THE MUSTARD STORY

This is a true story.

(If you are a father, you will probably relate to this.)

I Love Mustard.

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 out.

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."