Jonny McCambridge: Learning life lessons from making mayonnaise? Perhaps I’m overthinking it

Why it has taken so long to tackle mayo, I can’t quite explain. It’s probably been in my mind for more than 30 years that I ought to add the emulsification of egg yolks, oil and vinegar to my repertoire.

And so, at last, it begins. I add a big dollop of Dijon mustard to two eggs yolks in a round bowl, season and start to whisk. Then, ever so gradually, I start to add single drops of sunflower oil.

It is slow work. As I continue whisking, I have time to think. I am always on the (desperate) search for subject matter to fill this column. It occurs to me that I could write about making mayonnaise.

But not in the literal (and fairly dull) sense of merely describing the processes. It seems to me there is a deeper meaning in what I am doing. The planned column could be a paean to the virtues of tradition and patience. There are easier ways of ensuring I have this condiment in my kitchen. I could make it in the food processor or, even more obviously, buy a jar in the shop.

But I am eschewing those short-cuts in favour of doing it the old-fashioned way. My left arm begins to ache from the labour of the repeated whisking action. The amount of oil in my measuring jar has barely reduced as I continue the tortuously slow process of adding single drops. Soon, there is a thin film of sweat on my brow and along my spine.

And yet, before me, I have the beginning of what will become mayonnaise. It is not like the pallid stuff you buy in the shop, but richer in colour, creamier in texture. Little by little, the mixture becomes fuller and the whisk leaves a visible trail in the bowl.

After a while, with the process of emulsification working well, I start to become more daring, adding larger quantities of oil. Then, suddenly, there is a moment of alarm as the latest addition does not blend into the mixture but remains on the surface like grease on a puddle. I desist with the trickle of the yellow liquid and increase the rate of whisking until again there is only one substance in my bowl rather than two.

I let out a short sigh of relief and chastise myself for the impatience. Take it slowly, do the work properly and deliberately and the reward will come. This is definitely fertile ground here for a column; there are undeniably life lessons in making mayonnaise.

I continue at my previous gradual pace. I am more alive now to the danger of the mixture splitting. I have seen this happen with cake recipes too often. I’ve observed before how the swirling lines can suddenly crack, crumble and collapse and the mixture, which seconds before looked aesthetically perfect, can turn rancid and broken almost at once, just like the features of Dorian Gray after death.

Now, the stiffness in my back and cramp in my neck are keeping the ache in my left arm company. But my two tasks are close to complete – I have a bowl of mayonnaise on the counter and the bones of this week’s column sketched out in my mind. I think of a possible headline. ‘How making mayonnaise has made me a better person’. It is, admittedly, slightly on the pompous side but it gives me something to work with.

And then, at once, I experience a moment of deflation. I remember that I wrote about salad cream just a few weeks ago. Does it risk my very credibility as a columnist if I return to the world of salad dressings too quickly?

What is the loyal reader to expect in the future? My thoughts on French dressing next week? If I meet a new person in company and they ask what I do for a living, am I supposed to tell them with pride that I regularly write about sauces which go well with iceberg lettuce? I am keenly aware that I occupy a different space from most other columnists working in newspapers in Northern Ireland. They write about Stormont, or the health service, or Kneecap, or how unjust sentences handed out in the courts are. I instinctively go in a different direction.

I’ve been writing this column for more than five years now and while it might, with plenty of justification, be described as random, there have been some consistent themes – family and parenting, learning how to look after mental health, bewilderment with technology and the rapidly changing world, the struggle in finding a good work-life balance. I’m just not sure that I want to look at myself in the mirror and add salad dressings to that list.

I have become so lost in my own thoughts that, as I continue whisking, I fail to notice that the last of the oil has been incorporated. The mayonnaise is so rich and thick now that most of it is sticking to the inside of the whisk.

I add some lemon juice to cut through the creaminess and loosen the mixture, then I season again and taste. It is better than any mayonnaise I’ve ever tasted before, piquant to the point where it is almost an assault on the senses. I wonder why it has taken me 30 years to do this. And then, at last, I understand where it all fits within the larger themes of my writing. The labour has led to the exposure of the maddening restlessness of my brain, my continual habit of overthinking it all. Sometimes mayonnaise, even the very best mayonnaise, is just mayonnaise.