"Marmalade" is a fun word to say. It's especially fun in a British accent, spoken by Paddington Bear (who likes marmalade so much, he's the official spokesperson for Robertson's--the best I could find was Smuckers). It's fun to say it "Mar-muh-lahd," as in the song with the French lyrics that tend to get people in trouble. But is it fun to eat? That is the question.
Marmalade is probably the only jam (or jelly) that I know for sure I don't like. It's rather perfumey, I think, and not incredibly reminiscent of the oranges that went into it. There's a bitterness that probably comes from the inclusion of any pith, or just the boiling down of things. (I wonder if the outcome is any different when you make marmalade yourself. I found a recipe, anyway, and might experiment with it in the future.) It's a unique flavor, and I think that makes it interesting, if nothing else.
But as I eat my wheat toast with marmalade on it (I'm getting the keyboard a little sticky--whoops), I find that each bite gets more enjoyable. No, I won't be having it every morning or even on a regular basis, most likely, but I feel like a little door has been opened. I couldn't make myself like it when I was seven and playing Mrs. Brown in my class's production of Paddington Bear. I couldn't make myself like it when it was available on the sparse "continental breakfast" tables at the hostels I stayed in when I was nineteen. But evidently, at twenty-six, I can. Check one off the list. I do like marmalade.