Pour some Marmite on me ...
I remember the terrible news like it was yesterday. It was all over the six o'clock bulletin, every paper in the country wrote about it and small towns and big cities alike were affected.
At first we thought it wouldn't last for long. Sir Colin Meads made an appearance to reassure us that all would be well, Facebook groups were set up to try to encourage a quick resolution, and emergency supplies were sent around New Zealand.
Marmageddon caused our nation to stand still for a moment, but only for a moment. It wasn't long before thousands scrambled to the supermarket, pushing and shoving to secure that last jar of black gold.
The Kiwi black gold could have rivalled oil for price, with a bucket of Marmite selling on TradeMe for $2115. One was surprised the shortage did not start a war of global proportions.
While many started collecting supplies while they could, stocking their reserve cupboard like my great grandmother, who grew up during the Depression, I sat happily with my small jar. There was no need to fear, Sanitarium had assured us they would be bottling the salty delight any time now, and I'd have a jar before July was up.
As it inched closer to July and the covering on my white, butter-soaked toast became thinner and thinner and my jar became emptier and emptier, I began to worry.
Surely I, who only ever ate Marmite toast for breakfast, could not be left without my morning sustenance. The thought of having to have Weetbix, or even the dreaded, and far inferior, Vegemite drove this Modern Maiden into a frenzy fit for a lunatic.
Come mid-July it had been three days since my last taste of the delicious, gooey black spread. I'd used my knife to scrape every last bit from the plastic jar. It was gone, and unless I very quickly had a hit injected into my blood stream I was going to suffer the sleepless nights and sweats of withdrawal.
Then came the moment I will tell my future grandchildren about. It was the morning of my 26th birthday. I peeled myself out of bed, trudging towards the kitchen, not looking forward to my breakfast of necessity.
I was about to pour my full cream milk on top of bricks of wheat when there was a knock at the front door. Deciding that my red fluffy dressing gown was adequately covering the comfiest and least sexy of my pyjamas, I opened the door.
''Happy Birthday my baby girl,'' my mother said as she grinned from ear to ear.
It's not like my mother to be bright-eyed and filled with energy at 7am, but here she was, brimming with excitement. She handed me a gift, wrapped in Tinkerbell paper.
''Open it,'' she demanded, obviously pleased with herself.
That morning, thanks to my beautiful mother, I dug into a jar of black gold and ate a giant desert spoon of Marmite, straight off the spoon, for my birthday breakfast.
My gluttony contributed to the short life of that jar and since October I have once again been in the throes of a Marmite meltdown.
Aside from when I was house sitting and had the use of a jar of Marmite for three days, I have stopped eating breakfast altogether. It's my modern day (rather pointless) hunger strike, the type of protest that is so peaceful nobody knows about it.
When the Pope resigned this week and Sanitarium later announced Marmageddon was soon to be over I was drowning in saliva.
I immediately imagined rubbing it (the Marmite, not the saliva) into my skin and letting it soak in through my pores as I devoured Marmite milkshakes and drizzled the black gold on my hockey pokey ice cream.
Since then the excitement has died down, and although I am sceptical of Sanitarium's announcement, I have started creating a list of Marmite treats to make when I get my greedy hands on a jar or 10.
Top of the list is the licking of a ladleful of Marmite, followed by Marmite spread on warm buttery toast. Then I'm looking forward to Marmite and cheese crackers and mousetraps straight from the oven.
Then of course there is my personal and long-forgotten favourite, Marmite and lettuce sandwiches, wrapped in glad wrap and slightly warm after spending the day in my lunchbox.
I'm almost drooling all over my keyboard.
Marmite: how will you eat yours?