Dear Wally 112 Mayo?

Dear Wally 112

Just Say Nayo 

Dear Wally:

Do you like mayonnaise?   My wife and I have lots of questions for you--some as philosophically deep as the Marianas Trench, others quite surface-bound, like this one about mayonnaise.  You seem to be a little enigmatic, and a little opinionated at times if I may say (I’m a big fan of the column by the way) so I’m figuring that all the Dear Wally readers might join me in wondering this about you?  Or not.

Thanks,

LB

Dear LB:

‘Or not’ is right!!

“Well we all have a face that we hide away forever, and we take it out and show ourselves when everyone has gone…”  Billy Joel (The Stranger).  Now why on earth would I tip my hand and expose the vulnerable, soft underbelly of my food predilections to a complete stranger?  Or worse, quote Billy Joel? That be madness!  But , ya know what?   You took a real risk by heaving  the question up on this public stage, so I’ll go a round or two.  And I’ll try not to get too heady.

Here’s my opinion in a devil-ed egg nutshell (eggshell?) gored by a toothpick and sprinkled with paprika and I’ll thank you to keep this confession entre-nous:  I do not like mayonnaise  (or bleached lard, or emulsified whale blubber, or adipose or whatever it is) I do not like it with green eggs and ham.  I do not like it in a jar or can.  I do not like it, Sam I am.   I do not like it, and yet it is EVERYWHERE.  Pervasive, sneaky, evil, oleaginous. 

When I see mayo in my icebox (who really still calls it an icebox?  What’s my problem?) I toss it.  It is sinfully wasteful to do this but I don’t care.  In fact, I relish (ouch) throwing this condiment out.  I have no problem playing catch up (ouch) with my inner resolve and mustarding (ouch) the strength to escort it post haste into the (any) welcoming dumpster.   I don’t even want the mayo jar in the recycle bin because no matter how well they melt the bottles down, the new soda bottles they make from them will still stinko de mayo, right?  So the vessel goes right to the landfill, far as I’m concerned,  to be smothered and capped by the relative redolence of spent diapers and maggotted fish heads.

I’ve had issues with this particular condiment  ( tuna fish lubricant?)  since childhood.  My mom (here we go, blaming the parents!!) used to spoon out milky, lemon-sized globules of the gelatinous goo from the wide-mouthed Hellman’s jar (back when they still used glass) and splat it into an oversized, lime green salad mixing bowl (it was the 70’s after all).  She’d then dump tuna fish from a can, toss in some minced celery, beat it senseless for a spell to the driving soundtrack of Jesus Christ Superstar and call it done.  (This and my stretchy Danskin bellbottom slacks is all I remember about the 70s. Oh and the Dorothy Hamill haircut.  I had both).

The resulting paste looked and smelled like cat food. 

Meow.

It would then be smeared like viscous cake frosting onto a skinny slice of waiting white bread (that actually described me as a 7 year old pretty well: a skinny slice of waiting, white bread) and sold to me (conceptually, anyway) as a delicious meal. 

I was skeptical then and I’m skeptical now.  

You can’t fool the kids on the food front even if you wire the corners of your mouth up in a smile and dance a jig about how much fun (fill in the blank with whatever it is that isn’t marshmellows) is to eat.  Even good acting is bad acting and I’ve delivered some Academy performances.

Curiously, I’m greeted with puckered lips, a chorus of blecht blecht blechts and histrionic, pre-emptive guttural retches when even the most scrumptious thing is plated and presented to my 4 year old and she’s decided that what I’ve cooked is really handsomely garnished rat poison on a platter.   I’m no Emmeril Lagasse, that’s for sure, but I  also haven’t killed anyone with my cooking yet. 

So all this isn’t super good for my kitchen confidence.  But for all the excellence and mediocrity in my day that I have proffered, and everything in between, I have yet to present her with anything containing mayonnaise.  And ya also know what?  I probably wont.  I know it’s a big food world out there, but I’m not giving her a passport to mayo land.  Mostly cause it’s too gross.

Knowing my long term, fiery vituperation on the subject, my high school friends (bastards in the loving sense) used to sneak industrial tubs of it on our overnight camping trips and dump it, five gallons (!?!) at a time, on my head whilst I slept.

I need a shower just thinking about it.

Is there enough therapy out there to fix me?

I fully realize this will result in a few cases worth of mayo being delivered to the Blue Stone Press’ offices, attn me.  I will smile politely and toss them like crap grenades into the dumpster.

So I guess the answer is no, LB. Not big on mayo.

-Wally

Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to join his Just-Say-Nayo support group?  Email him at cwn4@aol.com