I realize that this is a strange post for a Jane Austen/Pride and Prejudice blog, but bear with me here.
I. Cannot. Make. Mayonnaise.
In theory, it’s all very simple: you take an egg yolk, stir briskly, add olive oil, stir more, add more oil, stir–until you have a wonderful, creamy emulsion that is clear proof that God loves us 🙂
In theory, of course. When I make mayonnaise, it ends up as a frothy mess, a runny separated puddle, or just a pale yellow lake at the bottom of the bowl.
I wonder if there isn’t a “mayonnaise gene” which magically endows the owner with the ability to make mayonnaise. My mother is a genius with mayonnaise, my grandmother was one too–even my great-grandmother! So why is it that I am constitutionally unable to make this?
I can assure you that every single time I have made mayonnaise, it has collapsed. The closest I have ever come was today, when it seized up, and for one glorious moment, I felt wonderful, as if having gotten my egg yolks and oil to seize together had been some great accomplishment.
And then, with one last stir of the wood spoon (because, according to my great-grandmother, one should only make mayonnaise with a wooden spoon, stirring clockwise) the eggs started to deflate. My beautiful, slightly quivery, silky emulsion collapsed. As did my spirits. Here I was, expecting this to be the first time I had succeeded mayonnaise–and there it went, down the drain with the previous two failures.
Granted, it was still delicious. And, as a matter of fact, the most set mayonnaise I have ever made. The fact that it was still quite soupy says something about my mayonnaise skills. Ah, well. We’re nearly out of eggs anyways.