Mayonnaise Is Not Food

I have tried to be polite about mayonnaise, but my body refuses the act. The jar sweats when it comes out of the fridge, and the lid gives that slow pop that feels like a warning. It sits there, pale and glossy, a bowl of cold fat pretending to be comfort. I can smell the egg and the vinegar before it ever touches the plate, and my stomach goes quiet.

At the diner last week I ordered the turkey club and asked for it dry. It arrived shining anyway, mayo squeezing out like a bad secret. I scraped it off with a knife, but the bread had already soaked up the slickness. The bite was ruined. The waitress saw my face and said, “It’s just mayo,” and I wanted to say, no, it’s just wrong.

I know some people love it. They stir it into salads, spread it on burgers, fold it into deviled eggs like a blessing. I keep trying to be the person who doesn’t notice, but I always do. It coats my tongue and makes everything taste of refrigerator light. Give me oil, give me salt, give me nothing at all. This is my one hard line.