The Mayonnaise of Human Behavior

(Or, Hopefully, I said sorry, if not, I'll fix that.)

I think it was my first year living in Billerica when I entered the public library’s Valentine’s Day Chocolate Baking Contest.

I can’t remember how I decided to make miniature homemade Hostess cupcakes—but I know that’s what I made. The ones with the little curly-q swirl on top?

Oh, wait—I do remember.

I had a coworker who couldn’t stand mayonnaise: like, viscerally repulsed. Not just by the taste, but the texture, the look, even the idea of anything white and creamy.

At the time, this baffled me because I was—and remain—very (very) pro-mayonnaise.

One night, I was flipping through The Joy of Cooking, a wedding shower gift, and saw a recipe for chocolate cake made with mayo. Which, if you understand the ingredients in mayo, makes perfect baking sense.

So I decided to pull a prank. Dress up the thing he hated most as a thing he would almost certainly try: a classic Hostess cupcake.

I spent the night baking, made a royal mess of the kitchen, but by morning I had a box of glossy, ganache-topped cupcakes. Sweet cream center. Perfect swirl on top.

I brought them into work and opened the box in my friend’s office.

“Tell me what these look like,” I said.

“Dead ringer for Hostess Cupcakes.”

“Homemade Hostess Cupcakes,” I corrected. “And yes, they have a cream filling.”

“That’s basically frosting. That’s okay.”

He took a huge bite. Then another.

“Amanda,” he said, “these are really good. How did you make them?”

“You really want to know?”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Yesss?”

“Mayonnaise.”

I don’t think I even finished the word before he reached for the trash can and spit it out.

I tried to play the offended baker. “C’mon, you liked it! You couldn’t even tell!”

“Doesn’t make it right,” he said.

He didn’t laugh. And I didn’t push it. I think I tried, maybe once, to smooth it over. But he didn’t find it funny. And he was right not to.

Fortunately, we’re still friends. But when I think back on that prank, I feel sick to my stomach.

Now, I think—when someone trusts you with a piece of themselves, even something that seems small like a condiment preference, using that knowledge against them (even in a joke) is a betrayal.

It’s, if you will, the mayonnaise of human behavior.

But I don’t know. The more I live and feel lately, the more I think life is a series of mistakes, some big, some small—and the best we can do is hold on to the learning, not the guilt.

I don’t remember if I ever said sorry.

I hope I did.

This week, I’m going to find out. And if I didn’t then, I will now.