I walked into the kitchen at 11:30 last night to find Gene dismembering a cow. Our fridge is now full, full, FULL of beef. We’re having a few of his work friends over today, you see, to celebrate the death of some product they all hated, and the company apparently feels that the best way to keep your workers productive is to clog their arteries until they’re unable to get up from their desks.
This is a milestone in my secret career as a 1950s housewife: Hosting Your Husband’s Business Associates. I suspect that as with most 1950’s housewife duties, the secret is mayo. (Is your chicken dry and tasteless? Serve mayo as a sauce! Pesky stain on that white sofa? Slap a little mayo on it, they’ll never know the difference!) We’ve already got enough beef to account for one entire rainforest acre, and Gene is attending to the cocktail portion of the evening (hint: these cocktails come in kegs). All I need to do is sides. But what is best? Individual pineapple-based fruit cups with mayo dressing? Shrimp cocktail with mayo? Mayo with mayo?
Well, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get started. Eighty-six jars of Best Foods ain’t gonna buy themselves.
“Mayonnaise surprise? My favorite!”