Hi Stephanie—
In cooking school, I learned to make mayonnaise.
I learned mayonnaise is not a naturally occurring food. It doesn’t grow in the wild. It’s not like grapes or wheat, which you gather and process. Before that day, I never thought much about mayonnaise. It was a benign, ever-present section of the wallpaper of my life. Like butter. Or crayons. Or you.
I learned you make mayonnaise out of several things. It is not its own homogenous substance that lives in a jar.
I don’t know if you know how to make mayonnaise. Since you refuse to meet me, I’ll tell you.
First, clarify sweet unsalted butter and set aside to cool.
Whisk two egg yolks in a chilled stainless-steel bowl until velvety. I will admit I stole a whisk from the cooking school I attended on 34th Street in the early ’90s, a floor below Sleepy’s, the mattress store. Sometimes I would sneak into the unlocked showroom during break and nap, outstretched, in my béchamel-stained, fish-and-rosemary-scented chef whites. I’m something of a rule breaker. You?
Whisk the fat portion of the clarified butter into the yolks until the mixture thickens. Make sure the butter has cooled so the eggs won’t cook. Finish with lemon juice and cayenne pepper.
Do you like cayenne? I don’t know which herbs, spices, or ice cream flavors you like because 23&Me won’t tell me, and neither will you. If you let me know, I can tweak my recipe. Parsley? Sage? Broken glass? Tears?
If you would call me and stop sending my letters back unopened, I would make you some and deliver it to your doorman, Milton, in a pretty glass jar with a hand-lettered label that says:
Marvelous Hand-Crafted Mayonnaise for My Fabulous First Mother
Yes, it is a little creepy I know the name of your doorman.
Remember when I sent you a chocolate babka from Greenberg’s for Chanukah? I wanted it delivered first thing in the morning—warm from the oven—to enjoy with your first cup of coffee. Or tea. Or your first Styrofoam cup of tepid tap water.
My delivery instructions were concise: this is a surprise gift. They were not communicated to the Door Dash driver, since he gave the babka to Milton, who called to tell you your delivery had arrived. This must have been confusing since you didn’t order anything.
When he called, were you yanked out of REM sleep while processing ancient things? In your dreams, were you wandering around Doctors Hospital like a ghost watching yourself have an emergency C-section? Did you watch them cut the biological cable connecting us? Maybe your unconscious was trying to file the moment you walked out of the hospital: stylish and depressed, without me. I wish we could meet in a shared dreamscape that lets us see and feel what our lives could have been had you decided to keep me.
I am grateful Milton called me to clarify. I, too, was navigating my dream world and was rude. I’ll apologize the next time I park my car in the garage beneath your building.
I feel certain you knew the babka was from me. In which case you (A) gave it to Milton, (B) ate it by yourself in the elevator, or (C) set it on fire.
If you knew anything about me, you would know it’s just a matter of time until I bring you a jar of mayonnaise.
If you don’t like it, you can give it to Milton too. Or to your neighbor, Doris, who let me into your building so I could hang a bunch of miniature white carnations off your door handle in a now-illegal plastic bodega bag. The enclosure card was painfully neutral; I wished you well and, once again, offered you my phone number and email address.
If Milton or Doris don’t want my mayo, carefully throw it out your window. Or you could keep it forever and think of me whenever you open your refrigerator door.
I did not grow up in a culinary house, though my second/adoptive mother, Alice, cooked on the in-ground gas grill year-round in any weather. Rain, sleet, snow. As a child, I thought it was idiotic. Now I think it’s dope.
When I was executrix of Alice’s estate, after she died by falling down the stairs onto her head, I took pictures of that ancient grill. It was decomposing, covered in tangled ropes of ivy. The chicken Alice made was often dry, but I respect her dedication to outdoor grilling. That series of photographs memorializes one of the few things I cherish about her.
You live in an apartment on the East Side, so you probably don’t have a grill. Call me!After a few coffee or martini dates, maybe you can come over. I’ve got a lovely patio with lilac, wildflowers, several abandoned birds’ nests, and a gas grill.
Mayonnaise is a suspension of fat and acid. It’s made. With an electric mixer or a whisk. Somebody makes it.
I was adopted, not born. A store-bought baby made of genetic ingredients from other people’s bodies who entered the world through you. I was jarred, labelled, and handed to Alice.
I imagine a black leather briefcase thick with cash, for it was not possible to pay for a just-born human with a credit card at that time. Between attorney fees, court filing costs, taxis, diner snacks, maternity wear, medical expenses and a suite at the Shelton Towers Hotel on 49th and Lex, where you and I lived before I was born . . . how much did you make?
Seeing you for the first time, in a picture I was given at fifty-three, was my birth. Your twenty-six-year-old face told my psyche and my cells I’m human, made by humans.
Alice always thought it was funny to say, I didn’t take the tags off. I can still return you.
I wish she had. I could have been human this whole time. I could have known the auburn streaks in my hair were not sun damage in need of costly color correction. They are there because you are a redhead. They are the tags you left on. The tags I won’t take off.
Bon Appétit,
Me
***
Rumpus original art by Peter Witte
