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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
Hold Johnny (our six-week-old son) while I get my sandwich, she said.
I had him balanced between my left elbows 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.'
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