Mustard: the tangy edgy condiment

I was born in Newcastle Creek, New Brunswick, on the shores of Grand Lake, and I lived there until I was five years old. Newcastle Creek was a hamlet. The nearest village — the place with a few stores and services and small businesses — was Minto.

When I was a tiny girl, my mother used to take my sister (she's four years older) and me to Minto on the bus — I can still smell the exhaust fumes from that rickety old bus — so she could do some shopping, get her hair done, maybe visit a relative.

Sometimes, she would take us to the lunch counter in the five-and-ten and we could order whatever we wanted. I remember Marilyn ordering a banana split or a sundae and Mum probably had some tea, maybe with a piece of pie.

I always ordered a mustard sandwich.

The waitress and/or my mother would always try to get me to add something to the sandwich but I graciously declined. I didn't want any ham or lettuce or even a piece of chicken.

I loved mustard sandwiches.

I think Mum was a little embarrassed but at least the waitress knew that I was allowed to order something else if I wanted to. I doubt that mustard sandwiches were on the menu so I don't know how they figured out what to charge. Probably the same price as a side order of toast.

I still love mustard and although I definitely have that squeeze bottle of French's, I've branched out into lots of different mustards.

When I'm in a tourist-y type town and we go to one of those lovely little shops that have local crafts and souvenirs and specialty foods, I always gravitate immediately to the mustard section. People have learned to bring me mustard as gifts too. Dan brought me this one from a trip to Saskatchewan for meetings:

The Saskatoon berry looks like a blueberry but it's related to the apple and its mustard is, indeed, fruity and delicious. I've used it in vinaigrettes but it's also good in marinades for meat or chicken or to brighten up a sauce.

Valerie brought me this one from Dijon, France:

It's mustard with figs and it's sweet and. . . figgy. I used it most recently at Easter as a base for a glaze for the leg of lamb:

It wasn't the only mustard I used for Easter dinner. The vegetables were actually called "Mustard Roasted Vegetables."

As you can imagine, the mustard — along with lemon juice and zest — added a sharp, tangy edge to the vegetables. The mustard of choice for this recipe was grainy:

I have other mustards in my pantry:

The seeds and the powder are used mostly for pickles although I have done some experimenting mixing the powder with various ingredients to make a condiment with a difference. Dan and I can both remember a comprehensive search all over town looking for brown mustard seeds. We can't quite remember what they were for but we think it must have been for a chutney and we must have decided that yellow seeds just wouldn't cut it.

I think that it's a rare day that I don't use mustard for something — sometimes just to give the boys a hot dog, other times to add an elegant finishing touch to a sauce or salad. I'm delighted to know that yellow mustard is not coloured by something awful and artificial but gets it bright hue from turmeric, a spice that happens to be good for us. I've learned — from 13 things you probably didn't know about mustard — that the ancient Egyptians, Greeks and Romans all used mustard. It's believed that the Romans were first to pound the seeds into a paste to use as a condiment. Trust the Romans.

And even though the mustard bottle may say Dijon, France, mustard is a plant — an herb — and much of it that's used around the world is grown in Canada.

So there you are: more than you ever wanted to know about my relationship with mustard!