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with uncorrupted pleasure. Then, when I was eighteen or so and had just started The Golden Bowl, someone—older, cleverer, whose opinions were offered gravely—asked me whether I didn’t find James very difficult, as she always did. Until then, I had no idea that I might, and I didn’t. From that moment, I couldn’t read him but self-consciously; from then on, I did find him difficult. I do not wish to insult by the comparison, but I had a similar, Jamesian mayonnaise experience. My mother used to make mayonnaise weekly, twice weekly; we children would help. I had no idea it was meant to be difficult, or that it was thought to be such a nerve-racking ordeal. Then someone asked how I managed to be so breezy about it, how I stopped it from curdling. From then on, I scarcely made a mayonnaise that didn’t break. It’s not surprising; when confidence is undermined or ruptured, it can be difficult to do the simplest things, or to take any enjoyment even in trying.
    I don’t deny that mayonnaises can break, but please don’t jinx yourself. Anyway, it’s not a catastrophe if it does. A small drop of boiling water can fix things and, if it doesn’t, you can start again with an egg yolk in a bowl. Beat it and slowly beat in the curdled mess of mayo you were previously working on. Later, add more oil and a little lemon juice. You should, this way, end up with the smoothly amalgamated yellow ointment you were after in the first place. I hate to say it, but you may have to do this twice. You may end up with rather more mayonnaise than you need, but getting it right in the end restores your confidence, and this is the important thing.
    I make mayonnaise the way my mother did—I warm the eggs in the bowl (as explained more fully later), then beat and add oil just from the bottle, not measuring, until the texture feels right, feels like mayonnaise. I squeeze in lemon juice, also freehand, until the look and taste feel right. If you make a habit of making mayonnaise, you will inevitably come to judge it instinctively too. I don’t like too much olive oil in it; if it’s too strong, it rasps the back of the throat, becomes too invasive. I use a little over two-thirds peanut oil and a little under one-third olive oil, preferably that lovely mild stuff from Liguria. If you prefer, do use half and half and a mild French olive oil, which is probably more correct, anyway, than the Italian variety.
    By habit and maternal instruction, I always used to use an ordinary whisk. This takes a long time (and I can see why my mother used us, her children, as commis chefs). Now I use my KitchenAid mixer with the wire whip in place. You can equally well use one of those hand-held beaters, which are cheap and useful. Please, whatever you do, don’t use a food processor; if you do, your finished product tastes just like the gluey bought stuff. And then, hell, you might as well just go out and buy it.
    2 egg yolks (but wait to separate the eggs, and see below)
    pinch salt
    1 cup peanut or sunflower oil
    1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
    juice of ½ lemon or more, to taste
    salt and freshly milled white pepper
    Put the eggs, in their shells, in a large bowl. Fill the bowl with warm water from the tap and leave for 10 minutes. (This brings eggs and bowl comfortably to room temperature, which will help stop the eggs from curdling, but is optional, as long as you remember to take the eggs out of the fridge well before you need them.) Then remove the eggs, get rid of the water, and dry the bowl thoroughly. Wet and then wring out a kitchen towel and set the bowl on it; this stops it slipping and jumping about on the work surface.
    Separate the eggs. Put aside the whites and freeze them for another use (see page 17 ), and let the yolks plop into the dried bowl. Start whisking the yolks with the salt. After a few minutes, very, very gradually and drop by mean drop, add the peanut oil. You must not rush this. It’s easier to let the oil seep in gradually if