Not long after I first got married, my new husband returned from his inaugural grocery duties with a dinosaur-size bottle of yellow mustard.
“Yellow mustard?” I stammered. What in the world would I ever do with it all? It was exactly the kind of condiment that I thought had no place in my kitchen. If food snobbery is a disease, I’m as afflicted as anyone. I was a Dijon girl all the way. Whole grain. Or spicy brown. Artisan. Local if possible. Nothing that came in a gigantic squeeze bottle. But to humor him, I made a batch of homemade German pretzels, which was good for about a quarter cup of consumption. Flash forward three years, and that mustard would still be hanging around the back shelf waiting for its next booking.