I Love Mustard.
(This is a true story. If you have children you will probably relate to this father.)
As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection: a thick slab of ham on a fresh bun with crisp lettuce and plenty of expensive, light brown, gourmet mustard. The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I
carried it to the table in our backyard, picked it up with both hands but was stopped by my wife suddenly at my side.
"Here, hold Johnny (our six-week-old son) while I get my sandwich," she said.
I had him balanced between my left elbow and shoulder and was reaching again for the ham sandwich when I noticed a streak of mustard on my fingers.
I love mustard.
I had no napkin.
I licked it off.
It was not mustard.
No man ever put a baby down faster. It was the first and only time I have sprinted with my tongue protruding. With a washcloth in each hand, I did the sort of routine shoeshine boys do; only I did it on my tongue.
Later, after she stopped crying from laughing so hard, my wife said, "Now you know why they call that fancy mustard . "Poupon."
When you stop laughing, pass it on.
