Ian McMillan: Lighting up a meal and a life by the spoonful

Funny thing: I’m 55 years old and I still get excited when somebody gives me a present. There must be something deep within our DNA that responds to the sight and sound of someone bearing gifts no matter how old and life-bruised we are. Maybe cavepeople wrapped up their sabre-toothed tiger steaks in leaves before they presented them to their mate. Maybe their mate got grumpy because what they really wanted was a voucher from Loincloths-R-Us.

I thanked him in comedy French and ripped open the bag. My eyes opened wide with joy and delight and I whooped so loudly that it embarrassed everybody in the house and quite a number of people up the street and one or two on the top deck of a bus passing along the main road.

The reason for the unconfined joy was mustard. Four jars of mustard in a presentation pack and another jar just for luck. Five jars of lovely mustard! I felt like a lottery winner. In the Mustard Lottery, obviously. I love mustard in the same way that some people love wine or beer or cheese. I love the variety of it and the subtlety of it and the way it can taste different at different times of the day and different times of the year and in different lights and different temperatures. I love the way that just a smidgeon of it at the side of your plate can light up a meal better than candles on a birthday cake.

I lined the jars of mustard up like Oscars on an actor’s mantelpiece. All I wanted to do was look at the mustard and decide which one to try first. There was Moutarde à L’Ancienne which must mean Old Mustard. There was Moutarde au Basilic which had just a touch of white wine. There was Moutarde de Bourgogne which was as yellow as spun gold or Cleethorpes sands in summer. There was Moutarde à la Provencale, red as tomatoes, and the most intriguing one, Moutarde au Poivre Vert de Madagascar. I held it up to the light like an expert might. Green pepper from Madagasar, eh? Now that should be really something.

Thomas and his mum were trying to show me photos of their campsite on the phone but I dashed past them into the kitchen. I got a spoon. A teaspoon, obviously: I’m not greedy. I screwed the top off the jar of what I was already calling Madagascan Mustard.

I hesitated above the mustard with the spoon. I wasn’t hesitating because I thought the Madagascan Green Peppers would make the mustard too strong; the aroma told me that this would be a relatively mild mustard. No, I hesitated because, briefly, I thought about my position: I’m a responsible member of society. I’m on the radio. I write for the Yorkshire Post. So should I be eating mustard straight from the jar with a teaspoon? Should I? Of course I should! In fact, forget the teaspoon: have you got a trowel?