I don’t usually write about mayonnaise. It’s a serious failing and probably what’s kept me from winning a MacArthur genius grant, or the prestigious “I’m more humble than you” competition.
But a lot of people just don’t like mayonnaise. Many describe it with rude words like Blecchh and Are you Blecchhing Me?
Some say it looks like you’re spreading Elmer’s wood glue on your sandwich. Others say mayo is easily confused with shampoo, the insides of a squashed locust and belly button remover.
The dislike of mayonnaise goes back to the day God appeared before Moses in the form of a burning bush (BB). Ever the skeptic, Moses demanded to see a government-issued ID. Ever the Alpha and the Omega, God set Moses’s beard on fire.
Then BB told him to lead the Israelites out of Egypt into the land of the Hittites, Amorites, Hivites, Gezundheits and Insectbites. God pitched it as The Promised Land of milk and honey and–this week only–mayonnaise.
“Blecchh,” said Moses.
In the New Testament, we see where Jesus attracted a crowd of 5,000–who mistakenly believed the event was being catered. His disciples had five loaves of bread, two fishes and one jar of mayonnaise to feed them. Raut Ro.
Miraculously, (not to be confused with Miracle Whip ) when Jesus told the disciples to hand out the food there was more than enough. Later, they found the jar of mayo, unopened, with a note: “Couldn’t get the blecchhing top off, so I’m stuck with my outie.”
Anyway, last week I knocked on the door of The Mayo Clinic (not to be confused with The Mayo Clinic). I told the door flunky I needed to speak to the Mayo Man. He said the mayo hadn’t come yet and he had no idea where the mayo man was. “Did you try the post office?”
I held a jar to his face. “I bought this 36-ounce jar of mayo under false pretenses.”
Normally, I buy the 30-ounce jar. Last week, while rolling my cart down the condiment aisle, the label on a 36-ounce jar jumped out from the shelf, grabbed me and screamed in my face:
BONUS! 20% MORE Than 30 oz jar
During my long life of cowering behind people with large bottoms, I learned that when a jar of mayonnaise screams in your face, you listen. Only later, when I looked at the receipt, did I realize I’d paid 20 per cent more for the 36 ounce jar, not less.
“Uh oh,” said the flunky. “I’m afraid that was my idea.”
Until three weeks ago he’d been vice-president for marketing at The Mayo Clinic (not to be confused with De Mayo Qwinnick). He told the head Mayo Man that switching to a 36-ounce jar would attract new business and award loyal customers. It would cost the same as the 30-ounce jar.
“Cost the same?” The head Mayo Man buzzed his secretary. “Get security in here.”
When the door flunky finished, I wept unashamedly. Then bitterly. Then as if I were peeling onions. And then as if my vacuum cleaner wouldn’t suck up that last piece of lint and I had to bend over to pick it up and accidentally broke wind. The good wind. Been in the family for years. (Nobody knows the trouble I seen.)
I handed the door dude my 36-ouncer and turned to go.
“Wait,” he said. “What do I do with this?”
I gave him a Donald Trump laugh: full of breakable wind, fruit salad suspended in Jell-O, and hair cement.
“As Moses told the burning bush,” I said, “Hold the mayo.”
©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2015, all rights reserved.