Think you're not a mayonnaise fan? Make it from scratch and you'll become one

If you’ve got a stockpile of eggs and you’re sick of endless omelets, why not make something that uses several eggs and lasts longer than one meal? I’m talking, of course, about mayonnaise.

For much of my life, mayonnaise had a fixed role. It was a key ingredient in my dad’s iconic tuna, in my aunt’s (his twin sister’s) exquisite potato and macaroni salad, and it often gilded the top half of nearly every sandwich I ate — from turkey and roast beef to a classic Italian sub.

In college, I once overheard a friend order a sandwich in the dining hall that would soon become my go-to for months: chicken cutlets, Muenster, pesto and mayonnaise on a hard roll. Toasted, open-faced. Once it was out of the oven, he’d add shredded lettuce and sliced tomatoes. I haven’t had that sandwich in more than a decade, but just writing about it now, I’m absolutely fantasizing. It was mind-boggling. I remain indebted to that friend for the discovery.

It was the first time I realized mayonnaise could combine with other ingredients to become something greater — something nuanced and deeply flavorful.

Still, I didn’t think about it much after that. I wasn’t into pimento cheese. I never baked mayonnaise into cakes or slathered it on chicken before roasting. For a while, mayo was back to being background noise in my cooking.

Then came culinary school.

In those early lessons, I sometimes scoffed, thinking I knew the basics already. (“This herb is obviously rosemary!” I’d huff.) But on mayonnaise day, standing with a balloon whisk and silver bowl, I assumed I knew what was coming.

I was wrong.

We made mayonnaise with nothing more than egg yolk, oil, garlic, lemon and salt—and the result was astonishing. I’d grown up with Hellmann’s, but this was the first time I tasted what mayonnaise could be: rich, fatty, thick and creamy. Almost like a savory frosting. I had to actively stop myself from eating it straight from the bowl.

The egg and oil gave it structure, the garlic brought heat, the lemon lent brightness, and salt tied it all together. It was legitimately perfect. That first taste was a revelation. Suddenly, mayonnaise had range.

From then on, I started seeking out dishes that used mayonnaise. I bought cold cuts just to have an excuse to make sandwiches with homemade mayo. I experimented: sundried tomato, a hit of Sriracha, chopped herbs—each variation fed the obsession.

Eventually, culinary school got more challenging (and more delicious), and my mayo fixation cooled. But years later, I was working with a cookbook author who was developing a range of aioli recipes. We used a solid base, then blended in herbs, spices, purees—you name it. We used an immersion blender, which was fun, but I still loved the fundamental simplicity of the bowl-and-whisk approach. I’d bring those mayos home and do the same thing I did back in school: build meals around them.

These days, I often keep a jar of Duke’s Mayo in the fridge (it’s become easier to find near me, and I’m a devoted fan). But homemade mayonnaise hasn’t disappeared from my repertoire.

Quick note on the mayo-aioli debate: Traditionally, aioli was made with just garlic and oil (think toum), while mayonnaise included egg. These days, the terms are used interchangeably—or, let’s be real, some people just call mayo aioli because they like how it sounds. Fun fact: my favorite culinary school instructor pronounced it “eye-oh-LEE,” with emphasis on the last syllable. I always loved that.

Some folks swear by store-bought for convenience — and fair enough. I have no desire to make Pop-Tarts or a 3 Musketeers bar from scratch, either. But when it comes to mayo? I really think you should try making it at least once. It might change how you think about condiments altogether. It did for me.

Mayonnaise is a reminder that something deeply flavorful, rich and airy can come from the most basic ingredients: egg, garlic, lemon, oil, salt. There’s a kind of alchemy there. One you have to taste to believe.