Mayonnaise mysteries

Today I tried to make mayonnaise for the first time in my life. Why? I don't even like mayonnaise. I blame Deborah Madison, who can make anything sound good. Or my serious need to procrastinate.

I carefully separated the room-temperature egg, dismissing thoughts of food-borne pathogens from my mind. Whisked the yolk. Added lemon juice, salt and mustard, and whisked some more. Oil: slowly, slowly, slowly, as it must be added. (I know this from my professional cooking days, such as they were, where I made all sorts of salad dressing but somehow skipped the mayonnaise lesson.)

The mixture become frothy, like eggnog, which was weird. It became one thing: there were no eggy bits floating in the oily suspension, which seemed encouraging. Emulsion, non? The sauce had not broken. I continued to slowly add oil and whisk, whisk, whisk, for a seeming eternity, until finally it was time to face facts: This stuff was not thickening. It was a smooth, frothy liquid, and determined to stay that way. I whisked and whisked, seeking to persuade myself that maybe homemade mayonnaise was supposed to be, um, thinner than the store-bought kind. Part of its charm. The sauce has not broken, I told myself. The sauce has not yet broken.

It is not broken. Yet it is not mayonnaise. So what, exactly, is it? Sitting forlornly in the refrigerator awaiting the decisive moment when I will either eat it over haricots verts, throw it away, or try again with another yolk as Deborah Madison advises. Except there are no more eggs in the apartment.