Cutting the Mustard

 

I like mustard. I like mustard on salami sandwiches, on corned beef sandwiches, and on hotdogs. Sure, put ketchup on your hotdog if you like it. Just don't get that French fry condiment near my hotdog. Seriously, I love Chicago hotdogs with the mustard, relish, onions, tomatoes, pickles, and celery salt. Hold the hot peppers though. My mouth and stomach aren't built for that. Also, let me make another thing clear. No spicy mustard on my food. Mark used to be quite skillful at hiding that poupon mustard in certain dishes, but I don't know how to do that. So it's only the French's yellow mustard for me. Unfortunately, there is a problem with that mustard. It just doesn't know its place. The other day I made myself two hotdogs, with relish, chopped onions, and mustard. I carefully assembled the said hotdogs on a dish, on the kitchen counter, and I ate them right there at the counter. I do that so I can lean forward over the counter so as to not get any drippings on myself. I've learned not to sit at the table and eat a hotdog because the mustard always, always drips out the end of the bun onto my shirt. So there I was in the kitchen, very proud of myself that I did not drip mustard on my shirt. Ah, but mustard is sneaky. The very next morning I picked up that shirt to put it in the laundry, and there it was. Goddamned mustard on my shirt. The shirt I had worn all day after eating those hotdogs. Meaning everybody saw mustard dripped down the front of my shirt. You cannot restrain the mustard from breaking free from the confines of the bun, nor of the rye bread of a corned beef sandwich. Mustard will not give in to your will and wants to be free to paint your belly with its yellow stains. Yes, I could try a bib. Mustard would laugh at me as it squirted past it onto my pants. So I have learned to live with it. I simply have to change my clothes after every mustard laden sandwich knowing the mustard is there, somewhere.