in Satire

Blue Plate Mayo

Last week on my trek to purchase groceries, I could not locate the Blue Plate mayo. My heart sank. This was worse than giving up cigarettes. I actually panicked. I eased my knobby knees to the lower shelf to paw among the goods. What a relief. There it was, tucked behind several other brands.

I grew up in a household that did not use mayonnaise. Our family used Miracle Stuff, which is akin to glue according to my taste buds. My grandmother introduced me to the joy of Blue Plate mayonnaise. Her culinary skills could morph Blue Plate into hollandaise sauce, dressing for potato salad and sandwiches. Once you’ve tasted Blue Plate you’re an addict for life.

Wouldn’t you know the Yankee I married preferred Miracle Stuff. I discovered he used ketchup on ham and hot dogs. This insult to hot dogs was compounded by the addition of sweet relish. No self-respecting southerner uses anything but mustard on ham. We know ketchup belongs on meatloaf and French fries, but not ham. Sweet relish and ketchup on a hotdog is heresy.

Blue Plate was not widely available where we lived, so I plodded along for years using the other mayo along with Miracle Stuff until on a visit to Biloxi, Miss I rediscovered Blue Plate. Appearing in big bold letters on the menu “made with Blue Plate Mayonnaise”. It was Nirvana. Tasted just as good as I remembered and I gained ten pounds.

Once you have had Blue Plate, nothing else will do. To the other addict who hid the Blue Plate: I thank you for not buying the last jar, but in the spirit of sharing hid it instead.