Larry Clinton of Bessemer City, North Carolina, has expressed a wish for his ashes to be buried in a Duke's mayonnaise jar. This is a sentiment behind which we can get.

Not only is the the best sandwich in the universe crafted expressly with Duke's mayonnaise - it also is a source of intense regional pride and identity, as we expounded upon in a mayoni-festo a while back.

The store-bought stuff is tied to regional identity in the same way that the words "pop" and "soda," barbecue methods or standard hot dog toppings are. Some expat southerners will smuggle Duke's back above the Mason-Dixon line, pining for the piquant kiss that the creamier, sweet Hellmann's (or "Best Foods" as it's called west of the Rockies) doesn't quite deliver. Those brands certainly have their supporters, but a devotee of Blue Plate may insist that a proper shrimp remoulade cannot be made without the Louisiana standard. It's best not to argue.

Kraft Real Mayonnaise has its advocates, especially when pitted against its audacious sister brand Miracle Whip sandwich spread – which must be mentioned, though it's categorically NOT mayo as it contains less than the Food and Drug Administration's standard of 65 percent vegetable oil by weight in order to bear the name "mayonnaise." Japanophiles may fancy MSG-laced Kewpie on their pizza (it's a thing) and health-conscious eaters across the nation flock to Hain or Hollywood safflower mayonnaise.

For some, the ideal vessel of eternal dispatch may well be crafted of a Sriracha or Pappy Van Winkle bottle, a Nutella tub or Provel wrapper. But as for Mr. Clinton, godspeed, sir. May you live a long and delicious life on this earth before you spread your Duke's love unto the great beyond.

Is there a brand you'd like to take to the grave? Let us know in the comments below.

Previously:
How to win over a mayo hater
The best sandwich in the universe – at least for the month of August
Food crush: artist and Southern food historian Amy Evans Streeter