I was 7 or 8 years old when I first converted to the cult of mayo. It was on a family vacation to Florida and I, padded in baby fat, was perusing the table of condiments beside the poolside snack bar. I grabbed an overflowing handful of ketchup packets for my fries, and then a bin of silver and yellow caught my eye.
When I tentatively dipped that first fry into a pile of the whitish, viscous greatness, my life was forever changed.
"Mom?!" I cried, hungrily scooping it up as she turned in horror to see what I'd discovered. "Is this something we can buy at home?!"
This story has been recounted countless times over the years, especially funny to those who know my health-conscious mother and remember the days when I coated even my hot dogs in mayonnaise. There was no turning back for me once I'd discovered my favorite condiment. It went on every sandwich, between every bun, and when I was deemed overweight by my pediatrician, it was one of the first things that got cut from my lunchbox and life. But was it really necessary to cut it out of my life completely?