As a kid, I always dreaded the last Wednesday of the month. That was the day my mother made egg salad sandwiches. (Dreamstime/Andi Berger)
As a kid, I always dreaded the last Wednesday of the month. That was the day my mother made egg salad sandwiches. For hours afterward, the acrid, slightly metallic odor would linger in the kitchen. Even now, the mere thought of it fills the inside of my nose with phantom wisps of sulfur.
Unfortunately, my aversion held little sway with my mother. I was still expected to boil dozens and dozens of eggs, peel the shells and then douse the remains with heaps of Hellmann's mayonnaise. "Don't scrimp on the mayo," she would chide me." Those sandwiches need to be easy to chew."