so I stuck with just butter.

All was well, I returned home and thought no more of this alternative extract. But my friend visited recently, bringing with her a small gift: a jar of Marmite’s beefy brother, Bovril.

Now the usurper was in my house it was only a matter of time until I would try it. I pre-empted the inevitable and cracked the seal on the jar later that day.

Bovril is a revelation. It is easier to spread. It has a slightly mellower taste, still able to scratch the umami itch, but less likely to strip a layer of flesh from the roof of your mouth. I am officially a two extract man now.

Phwoar.

But, I wonder, where next? My appetite for toasted bread products is voracious. How long before I find myself Vegemite curious? What other, more obscure extracts are out there, just waiting to tantalise my taste buds?

*drools on keyboard*

The Many Faces of Faeces

Yes, that's right folks, one week into parenthood and I'm writing a poo post.  

In my defence, at one week old I have a limited choice of topics regarding the baby; sleep (lack of), breastfeeding (difficulty of, tentative overcoming of) and poo (lots of).

If you're reading this you've probably got kids.  You know the score.  The initial period of worry when the baby DOESN'T DO POOING.  Will the baby poo?  When will the baby poo?  What happens if he doesn't? All these questions and more race through the mind of the new parent.  Lucky for me, our little bundle didn't keep us waiting too long to render them all moot. 

"Hooray!" we thought, "the boy can poo!"  This reaction is the start of an alarming process.  The conversion of your brain from an organ of rational thought and reason into one which cares an awful lot about poo.  Colour of poo.  Consistency of poo.  Frequency of poo.

All things poo are on the cognitive agenda.  Not only this, they are on the conversational agenda (please tell me that's not just me, I've been talking to my non-parent friends about poo...)

But, for those who don't know already, baby poo is not the same as adult poo.  Where adult poo can be categorised using the Bristol Stool Scale (another claim to fame for my fair city) baby poo can not.

Baby poo is categorised, at least by our midwife, by comparison with various foodstuffs.  

Initial poos, we were told, should have consistency and appearance of Marmite.  Nice.  Amid the worry of the run up to the first poo, with all the aforementioned questions, now I had the added concern that I may never be able to spread delicious yeast extract on my toast again.  The Horror!

Marmite: Not Made of Poo

I needn't have worried.  I didn't have to deal with the Marmite poos (or, more accurately, Meconium. Thanks Google.) because he did all those at night when still in the hospital, with only Mrs L to clean the tar-like substance from him.  So, obviously, I can still enjoy an umami filled breakfast.

Once the Marmite days pass it's onto stage two poo: Nutella.  No worries about falling out of love with that one, I'm not a big fan of Nutella anyway.  Phew.  Just as well, because I did get to do battle with one or two of these.  You know how sticky Nutella is, yes?  Well.  That.  But smeared on the delicate skin of your beautiful newborn.  Delightful.

We don't have Nutella in our house. Apart from in nappies.

Next up, and our current stage: chicken Korma.  I don't have a photo of chicken Korma, because I don't like it.  Similarly, I don't really like chicken Korma poos.  Though I've never actually tried eating the latter.  It's less sticky than Marmite poo.  Less sticky than Nutella poo.  But what it lacks in sticky it more than makes up for with coverage.

Liquid can't flow uphill.  It's against the laws of physics (and, before anyone starts, capillary action doesn't count).  But guess what?  Korma poo is anti-gravity.  It comes out of the same hole as all the other poo types, but instead of staying in the region of said hole it creeps all the way up the baby's back.

Don't worry, I've told NASA.  I anticipate space suits coated in KormPoo (my trade name, hands off) before the end of the decade.  I'll be retiring off this discovery I reckon.

So, yeah, poo.  Sorry.  Hopefully he'll do something else soon...