As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection. A
thick slab of ham, a fresh bun, crisp lettuce and plenty of expensive, light brown,
gourmet mustard. The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the picnic
table in our backyard, picked it up with both hands but was stopped by my wife suddenly at
my side.
"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 mustard
'Poupon.'"
