Mayonnaise

One recent Sunday, I was feeling quite weepy about this whole bed rest thing, so I insisted on making mayonnaise.

Spiceboy set up a TV tray for me. He attached my hand mixer to an extension cord so it would reach over to my post on the couch. He brought me the eggs, olive oil, vinegar, lemons, and mustard.

It was important that I complete this simplest of tasks, that I do something other than sit around, hating this archaic, Victorian thing that modern doctors call bed rest. It was important that I do something other than worry about what’s happening in my uterus.

I cracked the eggs into the bowl, streamed in the oil, sprinkled the lemon juice. I moved the mixer in slow circles until the mayonnaise formed a thick paste. I tasted, added more lemon juice.

Spiceboy stood by, observing my precarious set up with a wary eye.

I scooped up a bit of mayonnaise on my finger and held it out for him to taste.

“It’s good,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, and then I started to cry. Again. “I needed to do this.”

Spiceboy leaned in and kissed me, and his breath was lemony.

“I know,” he said. “You’re welcome.”