Ode to Mayonnaise

I love mayonnaise. No. Let me rephrase that. If it were legally possible, I would marry a jar of home-made mayonnaise. Since that is not an option in the countries I have lived in so far (and, alas, I am already married!) I try my best to be united with the ideal essence of mayonnaise every so often. To that end, I do, indeed, make my own at home. It takes about 40 seconds. More if you count the time it takes to take the stick-blender out of the cabinet, assemble it and plug it in the socket.
My mother used to make this when I was a child (and, after trying out some alternative recipes, I am back to hers: one whole egg, a pinch of salt, a heaped spoon of dijon mustard, a splash of cider-vinegar, and one cup of canola-oil). Then she stopped making it for fear of salmonella. Since reading in The Joy of Cooking (one word: get yourselves that book) that one can procure fresh pasteurized eggs (who knew? I mean, really, who knew how far this "land of opportunities" will go in blowing my mind), and then figuring out which of the two supermarkets in my neighborhoods holds them, I have started making my own, free of hypochondriac qualms. You put the ingredients, in that order, in a glass jar, you stick the stick-blender inside and you push the button. Do not move. After about 10-15 seconds you can start moving the blender around in slightly circular motions, as much as the jar allows, to incorporate the rest of the oil on top. That's IT. I could just have this on toast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Some of you will probably be grossed out by this revelation, and I must confess I think my husband still is to some extent. On the other hand, said husband, if he had a blog, would post an Ode to Eggplant and would wax lyrical of its resemblance to, are you seated?, the Banana. So he's got his own metaphorical, quirky food preferences. And he just somehow lives with my obsessive love of mayo. And he already knows he should not venture to disagree with me when I say that mine is better than the ghastly Hellmann's, and that I can explain precisely why, but that as long as I live in the land-of-opportunities-and-fresh-pasteurized-eggs and have my wits about me and the physical strength, I will not deign to give him occasion to even have to hesitate and choose between H's mayo and his wife's. Because I do not want him to make that mistake. Neither does he - he knows I will kick him out. So I just keep a jar of fresh home-made mayo in the fridge. Out of altruism.
Now, part of why husband and myself still live in the same house, is that in some, select few (read: can be counted on a single hand. A four-fingered Bart Simpson hand) respects, our culinary inclinations concur. Most notably in the case of the Tomato. We both agree that if all vegetables on the planet had to go extinct except one of our choice, it would be this one. We further agree that a tomato-hating person is what we call in Hebrew psul-hitun, i.e., a person whom morality decries as ineligible for marriage. Good thing we found each other. Interestingly, I have come to realize that what tomato-haters hate about the tomato is essentially what makes this fruity vegetable so wonderful and indispensable in my life: its mushy gooey-ness that moistens everything it touches with a sweet tartiness. Do you see where I'm getting at? NO?! Do I have to SPELL IT OUT? Okay, then: Tomato and Mayonnaise. A Match Made in Heaven.
Something that will seem like a tangent but isn't: one of my earliest moments of (truly visceral) identification with a fictional being came to me when reading Harriet the Spy. (Dear me. I have just googled that title and learned of a film adaptation of that truly great book. Why? WHY?! Why was that necessary in this world?) You've all read that book, right? If not, just adopt a ten year old, for a few days really, no big deal, so you can have an excuse to read the books they check out of the school library. This book is a gem, and I read it many times and loved it, and wrote a book report on it when I was about 12, and naturally thought Harriet was the coolest, smartest, most sensitive kid around. Now, on top of her burgeoning literary talent (point of identification number one? Or rather: I am jealous of those people that carry a notebook around with them everywhere and just write. Write write write. And then become writers. And this will take me on a slippery incoherent tangent slope of how the fact that those famous bloggers I mentioned become famous writers and sell their books does not necessarily mean that what they, or I, fill the blogosphere with is truly significant in any way and worth procrastinating on. It's all a capitalistic bubble that has gone berserk and hopefully will explode soon before global warming kills us all. But I would like to someday write my own stage adaptation of a tragic Greek myth and I think it might happen without me magically transforming myself into one of those notebook-carrying, napkin-scribbling, waiting-to-be writers, but I still hold a sort of self-belittling resentment to those types. So…) besides the literary thing that made me feel I'm kinda like Harriet, all this girl ever wants for lunch is a tomato sandwich. She adamantly refuses to have any other kind of sandwich in her lunchbox. Now I didn't really get it at first, until some point in the book where she starts praising the sublimely perfect viscosity of the union of Tomato and Mayonnaise that materializes between two slices of bread. (She didn't exactly say it like that. I will have to look it up and quote it. Exciting prospect.) And then I understood, of course. It's a Tomato AND MAYONNAISE sandwich. Why didn't she say so in the first place? Indeed, there is no reason for any other sandwich to exist on earth. Harriet? She's smart. And gastronomically articulate. I like her.
And I've liked her ever since, and consider her the ultimate authority on the necessity of Mayonnaise, preferably in the vicinity of a tomato, in my life.

P.S.
I can't give Harriet sole responsibility for my mayonnaise fix. I'm pretty sure my mother had something to do with it… I remember recounting to my mother the exciting find concerning the contents of Harriet's favorite sandwich. She did that eyebrows-arched, blissfully half-smiling chin-rocking nod of hers, which was the ultimate sign of approval of the palate-soul-mate I had found in Harriet.
Me and mom, we had a moment there.