Love Mustard.

[vienna1964]

 

(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."