Dwight Yoakam tells a story about mayonnaise, that ends with him offending his aunt. It's harmless, and best told by Dwight himself, who is a master storyteller if you can follow his tangents. He has a show on the satellite radio thingie in my car. I'm sure it's archived somewhere on the magic internet rectangle, should you want to find it. The gist is that he grew up thinking Miracle Whip was mayonnaise, and when he finally had actual mayonnaise, he got uppity like little kids do and may or may not have spit it out in disgust.
A parallel story would be about my uncle Eddie. (I have two Uncle Eds, one of whom was married to my oldest aunt, Jerrilyn. Sadly, we lost him a couple years ago. This is about Eddie, who may have some day wanted to be called Ed, but he likely could not make that choice cos he is 19 years younger than Jerrilyn, enough that by the time he was in school, give or take, she was already married to Ed, and a logger in his 20s with a big beard and a patch of land and a truck ain't changin his name for a 1st grader.) Anyway, when Eddie was young, his ma, my grandmother, would cut the crust of his pasty. Or rather, scoop the guts out of the pastry shell. Now, pasty--rhymes with past and ee, not paste and ee--is a Cornish meat pie that miners would take to work. Allegedly, it was a nice size to heat on a shovel over a coal fire. If this is true, one hopes fervently that they were not in an underground shaft while sitting around this mythical coal fire, or any fire, at the time. At any rate, while I don't know the exact travel of the pasty recipe from Cornish miners in the UP to my grandmother in Puget Sound, I do know that like any good Lutheran, when she made pasty it was in a casserole dish and was not a small hand pie. Coincidentally, my paternal grandmother did grow up in the UP, and she likely had contact with Suomalainen miners who knew the Cornish miners, but this is my other grandma we're talking about.
Anyway, you got me distracted. So, one day, Eddie is at some other family's house and they're servin mad pasty, and when he gets his plate, he gets all pouty and looks at my grandmother and says "THIS AIN'T PASTY" cos the crust is still on. Cut to now, and gosh darn if I don't want me some real Cornish pasty, the hand pie sort. I don't need that coal fire or a shovel for authenticity, but neither do I want Beef Wellington "pan gravy" like our old neighbour Christine used to make. I want a Cornish pasty. Ketchup, Heinz 57, Tobasco, whatever is at hand. Must be dinner time.