EOOUU!!!

I Love Mustard. (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. 
Wi th 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." 



Thelly, the Storylady, Cardiff by the Sea
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