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. 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 all the laughing so hard, my wife said, “Now you know why they call that fancy expensive mustard Poupon.”

(Author Unknown)