MUSTARD -- A TRAGIC STORY
As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection. A thick slab of ham, a fresh bun, crisp lettuce, and plenty of expensive, light brown, gourmet mustard. The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the picnic table in our backyard, picked it up with both hands but was stopped by my wife suddenly at my side.
As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection. A thick slab of ham, a fresh bun, crisp lettuce, and plenty of expensive, light brown, gourmet mustard. The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the picnic table in our backyard, picked it up with both hands but was stopped by my wife suddenly at my side.
'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 mustard 'Poupon.'