Microbes In The Mustard

Obviously there are a few microbes I’d rather have nothing to do with, but a lot of them, the way I figure it are good for my immune system. I have my Uncle Mike to thank for this perspective.

Mike was a Texan. It wasn’t so much he lived in Texas, but Texas lived in him. From Corpus Christi, situated on the Gulf Coast with the white sands of Padre Island just down the road, given the chance he would have lived his every hour in swim shorts. Shirt and shoes were reserved for formal occasions like going to the grocery store. And he had a tan. He never moved very fast, spoke with a Texas drawl and generally was easy going. And he was just the kind of guy to carry a jackknife in his pocket and his was an old one likely handed down to him with a well worn many times sharpened blade.

Winters, often my family would visit his in Texas and summers his family would visit mine in New Hampshire. It was one summer morning, blistering hot - for me, but probably a walk in the park for the Texas contingent - we all were lounging around in the shade at our campsite by Lake Wentworth. Mike, in swim shorts sat on one side of the picnic table. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the knife and proceeded to trim his toenails with it. None of us thought anything of it. We were living in the great outdoors and our families knew, if anything how to be casual. So he fooled around with his toenails and when satisfied with the job, folded the knife and put it back in his pocket.

Lunch time rolled around an hour or so later, and my mother and aunt “cooked big, honey.” Every meal was a major production with four adults and five kids to feed. And the kids of course were always ravenous eating machines. So they laid out the usual self-serve spread of everything you could imagine to put in a sandwich. We all loitered around the table assembling great towering Dagwoods with various salads and pickles on the sides.

Mike was midstream into the process and decided he wanted some mustard on his sandwich. Out came the jackknife, he methodically opened it and then dipped the blade into the waiting jar of Grey Poupon. I watched him feeling an uncertain queasiness, mostly because I wanted some mustard too. But he was so matter of fact with it, so nonchalant I thought, “oh… what the heck.” As he moved on he licked the knife clean, relatively speaking, folded it and put it in his pocket. I was next, but by that point thinking the whole thing was pretty funny, I decided to keep my mouth shut. I grabbed a table knife and helped myself to some mustard. Far as I remember my sandwich didn’t taste at all like toenails, I didn’t get sick and neither did anyone else. Admittedly, it might have been a whole different ball game had he gone for the mayo.

Gordon Bunker

Image courtesy, U.S.D.A.