* from an email at work…
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.”
