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. And 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 my wife said, "Now you know why they call that mustard 'Poupon.'"











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