Mustard

Image used under a Collective Commons License from https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sandwich_at_Goodman%27s_Restaurant_in_Berkeley_Heights_NJ.jpgAs ham sandwiches go, this was perfection. A thick slice of ham on a fresh bun with crisp lettuce and plenty of expensive, light brown, gourmet mustard.

With the corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried the sandwich to the table in our back yard, picked it up with both hands but was stopped when my wife suddenly appeared at my side.

“Here Bob, hold Simon (our six-week-old son) while I get my sandwich”, she said.

Well, 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.

Did I tell you that I love mustard?

I had no napkin with me, so 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 shoe shine 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. I’m sure you have friends who love mustard.


Image used under a Collective Commons License from https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sandwich_at_Goodman%27s_Restaurant_in_Berkeley_Heights_NJ.jpg

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