As we prepare to succumb to gluttony tomorrow, I’d like to take this time to pay homage to the food I’m most grateful for: mayonnaise. 

Mayo’s legitimacy and superiority is in the name of its most amazing brand: Best Foods. Hollar.

Mayonnaise should never ever be mistaken for a condiment. Condiments ooze out hard crusty gunk from their nozzles. They leave their dribble along the fridge and themselves, while they dwell in their sticky pool, looking grumpy and used up. Condiments don’t get proper front-and-center shelf placement next to other important things such as cheese and butter. They aren’t replaced on a monthly basis because they’ve been pillaged twice on Sundays. Nor do they take up more plate volume than what’s actually being dipped into it, i.e. potato chips, funyons or breakfast burritos. No, this, my friend, is a food. 

Mayonnaise is an ally to children and old people, making vegetables palatable, slippery and easy to swallow. Asparagus and artichoke exist to be bathed in mayo and soy sauce, or the almighty combo of mayo and sriracha. Mayonnaise is the main event in any salad that’s worth eating (egg, potato, macaroni, chicken, crab). And if you think a grilled cheese sandwich couldn’t get any better, then sub mayo for butter, and prepare to explode into a million happy little pieces. 

Naysayers will tout “mayo is nasty,” “mayo has a weird consistency.” Well, high fructose syrup is the death of Americans, ketchup lovers. Cool Whip feels and looks a little odd (and who’s complaining about that?). Mayo is pure. It has two ingredients: Oil and egg. I eat oil, I eat egg, don’t pretend you don’t. (Unless you’re vegan, then I have something for you too.)

But most of all, on this day of thanks, I want to commend mayonnaise for reminding me of the person I’ve always been. There was a time (hold on) when I disbelieved mayo’s necessity, when I lived among the rexics in LA and denied mayo just to shave off a few calories from my bacon sandwiches. But my local roots pushed through, and today, I wear my love for mayonnaise like a badge, proof that I am father’s daughter who will one day, though not yet, eat sliced tomatoes with a spoonful of mayo on top. Yes, mayonnaise is in my Hawaii-born-and-raised soul, as well as part of my quirky eating habits that are only going to get quirkier with age (ice cream in soy milk, cereal with espresso spoons, toast buttered one bite at a time). Mayonnaise is me. Mayonnaise is my Thanksgiving gravy. I am the sauce. I am the substance. Bless us all.