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 the routine shoeshine boys do, only I did it on my tongue.

Later (after she finally stopped laughing) my wife said, "Now you know why they call that mustard 'Poupon',"

Marion "mustard eater" berrry-CB