meditation occasioned by a midnight snack- gerald locklin

[somethingvague7]

a confession: i like french's mustard
i don't mean that i can't enjoy grey poupon
or guldens, horseradish mustard, or the
sweet-and-sour kind.
it's just that i have never outgrown french's.
just as i have never really gotten over
basketball, cheerleaders, and playing with myself.

you see i grew up in rochester, new york,
which is where french's mustard is made,
and everyone ate french's there,
and we ate it on everything,
and so it means to me red hots at the thanksgiving
football game,
with teams like boystown, and st. benedict's
of new jersey,
coming to town to take the measure of aquinas high,
or it means white hots at the mission day picnic,
when all the classes that had made their lenten quotas
got a day off from school at genesee valley park
and you always daydreamed that romance
awaited you on that day,
and even though it didn't you still had
good softball games,
and fights with water balloons,
and horsing around on the merry-go-round,
and maybe the cars going home were so crowded
that the girls had to sit on the laps of the boys.

french's mustard means my grandfather;
it means the rochester red wings of bill virdon,
wally moon, steve bilko;
the rochester royals of bobby davies, bobby wanzer,
arnie risen, arnie johnson, and jack coleman.
later maurice stokes.

they say it's bland,
but it only looks bland.
taste it, read the label-
there's more to it than meets the eye.
it used to take a lot of bellywash to rinse it down.

i fled to california,
but it followed me, along with cameras, lenses,
dental instruments, and ragu spaghetti sauce.
i don't resist it anymore.

you are what you spread on what you eat.