So i'm here housesitting in the Organ Mountains of southern New Mexico. It's desert quail season, and i have neither shotgun nor slingshot (nor too, however, a rudimentary knowledge of how to dress a gamebird). I suppose I could catch them by hand; they do not so much fly as scurry, and they have these little crests on their heads like mohawks, and
i've never met anything with a mohawk that could outwit me (Mister T excluded).
But, alas, they prove too quick, so I set about rummaging the through the fridge. 90% of the canned goods, refrigerated dressings and the like have a Best By date of somewhere just shy of Reagan's last breath. Fairly certain today cannot be that far from their Worst By date (I imagine many foods go from perfectly fine to a spiral of wretched only to reemerge later as at least palatable, like Kurt Russel's career, having peaked with Captain Ron), I find a good ol' can of Colman's powder for my sandwich.
A tablespoon of powder and an equivalent of plain old water, and, wait ten minutes, voila--mustard.
And, you know, I'm kinda liking it. It's got good flavour. I'm surprised. A few more bites, I'm really digging it, this making of a rudimentary mustard.
A couple more bites, and, Whoa, this mustard's got some sass.
I'm eating and sweating, and I can't really taste the ham but i don't really care.
This is some naughty condiment i've conjured up. Imagine what I could do if I really invested in some other concoctions and ingredients.
I doubt I'll ever buy pre-made mustard again. Well, at least until I get off this mountain.