The Land of Mayo and Hunting

I came across this delightful food review posted by , and a phrase in it just tickled my writer brain.

And this was my response:

I am going to write a memoir about growing up on the border of state, county and city in North Carolina; living in Charlotte with the feel of a small city, before the banker/NBA boom; and then having relatives on the noman’sland border of North and South Carolina.

Grandma served halved pears with a mayonnaise blend and shredded cheese in the delicate natural scoop of the pear, and I liked it.

I took ballet classes, was the first to go en pointe, and then stared down the giant open mouth of a mounted bass at my uncle’s house.

Thanks to this post, I am going to do this, in the heady fiction/non-fiction style of Truman Capote, bringing forth the avocado-toned land of the seventies, the land of jars of Mayo large enough to house goldfish, and the land of the serious battle of Miracle Whip v. Hellman’s, and I am going to title it Insinuated Mayonnaise. Thank you.

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