A brief history of my relationship with mayonnaise

Ever since I was a child, barely out of diapers, I’ve loathed mayonnaise. I have no idea what originally caused such intense feelings of hatred toward what many regard as an ordinary condiment, or even – shudder – a necessity. There were no traumatic incidents; there was no triggering event. I have simply hated mayo for as long as I can remember.

I was a well-behaved, if smart-alecky kid, but the sight or smell of mayo on a sandwich – or even in the jar – could cause a crying fit. I keep my emotions more in check these days, but inside, I feel the same horror when faced with any food item covered in that greasy goo. If I go to a deli, I always ask if a sandwich includes mayo. I won’t simply accept a “no.” I need details; I need proof. “Yes, I realize Italian dressing should not contain mayo,” I’ll tell the sandwich maker, “but you would be surprised. People are sneaking it into everything these days.” It’s true. Thirty years ago, even I couldn’t have imagined mayonnaise on a pizza, but today it is commonplace. That creamy white sauce on your grilled chicken pizza? That’s ranch dressing, and it’s loaded with mayo.

I’ve learned some hard lessons along the way. I’ve learned to ask specific and probing questions. Case in point: about fifteen years ago, I went to a deli with some friends from work. Some of them still speak to me. I ordered turkey on Dutch Crunch with pesto sauce – no mayo, no mustard, no other spread of any kind. When I brought my sandwich back to the table, I peeled back the bread, top and bottom, to check for mayo and found none. So, I was shocked to bite into my sandwich and taste the rancidness of mayo combined with what would otherwise have been a delicious pesto. I marched up to the counter and asked for a new sandwich, after delivering a brief tutorial on why mayo and pesto don’t mix. I’m certain the guy at the counter rolled his eyes as he made my sandwich, but I think we both learned a lesson that day.