first he put mustard
on his hot dog,
then on his hamburger
then in his potato salad
then on some scrambled eggs
then in his hand soap
then on the cat,
then on his pillow
then in his picture frames
then on his upper lip
then on his penis,
then on his 1040 EZ form,
then on his hope for the future.
I have never thought too much about the different types of mustard. Some are yellow but most have a tangy flavour. It always surprises me how pungent mustard can be. Thick and sour – an odd combination. Is it better that mayonoise? It’s quite the debate. If I could only live with mustard or mayonaise, I think I’d choose the mayo. But it’s a simple question.
Greg
I hate mustard. The color of mustard. The smell of Mustard. Everything about it makes me gag, and I can’t help but feel like there is something else behind my disliking it. When I decided to go and dive into my past to determine if there was in fact something more to it, I was shocked by what I found.
michala
She is so excited to know a mighty oak starts from a mustard seed! This is great lessons learned from her father; as she grew up and shown the different stages it goes through to become the mighty oak. It stands strong and tall with limbs extended to the heavens and its roots grounded in the very foundation of its creator. Chosen to be in that place, so as others may see how marvelous and beautiful it is. Standing underneath can be breathtaking, as well as, climbing can bring out the kid in her and others who have joined her. There’s just something to be said of understanding the concept, of something greater and bigger of what she has come to fathom.
Her love for trees is a definite connection to her heart and can’t help but, be swept away in many life moments. She has found her help, healing and hope from her faith of a mustard seed to experience standing under the majestic mighty oak. She lifts her hands high to the heavens, being captured and taken beyond anything she can or ever would imagine. Her connected heart, mind and spirit are one with his. She gazes up and delights in the beauty that surrounds her; grabs her blanket and lays down for a while, with her hands behind her head; she looks up into it’s branches and leaves. The wind sweeps by for a moment and she smiles and takes a deep breath in and drifts off to sleep.
Donna Whiting
I’m staring at the mustard stain on the table between us.
The stain reminds me of something.
It reminds me of a taxi. Like the yellow one in New York. I’d never seen a yellow taxi before, except in the oil painting in your kitchen and on the TV of course.
Do you remember that satin dress I wore? And how proud you were to have me on your arm? The cameras flash-flash-flashed at us, after you’d collected your award. I’d never been in any kind of magazine before. Especially not a ‘high society’ magazine. And they put us in the magazine twice! For the wedding as well, with photos of Dordogne and you and I in black ad white. Remember my dress was embellished with thousands of tiny pearls, and every so often one would shed itself and skitter off into the night? Remember how you told me to stop fretting about it? “Don’t obsess over the things that leave you, or you’ll get left behind.”
When did you decide to leave?
That day, they had big eyes planted in the trees. Cartoon type, something that my friend said would be “something that she would love” and she was right. It took everything that I had to get there, and even more to stay but somehow that inflatable wedding chapel and those crazy eyes planted amongst the mustard flowers of the summer trees were something to stop the negative thoughts from spiralling for once.
Maybe art wasn’t a complete loss after all.
Aisling
i would love mustard with my hotdog. mustard and ketchup will do.
KJ
The mustard gas stung with the power of a million suns. We ran out of the building to escape the horrible stinging sensation that was attacking our eyes. We were being punished for nothing.
April Stone
Citrine and oh, so lemony
Amber drizzling into honey
Tiger-eyed mustard seeds
Evil eye heed our warning
Cabochon
The smell of hot dogs and the sticky smell of the asphalt filled her nose as she walked up the steps. She was far too overdressed for the ballpark.
When he turned the page, his finger brushed the mustard stain at the bottom edge. At least that’s what he thought it might be; hoped it might be. This is what he hated about library books. He’d read them all his life but still, he just couldn’t get used to it. The book was practically tainted now; he knew that he’d feel the reverb of it on every page successive page. It would seep into the story itself, become imbued with this crusty yellow aura.
In the middle of the pan, at the center of the canola, on checkered tile, with patience, the pods pop, and the mustard seeds sweet aroma may take the place of the wretched path that ever consumes, before, through, and after.
smurfstoestar
it is a tiny seed which was first described in the holy book Bible. it is said to be medicinal and when plant as a tiny seed it grows beyond wildest imagination.
omololu
Spicy brown, it warmed her mouth in all the best ways. She hummed and he laughed. “I can’t believe you actually did that,” he said. When she looked up at him, there was a mischievous grin on her face.
