Confessions of a Southern Mayo Evangelist

I remember Darryl Waite as a man of simple tastes and means. We were sitting on the tailgate of his redneck beater pickup truck for lunch, having completed a cash-only install of a customer's back deck. As he peeled the cellophane from a ham sandwich that appeared to be gingerly packed with love from his wife, who had also been his high school sweetheart, he took a moment to admire her work and dove in.

As his eyes widened, I knew something was wrong. At first, I thought maybe he'd lost another tooth. He'd been in competition with a particular Waffle House waitress for some time, and they both looked like hockey players.

This look had pain, deep pain, and hurt from the soul. As he spit the bite into his hand with a twinge of sadness and dropped both into a makeshift trash bag like a grenade that just lost its pin, I knew.

"She hates me," he said, with a face like a lonely bloodhound.

In the South, there are a few topics you'd best handle with care: college football, barbecue sauce, and mayonnaise. And let me tell you, just like buying champagne from Champagne, or dijon mustard from Dijon, if you ain't talking about Duke's, you may as well hush up.

One Thanksgiving, Uncle Ray dared to bring a potato salad made with Miracle Whip. He's one of the ones that married in. I understand that he deemed himself a culinary wizard. Usually, he'd be right. It should have been easy to forgive him since he ain't from around here. Granny did not see the light. She gave him a Thermos full of sweet tea on his way out the door to maintain her fine Southern hospitality. She didn't care much about where he came from; she just knew he wasn't staying.

They haven't spoken since.

He's still married to Aunt Jeanette. We get along just fine. It only took one time, just like Darryl's wife. Everyone makes mistakes, and we all learn from them, for the most part.

The choice of mayonnaise is not just culinary—it's cultural, emotional, and deeply personal. Duke's, of course, reigns supreme in Appalachia and the God-fearing South.

It's the secret to every deviled egg, tomato sandwich, and casserole worth eating. I'll be the first to admit that I avoid deviled eggs like a politician avoids holy water, but we all have our quirks. A tomato sandwich, however, is a heavenly institution that deserves the very best.

Before the powers that be tried to make it a crime to act like a human being, you could grow good Beefsteak tomatoes in the yard, unhindered, soaking up the glory of the blistering summertime sun and turning it into a specimen of divine origin. My dad kept a special knife for those tomatoes, specifically for tomato sandwiches, and it was razor-sharp for those thin slices, much like the timeless garlic scene portrayed by the master Paul Sorvino in the movie Goodfellas.

For some reason, this was a hill he was willing to die on, so when Halton Smith cut slices of tomato at the church potluck that a Labrador Retriever could chase like a Frisbee, we knew the words were on the way.

"Is your knife dull, or do you just not know how to use it?" The tone was friendly, almost sultry, and landed about like a left hook from a southpaw.

Halton blinked and wisely retreated.

Born in Greenville, South Carolina, through the grace of a certain Eugenia Duke, Duke's has been a culinary beacon since 1917. It's practically sacred. In fact, it's said to be the third largest brand behind Hellmann's (whose origin is in the name) and Kraft, the functional factory equivalent of condiments.

Momma didn't always have this right. She was originally a devotee of Blue Plate, a brand out of Louisiana. This came from my Grandpa Jones, who got it in small jars at the local drugstore for his daily sausage and onion sandwiches. He wasn't quite as particular. He was satisfied as long as the ground pork stuck to the loaf bread. And that it did. That mayo parked his sandwich together like it was a permanent address. A touch of mustard, and his world was right.

He was in the history books himself as a relic of time forgotten when the Ingles supermarkets brought the tent revival of Duke's to Momma's door at a cheaper price. Ever being the missionary herself, she once took a jar to a potluck labeled 'free sample.' She had converts by dessert.

It's got that perfect balance—creamy but not sweet, bold without being overpowering. I've heard folk claim that it was too tangy. That's just crazy talk. Too tangy? That's like saying sweet tea is too sweet.

Bless your heart.

Duke's isn't just mayonnaise—it's a way of life, a badge of honor, and a cornerstone of Southern cuisine.

In a world that's always changing, it's comforting to know Duke's is still there, holding strong in our pantries. The beauty is that it's only an HEB away because they know what's good, even if they still have to make the lesser brands available to those individuals yet to see the light.

One time, a neighbor asked Momma if she had any Kraft mayo because my uncle had worked there. She handed them a jar of Duke's and set forth with them in prayer for their culinary salvation.

Hellmann's is fine—for Yankees. They can be easily forgiven. Miracle Whip ain't mayonnaise; it's dessert. But I've learned if someone prefers Miracle Whip, let it be. Life's too short to argue with the hopeless.

Choosing the wrong mayo feels like betraying your grandmother and washing her cast-iron skillet in the dishwasher after soaking it in Dawn. That'll hurt her heart, and she might hurt you.

So next time you're tempted by another brand, just remember: WWMD—What Would Momma Do? And Momma would always choose Duke's.