The Mustard Story

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.''