Mustard – I don’t like the taste of it, the smell of it, the look of it, the texture of it, the colour of it. It grosses me out to the max. As a matter of fact, my aversion to the condiment began inside the womb, for my mother’s cells loathe mustard as well.
My children, who are at the sweet young ages of five and seven, decide to play a prank on their old man.
They take a bottle of mustard and disguise it using their red crayons.
“Hey Dad, we got this new kind of ketchup to try. It’s really good. I think you’ll like it.”
“Um…okay. I’ll try it on my burger.” I cringe at the site of the yellow stream on my hamburger.
“Ah, kids, it kinda looks like mustard to me.”
“Dad, it’s actually ketchup. It’s made from yellow tomatoes. Try it. It’s really good.”
I take a small bite. My senses cry foul at the pungent yellow nastiness. I spit out the mustarded burger in disgust, and my kids laugh and laugh.
Days later, I come home from work.
“Hey Dad, we got you a present today.”
They hand me a mustard shirt. And they laugh and laugh.