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.

I guess this would be the Introduction

So. I can't believe I've started a blog. Who do I think I am, dooce? No. But - that's who I'd like to be when I grow up! A woman who has gifts sent in the mail to her from readers, and tweets about the misadventures of getting her washing machine fixed. And makes a living for her whole family off her blog and the whole dooce-phenomenon that emanated from it. Yeah, that sounds about right as far as my career aspirations go. But let's get this straight. First of all, I am not a mommy-blogger (alas, I am not a mommy). Though, strange as it may sound, I initially got into reading blogs through some of the most famous moms in the blogosphere. So, with all fairness, they (or you? is this how this medium works? I am supposed to assume they might be reading this?) are acknowledged as a source of inspiration for me here.
Nor will I ever be a fashion blogger, especially not one of those who take a picture of their daily outfit, that is a DAILY picture of themselves, and analyze it to bits. Don't get me wrong, I am obsessively narcissistic - just not in that way. OK, I confess, the best of these have been interesting to read, and fun to use for stylistic inspiration, or the other way around.
Nor, unfortunately for some (i.e., my husband), is this going to be a food blog (now really who do I think I am, ZM?). No, the world has enough of what-I-baked-today blogs written by far better, more experienced cooks than myself, and oh, look at the pretty pictures, here's where I pour the egg mixture into the flour and spice mixture, why yes, I am an octopus, how else do you think I take these gorgeously-lit photos while pouring batter into a pan? NO. Frankly, as far as photography is concerned, I am just not talented enough, and it is not going to become a serious hobby of mine with some practice and a better flash, sorry (so as not to leave your eye-candy craving unsatisfied, I urge you to click here).
Come on, I just barely understand how to, what do you youngsters call it, link stuff in this here blog. Do not expect this medium to be any more technologically oriented than that. More than what it inherently is, I mean. The sheer fact that I am actively contributing to the amount of rant and ramble that already exists on the public platform known as the world wide web is a high-techy miracle and, more than that, an epistolary revolution.
Let me go on with the disclaimers just for a bit - I guess whenever I am really personally engaged in something I write, I feel obliged to explain my sources, and clarify the hell out of why I am writing it in the first place. I call it meta-me that's doing that introductory part of the writing - because this last point about epistles may not be so obvious. I am, or should I frankly say was (but would like to think of myself as still am), an avid letter-writer. I will, maybe, elaborate on my letter-writing history in a later post, but let's just say that my family and friends at home seem to enjoy my long, overflowing with minutiae, sporadically sent emails about my pre-graduate-school adventures in the Midwest. This blog will probably replace those. So, is that what this is, an extended travel-journal? Yes, I guess, and if anything, it could fit the category of "exciting and not so exciting (read: culinary and not so culinary) mishaps of my life abroad". I hope said family and friends will forgive the not-so-obvious choice of writing in English instead of Hebrew, their mother tongue, while these Israelis, let's face it, constitute my sole readers (at least of this first post. Let us not forget my dream of internet-fame and thousands of anonymous strangers virtually poring over my life!). Why should I suddenly go public with my everyday impressions of life in America, academic misdemeanors, and experiments in the kitchen, I do not know. I simply do not have a truly convincing answer to the question why this blog exists.
If you think this is starting to sound too apologetic, you're right. I graduated and then TA-ed in a prestigious but malfunctioning program in the Humanities division of a prestigious but malfunctioning institution: I got a lot of experience in, and then was valedictorian (seriously) of humanities apologetics. I am soon to be a Classics graduate student who will, unless things drastically change, write about Greek Tragedy. In other words, blog or no blog, I could, and probably (that is, hopefully) will, make a living writing about the question why write. And read. And live. The End.

HOWEVER. I wasn't totally honest with you before.* And I've already started to give it away: I will indeed post about food. And if anything finally did make me sit down and write - no, it wasn't my husband's inciting to "take lots of pictures of everything we make" (Generally speaking, I do the baking. He does the stocking up on chicken-, fish-, and beef-stock. And touches the meat. We're really gendered that way) "…and then next year, when we're both graduate students and have no time to cook, we'll post those photos on your what-we-ate-today blog. They won't understand HOW WE DO IT!" Sorry. No. - it was a jar of home-made mayonnaise. Which warrants a post of its own. That is, an ode.
So yes, the time left before I start grad school I intend to devote (among other things! like getting my Latin grammar back in shape! I PROMISE…!) to improving my baking skills, buying baking paraphernalia, and in general baking a lot.

*But here's the real, hardcore piece of honesty. As some of you may have guessed, a possible reason behind this blog is The Event that Shall NOT BE Named - TESNOBEN (yeah, yeah, lamest acronym ever. Just keep the suggestions pouring in). In other words, the only remotely appropriate alternative title to my blog at this particular point in my life would most likely be: My sister died when I was 27. Subtitle: The hard part was that I kept on living.
Whoa, whoAA! Too much information? Well, yeah, but you know what? I figured that a) my closer friends, who know of TESNOBEN, were already kinda saying something along those lines to themselves, or as my dear friend TK put it: Latin is a dead language and all those dead people ever wrote is essentially about death anyway. For your emotional health: Bring on the butter! (I'm actually curious to hear if TK approves of this exhibitionist splurge and whether or not it's therapeutic) b) my remoter friends did not just suffer from TMI-induced choking on their latte, for they have stopped reading, out of boredom and embarrassment, somewhere along "alas, I am not a mommy", and c) if there is any one of you anonymous readers out there, you might think this is an interesting turn of events that warrants your attention to my share of humiliatingly-sincere internet rant. Enjoy.