It all started with a BLT sandwich. Using my skills as a famous food writer, I planned to deftly combine these three simple elements into a masterpiece of sandwich perfection. The stage was set: Tomato was sliced, bacon was sizzling, lettuce — well there was no lettuce because who cares about the lettuce anyway. The only thing left was to make a little mayonnaise to bring the whole thing together.
What happened next is kind of a blur. I see the blender start to tip. “Gadzooks!” I scream (I’ve never been good with expletives). I reach for it, but I’m too late. The glass pitcher tumbles off its stand, hits the tile backsplash and explodes into a thousand pieces. Mayo-coated shards tear through my outstretched hand, blood goes everywhere. “Arrgh!” I scream as I grab a dishtowel and start to apply pressure.
When the bleeding finally stops, I sit down for lunch. Looking at my plate, I see just a pile of unconnected ingredients. Without mayo, this is no sandwich. This is nothing! I hang my head and let out a disheartened sigh. It starts to rain. Wait, no — it starts to snow. Sad violin music plays. The flickering light from a single candle lights my face, and is extinguished by a cold breeze from an open window. Curtain.
If you’ve never had homemade mayonnaise, I don’t blame you for thinking you hate mayo.
This article appears in Apr 14-20, 2011.