She opined that mustard was good, too.
I'd thought that I had heard her wrong. "You're saying that you put mustard in your tuna fish?" I asked.
She nodded. "Sure. It's really good." She took in my shocked expression and laughed. "What?!"
Okay, okay. I'll try something at least once before I totally denigrate it. After all, I'm the guy whose mother put Jell-O in the lemonade once, a long time ago, to make it sweeter. "Okay," I said, "I'll have to try it. It might be good."
We continued talking about mustard for some reason. The conversation got more and more surreal as it unfolded. I learned that mustard on ribs was good, too. "Boil the ribs," she said, "and then take them out and massage the mustard into the meat. Then throw 'em on the grill."
Mustard. Colonel Mustard, in the kitchen, with the spare ribs.
"My mom told me once that if you get hurt, like a scratch or something, rub mustard into the cut. It's supposed to help."
I goggled at her. Mustard. Mustard, mustard, mustard. She was wearing a yellow Catepillar sweatshirt. Mustard. I began to feel that I was an actor in a Forrest Gump satire. Whereas Bubba talked about nothing but shrimp and the multitude of ways in which it could be cooked and eaten, my friend seemed well on her way to revealing the thousand and one uses of The Yellow Wonder.
"You're not talking about regular yellow mustard, right?" I asked, clinging to the hope that she might have been talking about some kind of gourmet motherfucking shit, but, no, my antcipations were dashed. Dashed, I say!
"Yup. Regular mustard. Good ole Plochman's."
Our cigarettes injested, it was time to head back to class. "So," I said, "I take it you like mustard potato salad?"
"Nope," she said blithely. "I like the regular kind."