For many years, I was utterly confused when I ate other people’s deviled eggs. Why weren’t they sweet? What’s this weird paprika stuff? Then I learned the secret to my mother’s deviled eggs: Miracle Whip. Turn up your nose, cringe, flail at your love handles, whatever. The creepy creamy crack is the secret. People who would otherwise look at me like I’ve grown a second head have gobbled these things up. (That was before I knew of their loathing for Miracle Whip–I try not to serve people food that contains things they have moral objections to.) Now, my mother isn’t a measuring cook, per se (which is fine, because we…