I grew up in a Hellmann’s household. In the world of mayonnaise, Hellmann’s was the undisputed foundation of a proper sandwich. Tuna salad, turkey, roast beef – all relied on it. I never gave it much thought; I just took it for granted that Hellmann’s was better than its sweeter rivals.
Over the years, my mayo elitism hardened, thanks to others who shared the Hellmann’s bias. They were unequivocal in their allegiance.
“Is there any other brand?” a friend asked rhetorically.
Such was the backdrop of my recent visit to Hannaford. I marveled at the latter-day politics of mayonnaise – the cage-free eggs, the multiple oil choices (olive, canola, safflower), the levels of creaminess (regular or extra). Then I eyed a jar of Miracle Whip, that bold outsider that dares not call itself mayonnaise for fear of the condiment police. (Indeed, it lacks the requisite amount of oil to qualify as mayo.)
It turns out that Miracle Whip has stayed the course for nearly a century, having made its debut at the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair. Back then, the wonders of technology were ripe with unlimited potential. What could be wrong with a food product that proclaimed a “Miracle” in its moniker?
Nobody knew that, a century later, this would be like proudly promoting a food’s toxicity. Ah, hindsight!
Perhaps the manufacturer could emulate “KFC,” which used to crow about its fried chicken, and swap an initial for the offending word. “M-Whip” would have more mystery, more cachet even, without the troubling connotations.
But I digress.
Out of curiosity, I bought a jar of the miraculous non-mayo. I brought it home, slightly sheepish about the betrayal I was about to perpetrate. I made tuna salad, fully prepared to hate the pariah brand, dump the sandwich and start over. Somehow I had imagined Miracle Whip to be a blend of simple syrup and salt, pure and vile, in the form of a spread. So I was pleasantly disarmed by its tanginess – the notes of mustard and vinegar, a cool sweetness. It had an undeniable brightness and appeal.
So I’ve come to a moment of reckoning. I’m not ready to cast aside the mantle of Hellmann’s for some miracle worker wannabe. But I will admit that M-Whip’s sweet tang has jazzed up more than a few of my sandwiches of late.
In the end, Hellmann’s versus Miracle Whip is one of many food snobberies that we carry around to diss those with whom we disagree. It’s just petty politics on a plate. If one food product is better, or more sophisticated, than another, do we really think that its users share those qualities?
Taste buds, after all, have never been a reliable gauge of character. So I’ve gladly welcomed Miracle Whip into my home, alongside the Hellman’s, notwithstanding its supposed lack of pedigree.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
