A few weeks ago, Laura Bruno Lilly reminded me that not every blog post must be a deep, existential, soul-searching exploration of my past, present, and future or the state of the human condition. For that, I am grateful; and in that spirit, here is my ode to mustard.
When I was little, mustard was my absolute favorite condiment. In fact, it was my only condiment. Ketchup? Blech! Not for this girl. I put mustard on everything. Sandwiches, hot dogs, hamburgers, eggs, the Easter ham. I would even smear mustard on slices of hard cheese for an afternoon snack. The mustard stains on the sleeves of all of my weekend clothes was a testament to my passion. When I was wrapped up in my orthorexia, mustard was a definite no-no, if for no other reason than it seemed extemporaneous and I wouldn’t afford the now-seemingly-inconsequential extra calories. Yet, I never forgot the taste of mustard. When I was in Boston participating in a partial hospitalization program and living with my friend Veronica and her husband, there was mustard in the refrigerator door, waiting patiently for me.
Oh, mustard! I love your zest! Your pungence! Your garish yellowness! From the simple mustard of my youth to the spicy browns and French Dijons currently occupying places in my fridge and on my palate, you never fail me. How could I have ever thought your flavor not worthwhile? Oh, mustard! I’m glad I found you again. Let us never again be apart!