Hearty Italian, chicken breast with add-on cheese, all vegetables except pickle, mustard sauce.
Boon Yee
Their eyes were shifting around the room nervously, skittering around him. As they thought of the consequences of their coming words, all the while knowing they wouldn’t stop them, he had already figured it all out. He knew what came next. Denying anything would any dig them in more. Shifting the blame to the true culprit would be no less suspicious than hiding a bloody candlestick behind his back. His severe, unsmiling cheeks that seemed to suck joy right out of the music flowing from the horn of a slightly discolored gramaphone. The way his avoidance of pleasantries and desire to speak privately with their gracious host now coming across as an agenda. His medals, tucked away on the inside of his off-color suit, and how before walking into evening they stood for sacrifice and valor, and now only proof of his grim abilities to look past blood and emotion. He eyed who he knew would speak first. The one looking at him now, directly, nervously. He knew behind the nervousness there was an eagerness to pin the blame on anyone else, on someone else, on someone more convenient. He took a deep breath, and he let it out, all eyes now on his dignified wrinkles, accusing each one.
She called me mustard. Ugly, unlikable, mustard. Yellow. Thats what defined me now. I was mustard.
But now I know I’m gold. Like the sun. Like the stars.
LuLu
Plop!
The sound, unmistakable and all wet-squelchy feeling fills me with dismay. Usually I know better, usually I don’t head out for lunch, and certainly usually I know better than to get something with condiments on it where a splash or a careless spray is a possibility. Not on a work day.
I take a breath and look down, assessing the damage.
Mustard on white.
Not my best work, that’s for certain. Though maybe with a bit of cold water or a strategically-buttoned jacket no one will notice back at the office.
The yellow paste coated the child’s face, his grin as wide as can be. Having no care in the world except for finishing his meal. A much more difficult task than expected. Having no concept of potion sizes, there was more mustard than anything on that poor hot dog.
Malcolm
When I said I didn’t want mustard, I got a burger that was practically smothered in it. Hell, I didn’t even have to pick it up to see how much the stuff ran down the sides. The waiter was pretty indignant about it, even though the chef came out and tore him a new one because he had written “extra extra extra extra mustard” on the order. I don’t know if the little brat got fired, but the replacement burger I got was pretty great. And to prove a point, I stabbed a random mustard bottle a few times with my fork.
TASTY CONDIMENT
first he put mustard
on his hot dog,
then on his hamburger
then in his potato salad
then on some scrambled eggs
then in his hand soap
then on the cat,
then on his pillow
then in his picture frames
then on his upper lip
then on his penis,
then on his 1040 EZ form,
then on his hope for the future.
I have never thought too much about the different types of mustard. Some are yellow but most have a tangy flavour. It always surprises me how pungent mustard can be. Thick and sour – an odd combination. Is it better that mayonoise? It’s quite the debate. If I could only live with mustard or mayonaise, I think I’d choose the mayo. But it’s a simple question.
I hate mustard. The color of mustard. The smell of Mustard. Everything about it makes me gag, and I can’t help but feel like there is something else behind my disliking it. When I decided to go and dive into my past to determine if there was in fact something more to it, I was shocked by what I found.
She is so excited to know a mighty oak starts from a mustard seed! This is great lessons learned from her father; as she grew up and shown the different stages it goes through to become the mighty oak. It stands strong and tall with limbs extended to the heavens and its roots grounded in the very foundation of its creator. Chosen to be in that place, so as others may see how marvelous and beautiful it is. Standing underneath can be breathtaking, as well as, climbing can bring out the kid in her and others who have joined her. There’s just something to be said of understanding the concept, of something greater and bigger of what she has come to fathom.
Her love for trees is a definite connection to her heart and can’t help but, be swept away in many life moments. She has found her help, healing and hope from her faith of a mustard seed to experience standing under the majestic mighty oak. She lifts her hands high to the heavens, being captured and taken beyond anything she can or ever would imagine. Her connected heart, mind and spirit are one with his. She gazes up and delights in the beauty that surrounds her; grabs her blanket and lays down for a while, with her hands behind her head; she looks up into it’s branches and leaves. The wind sweeps by for a moment and she smiles and takes a deep breath in and drifts off to sleep.
I’m staring at the mustard stain on the table between us.
The stain reminds me of something.
It reminds me of a taxi. Like the yellow one in New York. I’d never seen a yellow taxi before, except in the oil painting in your kitchen and on the TV of course.
