Mayonaisse

I was going to blog about the plane crash,

but changed my mind. Decided no tragedy today.

Then as I make my lunch of an old fashioned luncheon meat

sandwich, as I await the microwave to do it's

magic to my luncheon meat, I apply Mayo 

to my very fresh slice bread and then the mind,

it does one of those things that is so strange.

It takes me back in the memory bank of 

the first time I decided I liked Mayonnaise.

I can't remember what I had for lunch three days ago,

but the first time I like Mayo? Remember it so clearly.

Before 8th grade I like sandwiches dry.

No mustard, no ketchup and heaven forbid, no Mayo.

My Momma and Daddy had tried many times

to get me to try a good sandwich on french bread

with a condiment but until 8th grade they had no luck.

Then, it was a pajama party at a friend, Robin Gaspard's house

that turned me on to my first time.

Her Mom had a bunch of us girls over for the night,

brave woman. I was a late maturer and rathered stay

home than sleep at a friends house but something

about this party was going to be different.

Some of us were late bloomers such as I,

but that summer most of my friends were hanging on

the other side of maturity. I decided that being invited

to Robin's party was going to give me an advantage

for the 9th grade year. Some of these girls had periods,

shoot some of them even had boyfriends. 

What did I have?

Well, I had a love for luncheon meat sandwiches

and there was  a pile of them on the kitchen table all

cut like triangles. While the other girls talked of

crank calls and boys they liked I was wondering when we were

going to eat. Yeah, told you, late bloomer.

When the time came that the sandwich tray was opened,

I placed a few on my paper plate and there, there on my 

 beautiful little treasures was, you guessed it, 

Mayonnaise..... Oh my,  what would I do?

Only one thing I could do. I was hungry and it

would be rude to ask for another without mayo.

Then and there, I would never eat another 

smash sandwich, nor a luncheon meat sandwich on 

french bread without the wonderful taste of Mayo.

Of course, this story is not just about mayo but

about how the memory, it picks the things it remembers.

Not only do I remember that but all the girls that were

there that night. The phone calls that were made to boys,

some who had broken up with some of the girls at 

the party. We talked of Robin's house being haunted,

I realized that not all homes were like mines.

It was an eye opening experience, one I did not

fit in. Except for those sandwiches, I had little

in common with some of the girls.

My love for this condiment remains.