Mayonnaise

As in;

There were some hard things about her life that Miriam could admit to herself. That first marriage to Lenny Flentlock: definite mistake. If you have to give a man the benefit of a large doubt twice, it’s just not going to work out in end because, well, it’s like what Alice warned her even before she met him, “men are never what they seem to be anyway.”

There were other things about her that slept close to truth but were so unsettling to a forward-looking, optimistic view of life that it was just better to keep them locked up inside, like a gun you wouldn’t want in the house with children. And so what? Miriam didn’t want to waste a lot of time sitting beneath trees letting her imagination run wild. There was too much to do on the clock, as is were. To her, the supposition that you can’t take secrets to the grave is, well, horse shit. She could, and she would. Enough said.

Besides, Clyde was a keeper, and their three enterprising children, Jefferson (aka “Big toe”), Jerod (aka “Little toe”) and Naomi would be right off the shelf at Woolworth’s, if Woolworth’s dispensed husbands and children.

Clyde was an actuary whose inside knowledge risks and benefits kept them all well within the margins of a safe path through time together. But then his cholesterol came back high in a manner that was inexplicable, and the Lipitor wasn’t enough.

So, then, for reasons not carefully discussed with Miriam, the whole family had to become exercise and nutrition freaks. Clyde was on it, and the two toes and Naomi chased it like a thrown stick. Miriam gamely tried to keep up, and lost 15 pounds in the process. They ran, they swam, they biked, they hiked, they cross-country skied, they gave up meat, then dispensed with partially hydrogenated oils and all other sources of trans fats, and then high fructose corn syrups, and then milk and egg products.

All this in three years. It was like they’d joined some vegan version of the Navy Seals or something and, by and by, Miriam acquiesced and accommodated this metamorphosis, even to the point of helping the kids order books about macrobiotics and micro nutrients.

What none of them realized is that Miriam had been having an affair with comfort food for quite some time. What they would never know, really, is how much fun it was, how exciting her little rebellion had become to her. It was the food, seasoned with the smoldering passion of defiance.

They later figured that she wanted to get caught because when Naomi returned earlier than expected from a 10k training run, the whole house smelled like fried hickory smoked bacon. And given their enhanced sensitivity to airborne fats, it was not as though an hour or two would make a difference.

Miriam was sitting at the kitchen table, a large jar of Hellman’s mayonnaise still open in the kitchen, the bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich half-eaten and surrounded by a pile of thick-cut french fries. Beyond it, next to a vase holding a wild iris, was a brownie, with walnuts, and fudge frosting.

Naomi was so shocked she couldn’t speak.

“Hey Naomi,” Miriam greeted her, as she wiped tomato juice from her lips. “Wanta bite?”