The Good Mayonnaise

How to make it and what not to do with it.

When asked her secret to a gorgeous tan, Judy winked, “Well fellas, it sure ain’t Miracle Whip!”

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

My neighbor Kim Hoffart and I spread our beach towels out on the sunniest part of her family’s back lawn and did what many nine-year-olds from Southern California who wanted to emulate their older siblings in the 1970s did: lie out and work on our tans.

Fortified with plastic tumblers full of icy cold sun tea and seasonally-appropriate Donna Summer tunes playing from Kim’s Jimmy Walker Dynamite portable 8-track player, we got down to the serious business of sunning ourselves.

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After ten minutes of trying to lie still and let the UV rays do their thing, boredom and hunger propelled us back into the air-conditioned house to make ourselves something to eat.

We were on our own in the kitchen. Mrs. Hoffart was out running errands, so we made what many white, suburban children with limited culinary skills who lived in a place once owned by Mexico would make: flour tortillas slathered with Best Foods mayonnaise. We rolled them into tubes and went back outside to resume our sunbathing.

Back on my beach towel, I found that eating while prone a challenge. I lifted my head as far from the ground as my neck would allow, and took a bite of tortilla. A sizable blob of mayonnaise dripped onto my chest. We neglected to bring paper napkins with us—and I was far too lazy go and get one—so I simply rubbed the eggy emulsion into my abdomen, and made what I believed to be a brilliant discovery.

“Hey, look!” I said to Kim, a bit to excited, “I’ve got a deep, dark, golden tan!”

There was no discussion. Not a single word was exchanged. We jumped to our feet, ran back into the house, and grabbed the Best Foods.

We slathered ourselves from head to toe in mayonnaise, returning to our towels in pursuit of what I was convinced would be the most fantastic tan in the history of tanning. With a greasy hand, I shaded my eyes to look at the jar resting on the lawn between us, closing them again before turning my face toward heaven, smiling at my own genius.

I don’t know how much time we’d been at it before we heard the glass door from the TV room slide open, but the yelling began almost immediately.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. Hoffart asked her glistening daughter. Her Saskatchewanese accent was more noticeable when she got angry. She was already irritated to come home and find the tortillas and mayo-covered knife we left on her nice, clean kitchen counter, but when she noticed the jar of Best Foods open and baking in the sun she quickly assessed the situation and became apoplectic.

My eyes, blinded by the bright sun, recovered in time to see Mrs. Hoffart struggling to find words, which came soon enough and at great volume.

“AND YOU USED MY GOOD MAYONNAISE!”

Coming home to find her daughter and one of the neighbor kids covered stem to stern in hot, oily condiment was bad. That they were dressed in nothing but bathing suits and Salmonella enterica might have been worse, but the idea that we’d so thoughtlessly used her good mayonnaise was unforgivable.

She got the garden hose, screwed on the spray attachment, hosed us down, and sent me home through the back gate.

Good mayonnaise? I puzzled when I got home, trying not to slip on the stone in the front hall. Good mayonnaise? I continued to wonder as I stood under the shower, shampooing the rancid, oily unguent from my hair.

I didn’t see any other mayo in Mrs. Hoffart’s refrigerator. Why did she say “the good mayonnaise?”

I remembered seeing a half-eaten jar of Miracle Whip, but she couldn’t have meant that, could she?

Miracle Whip isn’t mayonnaise, I thought. Miracle Whip’s for sad people who don’t know what mayonnaise is supposed to taste like. Mrs. Hoffart grew her own tomatoes. Mrs. Hoffart baked her own bread. Mrs. Hoffart refused to allow margarine into her house. In the 1970s.

How could a woman so simultaneously old-fashioned and ahead of her time even acknowledge Miracle Whip’s existence?

No child in his right mind would spread that culinary abomination on a flour tortilla. Certainly, no child with any sense of self-worth would cover himself with an inferior brand of sandwich spread.

A young man of taste would never let anything but the best mayonnaise near his flatbreads, let alone his skin. Only the Best Foods would do.

Or Hellman’s*, if you lived east of the Rockies.

Good Mayonnaise

I’ve been pondering mayo since last week, when I found myself paying nine U.S. American dollars for a jar of it. No, not even a jar. Twenty-five expletive ounces in a plastic squeeze bottle.

Saddened, but mostly annoyed at the cost and the thought that the Unilever company thinks squeeze bottles are the best way to package condiments, I resolved to start making my own mayonnaise.

It’s much cheaper, I rationalized, and I can make it any damned way I want.

It’s also very, very easy. And customizable.

In the mood for traditional mayo? Great. Got a hankering for more highly flavored eggy goop? Add a little tarragon or garlic or basil. Add anything you want. Add Ovaltine, for all I care.

You are the master of your own emulsions.

Experiment with oils. Explore various acids. Try out different ways to emulsify. Want your mayo to have an aïoli-like texture/need a decent wrist workout? Whisk it by hand. Want it thick, creamy, and light in color? Whiz it up in a food processor or blender (either the standard or stick variety).

There is no one recipe that’s correct. Mine happens to be one I like a lot. It came about somewhat by accident because my blender stopped blending a little more than half way through a double batch. It actually tastes a bit like Best Foods, only better.

Makes: Enough to fill one Bonne Maman jam jar (about 13 ounces)

Ingredients:

• 2 whole eggs
• 4 teaspoons lemon juice (about 1 whole lemon)
• 2 teaspoons Dijon mustard or 1 teaspoon dried mustard
• ½ teaspoon kosher salt (You’ll likely want quite a bit more after tasting)
• 1 ⅓ cup of neutral oil (I used avocado oil, but canola and safflower work well)
• A few drops of rice wine vinegar to finish (optional)

Preparation:

1. Whisk/whiz eggs, lemon juice, mustard, and salt together until well combined.

2. Slowly drizzle in the oil until it the whole mess becomes so thick and gorgeous, you’ll want to rub in places you’ve never rubbed mayonnaise before. Hand whisking mayo results in a looser emulsification, more suitable for gently dabbing around the eyes to hide those fine lines and wrinkles.

3. Taste your mayonnaise. Needs more salt? Almost definitely. Want a little more zing? Add a tiny bit more mustard and a few drops of rice wine vinegar (or more lemon juice). Just keep adjusting until you’ve got it the way you want it.

4. Transfer into a glass container, like a (clean) jam jar. With a lid.

5. The mayonnaise should last about a week in the refrigerator, just itching to get intimate with your sandwiches, salads, and what have you.

6. Do not leave unattended on hot days when young children are present.

Here’s a handy link to tell you how to prepare mayo using various appliances.

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* I was far too young and West Coast to have known about Duke’s, so please don’t @ me.