Do you remember that satin dress I wore? And how proud you were to have me on your arm? The cameras flash-flash-flashed at us, after you’d collected your award. I’d never been in any kind of magazine before. Especially not a ‘high society’ magazine. And they put us in the magazine twice! For the wedding as well, with photos of Dordogne and you and I in black ad white. Remember my dress was embellished with thousands of tiny pearls, and every so often one would shed itself and skitter off into the night? Remember how you told me to stop fretting about it? “Don’t obsess over the things that leave you, or you’ll get left behind.”
When did you decide to leave?
That day, they had big eyes planted in the trees. Cartoon type, something that my friend said would be “something that she would love” and she was right. It took everything that I had to get there, and even more to stay but somehow that inflatable wedding chapel and those crazy eyes planted amongst the mustard flowers of the summer trees were something to stop the negative thoughts from spiralling for once.
Maybe art wasn’t a complete loss after all.
i would love mustard with my hotdog. mustard and ketchup will do.
The mustard gas stung with the power of a million suns. We ran out of the building to escape the horrible stinging sensation that was attacking our eyes. We were being punished for nothing.
Citrine and oh, so lemony
Amber drizzling into honey
Tiger-eyed mustard seeds
Evil eye heed our warning
The smell of hot dogs and the sticky smell of the asphalt filled her nose as she walked up the steps. She was far too overdressed for the ballpark.
When he turned the page, his finger brushed the mustard stain at the bottom edge. At least that’s what he thought it might be; hoped it might be. This is what he hated about library books. He’d read them all his life but still, he just couldn’t get used to it. The book was practically tainted now; he knew that he’d feel the reverb of it on every page successive page. It would seep into the story itself, become imbued with this crusty yellow aura.
In the middle of the pan, at the center of the canola, on checkered tile, with patience, the pods pop, and the mustard seeds sweet aroma may take the place of the wretched path that ever consumes, before, through, and after.
it is a tiny seed which was first described in the holy book Bible. it is said to be medicinal and when plant as a tiny seed it grows beyond wildest imagination.
Spicy brown, it warmed her mouth in all the best ways. She hummed and he laughed. “I can’t believe you actually did that,” he said. When she looked up at him, there was a mischievous grin on her face.
Hearty Italian, chicken breast with add-on cheese, all vegetables except pickle, mustard sauce.
Their eyes were shifting around the room nervously, skittering around him. As they thought of the consequences of their coming words, all the while knowing they wouldn’t stop them, he had already figured it all out. He knew what came next. Denying anything would any dig them in more. Shifting the blame to the true culprit would be no less suspicious than hiding a bloody candlestick behind his back. His severe, unsmiling cheeks that seemed to suck joy right out of the music flowing from the horn of a slightly discolored gramaphone. The way his avoidance of pleasantries and desire to speak privately with their gracious host now coming across as an agenda. His medals, tucked away on the inside of his off-color suit, and how before walking into evening they stood for sacrifice and valor, and now only proof of his grim abilities to look past blood and emotion. He eyed who he knew would speak first. The one looking at him now, directly, nervously. He knew behind the nervousness there was an eagerness to pin the blame on anyone else, on someone else, on someone more convenient. He took a deep breath, and he let it out, all eyes now on his dignified wrinkles, accusing each one.
She called me mustard. Ugly, unlikable, mustard. Yellow. Thats what defined me now. I was mustard.
But now I know I’m gold. Like the sun. Like the stars.
Plop!
The sound, unmistakable and all wet-squelchy feeling fills me with dismay. Usually I know better, usually I don’t head out for lunch, and certainly usually I know better than to get something with condiments on it where a splash or a careless spray is a possibility. Not on a work day.
I take a breath and look down, assessing the damage.
Mustard on white.
Not my best work, that’s for certain. Though maybe with a bit of cold water or a strategically-buttoned jacket no one will notice back at the office.
The yellow paste coated the child’s face, his grin as wide as can be. Having no care in the world except for finishing his meal. A much more difficult task than expected. Having no concept of potion sizes, there was more mustard than anything on that poor hot dog.
When I said I didn’t want mustard, I got a burger that was practically smothered in it. Hell, I didn’t even have to pick it up to see how much the stuff ran down the sides. The waiter was pretty indignant about it, even though the chef came out and tore him a new one because he had written “extra extra extra extra mustard” on the order. I don’t know if the little brat got fired, but the replacement burger I got was pretty great. And to prove a point, I stabbed a random mustard bottle a few times with my fork.