Milwaukee in the 1980s treated mayonnaise as if it were a part of the civic infrastructure, something built into the bones of the city like cream-colored brick or Friday fish fries.
For a kid who couldn’t stand the stuff, it felt less like a condiment and more like a cultural fault line.
I grew up as the lone holdout in a place where every sandwich seemed engineered to collapse under the weight of white goo. In the school cafeteria, a harmless sandwich at lunch could turn into a disaster when the bread arrived soaked, sliding apart as if the lunch ladies thought “extra mayo” was a mandatory public service…