Some people open the fridge looking for snacks. I opened it looking for inspiration. The assignment was to stand in front of the refrigerator and “connect” with something inside. Not in a rom-com, soulful-eye-contact kind of way, pick an item and make it mean something. And there, wedged behind the broccoli and judging me with its crusty lid, was a sad, slumping jar of mayonnaise. Congratulations, Mayo. You’re my muse.

So here goes:

Forgotten
Annalisa Wilson

You there, mayonnaise jar, mayonnaise jar
Crouched down in the corner way in the back
Just below the light, alone, cold, and dark
Hiding there behind a bright veggie pack

Half empty with crust on a once-clean glass
Not sure how long since you were held or touched
Can’t remember the last time someone asked
Seems like nobody wants you all that much

The top of your jar has a rusty halo
Inside, you are all sour and bitter.
Nobody wants rusty, sour, old mayo.
Your color dulled grey like faded-out glitter

You there mayonnaise jar mayonnaise jar
Lurking against the back wall like a scar

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Because nothing I do is ever easy or quick, I decided to up the challenge: what roles could this sad little mayonnaise jar play as a metaphor for my life in its current state? After staring at the jar long enough to question both my sanity and my grocery habits, I decided to… ask it. What better way to “connect” than a straight-up fridge-side interview?

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Interview with a Mayo Jar

Q (Me): Mayo, how does it feel to sit there crusting over in the fridge?
A (Mayo): Like Botox gone bad. I used to be smooth, creamy, essential… now I’m just waiting for someone to admit my “best by” date was three years ago.

Q (Me): Do you ever think about the good old days?
A (Mayo): Every day. Sandwiches, potato salads, deviled eggs, I was the life of the picnic. Now I’m a relic with more dust than dignity.

Q (Me): What about loneliness? Do you ever feel invisible?
A (Mayo): Honey, I live behind the broccoli. Even the pickles get more attention. Loneliness is my full-time job description.

Q (Me): Any final wisdom for the humans staring into the fridge at 2 a.m.?
A (Mayo): We’re all condiments in this life, useful one day, forgotten the next. Enjoy your shelf life while it lasts.

After our little heart-to-heart, I realized the mayo wasn’t just sulking back there – it had layers. Like an onion. Or, you know, like an expired condiment clinging to relevance. So I challenged myself: if this jar can complain about Botox, potato salad, and pickles, what else could it stand in for? Turns out, quite a lot. Depending on my mood, the same jar can morph into three very different metaphors:

The Aging Jar – proof that time doesn’t care how fresh and creamy you once were.

You there, mayonnaise jar, mayonnaise jar,
Crouched down in the corner way in the back,
Just below the light, alone, cold, and far,
Hidden behind a bright veggie pack.

Half empty with crust on a once-clean glass,
Your prime has slipped by, your moment is gone.
The world keeps moving while you do not pass,
Stuck in a season that will not move on.

The top of your jar wears a rusty halo,
Inside, the years curdle sour and slow.
Once golden and glossy, now heavy, hollow—
Time steals our shine till there’s nothing to show.

You there, mayonnaise jar, mayonnaise jar,
You are the truth of how fleeting we are.

The Nostalgic Jar – a relic of picnics and deviled eggs, trapped in the past.

You there, mayonnaise jar, mayonnaise jar,
Pushed to the shadows, unseen in the back,
Dim under light like a forgotten star,
Buried behind what the present now stacks.

Half empty with crust from another age,
You hold the taste of a moment long past,
Once written in laughter across a page,
Now fading too quickly, too fragile to last.

Your top wears rust like a lock on the years,
Inside, old days curdle bitter and weak.
Once rich with flavor, now salted with tears,
A relic of joy no one bothers to seek.

You there, mayonnaise jar, mayonnaise jar,
You are the ghost of the lives that we are.

The Invisible Jar – lonely in the shadows, still taking up space even when forgotten.

You there, mayonnaise jar, mayonnaise jar,
Alone in the cold, exiled to the back,
Shoved out of sight like an unwanted scar,
Lost in the glow that the brighter things track.

Half empty, forgotten, your glass gathers dust,
No hand reaches for you, no voice calls your name.
You wait in the silence of absence and rust,
Proof that neglect is a colder kind of flame.

Your top is a crown of corrosion and pain,
Inside, what’s left sours bitter with time.
Once you were chosen, essential, humane,
Now you are nothing but rot in a rhyme.

You there, mayonnaise jar, mayonnaise jar,
You are the shadow of all left ajar.

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Of course, once you start giving a mayonnaise jar metaphorical weight, it refuses to stay in one lane. Poems are a lot like leftovers; you can dress them up in different ways depending on what you’re hungry for. With my mayonnaise jar, I couldn’t stick to just one flavor of truth. So I gave it four alternate endings:

The Existential One – because even mayo can spiral about the meaning of life. Even condiments deserve a moment to question their purpose.

But maybe, old Mayo, you’re just like us all –
Once spread thick and proud, now thin and small.
We’re all condiments waiting our turn in the dark,
Hoping the fridge light still finds us with spark.

The Snarky One – a wink at the absurdity of being shelf décor. Sometimes laughter is the only way to deal with decay.

Take heart, old Mayo, don’t sink in despair-
The ranch has been festering longer back there.
At least you’re not ketchup, still faking a smile,
Convincing the fridge you’ve been fresh all the while.

The Wryly Hopeful One – who doesn’t root for a comeback story? For the optimists who believe even expired mayo has a second act.

One day, some brave soul with questionable guts
Will scrape your gray edges and swallow their “yucks.”
And in that small moment, you’ll finally see –
Even expired mayo has legacy.

The Darkly Humorous One – because sometimes a coffin joke just feels right. Honestly, is there anything more fitting for a forgotten jar in the bowels of your refrigerator than a coffin comparison?

So rest, mayonnaise, your glory days passed –
The fridge is a coffin, the cold is a cast.
But at least when the garbage men haul you away,
You’ll finally bask in the warmth of the day.

And so, after staring down my refrigerator like it was a confessional booth, I give you the final product: a poem about mayonnaise that’s really about all of us. Equal parts absurd, existential, and just a little crusty around the edges.

The Forgotten Mayo

You there, mayonnaise jar, mayonnaise jar,
Slumped in the fridge like a washed-up star,
Just below the light, sulking in the chill,
Pouting behind the broccoli’s frilly frill.

Half empty, crusted, with dignity gone,
You wait for a sandwich that never comes along.
No one remembers the role you once played –
Binding the bread in your creamy parade.

Your lid wears a rusty, corroded crown,
Inside, your glory has curdled down.
Once you were fresh, the toast of the spread,
Now even the mustard looks past you instead.

But maybe, old Mayo, you’re really just proof
That even the brightest lose shine under the roof.
We’re all one jar from the back of the shelf,
Hoping someone remembers to spread us themself.

In the end, that mayonnaise jar is really just us: waiting to be noticed, trying to stay useful, and quietly fearing the day we’re pushed too far to the back. It’s funny, a little gross, and maybe a little too real, which is probably why it makes the perfect metaphor.

 If nothing else, let this be a reminder to clean out your fridge before your groceries start teaching you life lessons.