Pass the Mustard
What, this isn't how you set the dinner table every night?
The good news is that my husband and I are not one of those nauseating couples who are always hugging and kissing and telling other people how in love we are. Because everyone hates those people, and they know it, that's why they cling to their beloved so much.
The bad news is that we recently had some words about mustard. That's right, mustard. And no, I'm not using it as a euphemism for anything. And no amount of sunflower staging (see photo) can detract from the fact that my husband and I are mustardinally incompatible.
My husband lived in France for a while and during that time became convinced that French mustard (and apparently that doesn't include Gray Poupon) is the only mustard worth having and everything else is an insult to humanity. His brand of choice is Amore. I can't find a photo of it online, but for some reason, his many French friends who come to stay with us, all come bearing it. I suspect that reason is that he demands it in exchange for letting them stay with us. I actually wouldn't be surprised if they were not really friends, but random Parisiens who responded to his ad on LeCraig's List, which propbably read something like, "Stay in the heart of Greenwich Village for free! Mustard required."
But every once in a while, French friends do not come to visit, I don't know, perhaps they're busy looking at the Mona Lisa, or climbing the Eiffel Tower or eating a baguette. And then we find ourselves mustardless. You may think that there is photographic evidence to the contrary, but that just tells me that you've been skimming this post. Because I repeat: mustard that is not Amore is an insult to humanity, and possibly poison.
I know this, and yet I keep trying. Two weeks I bought the Trader Joe's mustard, seen on your right. My husband took a sniff, and condemned it as "not sharp enough." I know what you're thinking and you're right. I really should have Lorena Bobbit's defense attorney's number on speed dial.