Pic credit: look at the watermark.
I was talking with a co-worker about weird things I have eaten. I groused about weird things that white people do with food. Particularly adding sweet pickle relish to everything. I regaled him with the tale of how I had mayonnaise in mashed potatoes. Granted I was in a Hispanicly demographed household when I partook of said spuds. That being said, it really does seem like a very white thing to do.
I love mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes are one of my most favorite things on this planet of Earth. So for me to say, "There is something wrong with these mashed potatoes," and cease eating them, there has to be something reeeally special has been done to them. So I ask, "What's with these spuds?" "Oh, we added mayonnaise to them to make them creamier." mmm... may... MAYONNAISE? Sooo, one of the things I hate the most on this planet of Earth hath been married unto one of my most favorite things on this planet of Earth (not really sure why I keep saying that, but it does add some gravity to things...). And the thing born of this... unholy, unseemly union was betrayal. Realizing what I had eaten (and immediately knew something was grievously amiss from the first bite, so don't even hand me that, "oh you liked it until..." bullshit.) it felt like what it must feel like to have a reason to stop loving a child. Like your kid just Bernie Madoff'd you, some family, and some close friends, so you and a bunch of people you know are in financial ruin, so you're all mad at the kid, but everyone is also diagonally mad at you. How can you forgive a thing like that? Mayonnaise.
I read a Facebook post about last meals, asking what you thought yours would be. I wrote, "I don't know, but whatever it is it'll be wrong and I'll be told that I can just pick the onions out.