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."
When you stop laughing, pass it on.
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