I am in no way opposed to mayonnaise. I know there are those who despise it. And I admittedly have a bias. It has to be Hellmann's. That's what mom always bought. That's what I buy. I can taste the difference.
However, I do have my limits. And my husband tests them. He is pro mayo in such a manner that it can put you off mayonnaise. For instance, at Subway, when I go and get him a sandwich, I tell the sandwich artist "put what you think is a sickening amount of mayonnaise on, then add more, then you'll have it right." I try to help.
He consistently calls my tuna dry because you see, the ratio of mayo to tuna has to be higher in his book. And yet, that it not the way I like it. I don't ever, ever let him make me a tuna fish sandwich. It would make me want to puke. In all seriousness.
One of the many delicacies my mother introduced me to is a whisper of mayo on a Zesta saltine. Again, with saltines, I am brand specific. Jim loves it to, but he wants a gob of mayo. Well, he's been known to eat butter so this is not unusual.
But, the other evening, when some mayonnaise and saltines happened to be out, which is, I might add, a rare occasion, he grossed me out. I've never seen him do this. When I think of it the gag reflex just goes off in my throat. He began shoveling the mayo into his mouth with a butter knife. Just huge amounts of mayonnaise. It. Was. Nauseating.
I could feel his arteries harden from across the room. I'm getting sick just telling you about it. But hey, at least it wasn't Miracle Whip.
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