Thursday, January 26, 2006
I, as a child, hated mayonnaise. If I so much as sensed it had been near something I was going to ingest, I began to howl in indignance and would have not a bite of whatever was to be served to me. Scraping the offending condiment off was not nearly enough. It had to remade, NOW.
So imagine my surprise when, as I got older, I began to tolerate it in miniscule amounts here and there. It still makes me squeamish, especially if I can smell it in its pure form-ack-but I am often surprised that I don't mind it as a more subtle ingredient in things. I grudgingly admit, I like it. I'm never going to be one of those fuck jobs that makes a mayonnaise and cheese sandwich and licks the extra mayo off the knife (again making myself sick right now) but, when it's camoflauged nicely I give it a respectful head nod.
Which is why last night at the 24 hour diner when Giulia and I sat down to a 12 am feast, I was as surpised by my request for a side of mayo as you, dear reader. Double that when I picked up a knife and started smearing it in a tick opaque sheet over one side of the perfect triangle of roasted chicken club and jamming it in my gaping maw.
Will wonders never cease? As long as it pertains to me eating too much when under the influence of narcotics of various kinds, the answer is clearly no.