Tuesday, January 28, 2014


The other day, caught in an unexpected hunger pang and rooting around in the fridge, I found a bottle of mayonnaise. Proceeding to slather it on a slice of bread, I chewed for a bit and came to a realization: this mayo was nowhere close to the one my mom made at home when I was a child. That mayo, prepared by my mother's gentle hands, had the qualities of air and light and sunshine and delight. This mayo was a tad pasty, too salty, and just too generally store-bought to provide the soul with any nourishment.

When will I see you again, mom? It's not the mayo I miss. 

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