Optimism, and a second mea culpa

Optimism, to me, has always seemed a little too easy, a promise waiting to be broken. One size fits all? Please. Then again, pessimism involves far too much effort for something that turns out to be so boring. Damned if you do or don't? You might as well stay in bed.

Half-full, half-empty: I could care less. I'm too worried about who filled or emptied the cup in the first place, and when will the server be back with more wine? I suppose I'm a cynic-in-training with hopeful leanings. At the end of the day, I'd like to think there will be more wine, not less. It makes the workday go faster, anyway.

But occasionally I will encounter an optimistic claim so outrageous I have no choice but to believe it. Take the promise from this everyday item from the grocery store: Food, for ages 0 to 100. That's something I can believe in. I know, however, that not all my friends and family will agree.

There is a line in the sand coming up, a love-it-or-hate-it feeling that, I think, is embedded in our very souls. This goes far beyond nurture versus nature, red state versus blue. You either take a seat at the table, or you move on. I am talking, my friends, about mayonnaise.

I confess, I am a bonafide lover of mayo, and I jumped into this precipice long ago. Looking back, it almost didn't happen. The very first thing I remember making in the kitchen was a cheese and mayonnaise sandwich. It involved two pieces of white bread, a slice of American cheese, and a slather of something white that came in a jar and I'm sure was labeled salad dressing rather than mayo. Still, it was my creation, I was five, and I ate it with satisfaction. Pride can be a great friend in the kitchen.

Years passed and I steered myself further into the mayonnaise-loving part of the world. Summers were so yummy, with potato salads and pasta salads and tomato sandwiches with a dose of Hellman's eaten directly over the sink. A BLT without mayo? Next thing you'll say you eat your tater-tots without ketchup.

But as time went on, I also learned the consequences of mayonnaise. It's fatty as can be. One serving can undo all your other good food decisions in a week. It is, I'm only half sorry to say, that late-night phone call that you should just let ring. So, in more recent years, I've considered mayo a special treat. I rarely request it on sandwiches. I make salads with oils and vinegars rather than eggs and emulsions. I wait until I'm extra good, or extra hungover, to order that BLT.

That all changed last year when I met Japanese mayonnaise. Japan's version of the dressing contains rice vinegar instead of white vinegar, but that can't be the only difference. I'm convinced it must contain some dashi, fish broth, or a splash of ponzu, citrus-flavored soy sauce. Maybe it's just crack. I can't decide and don't care. I just can't get enough of the stuff. I'm not alone. I have a Japanese friend who lives in Seoul. When she visits Japan, she mails the stuff back by the case.


























I finally broke down last week and bought my own, Kewpie-brand bottle. I made an egg salad sandwich last week, with two boiled eggs and equals parts of Kewpie and Zataran's Cajun mustard, that made me swoon.

So I ask those of you on the other side of the debate to reconsider. I know, mayo has treated you unfairly. It's appeared unexpectedly in sandwiches, eyed you dreadfully from the other side of the barbecue rib platter. But, then, I also know that many of those same folks who hate mayonnaise also love a good, homemade Caesar salad dressing. I'm not saying that's a problem; I'm just saying that a little egg, oil and steady stirring can have so many more possibilities than that American stuff that comes in a jar. Plus, you'll get to enjoy it for 100 years. How can you argue with that?