One day this spring, I discovered the bottle of French’s Classic Yellow Mustard in our refrigerator had gone past its “Best By” date—long past it. To the point where I questioned my relationship with mustard, and therefore my entire identity, you know, as one does in situations like that. I stood in our kitchen and tapped a short poem into my phone, and in the following weeks, thought, “I wonder if I could write poems about other condiments?” and also, “Are pickles a condiment?” The answer to both questions was, of course, “Yes—I mean, kind of.”
—Brendan
