Putting the mayo on the cranberries

We haven't committed any questionable acts of mayonnaise in a surprisingly long time.

This came out of my great-grandmother's notebook. We've made this recipe before, so let's just zoom in on that last line:

Maybe the mayo on top helps stretch this salad into the purported dozen servings. I know I'd be a bit more cautious with my portion size if I knew my cranberries were buried under mayonnaise.

Despite tossing the idea aside at first, I wondered if cranberry salad is better under mayonnaise-infused whipped cream. After all, I didn't think cranberries and celery were a good idea until I tried that. And mayonnaise and ketchup turn into thousand island dressing instead of a tragedy of condiments.

 But I didn't want to purchase an entire bottle of mayonnaise just for one silly salad. But while I was pocketing enough mayonnaise packets for a winter salad, I decided to grab an extra one to complete my great-grandmother's cranberry salad. (Sure, it's a recipe she clipped and not something she independently devised. But that's true for most American family recipes anyway).
 

It lurks in the cup, atop a single serving of whipped cream...

I had only one thought: "Well doesn't that just put the mayonnaise on my cranberry sundae?"

It's fruit with whipped cream on top, but with a special surprise...

There is no place for mayo on top of cranberries. Adding it to whipped cream makes it extra greasy (you are mixing fat into fat), and it tastes... like mayonnaise. We didn't get any magical unexpected flavor melding. I'm glad I tried this, but I am also glad I didn't sink any grocery money into it.

A lot of the recipes "of a certain age" make me think that smoking changed cooking. Like, I think the flavors in this would work if you had pre-tarred your taste buds. (The mayonnaised cream would probably feel less like straight cooking oil on the tongue.) But since we can repaint the ceilings in our house without five coats of post-nicotine primer, I was unimpressed.