I haven’t always love marzipan. In fact, I hated it before I even knew what it was. My first shocking bite was as a child. One morning when I got up to watch my raft of Saturday morning cartoons I spied a gorgeous wrapped hamper of sweets, shaped like fruits and brightly coloured. Shiny even. I took a bite and was horrified. What was that? The shock of my expectations of a sweet meeting a more savoury flavour, something very intense. A flavour that adults like and children don’t, well children like me at least.
Marzipan even came hidden in my treasured Christmas cake. Christmas cake made with tea, which my grandmother made for us every year, and beautiful sweet icing on top. Icing like a gentle snowy landscape, covering a shocking layer of yellow marzipan below. I would nibble the icing off, delicately remove the layer of marzipan putty and cast it aside, before devouring the cake.