Norman! A True Story
Okay, that's the stupid title of the biopic that I am going to script about the life of Norman Bishop: Renaissance Man and mustard and sauce-maker extraordinaire.
I am waxing rhapsodic tonight because the last few days have been spent in a haze of Norman Bishop's Seafood Dill Sauce with Mustard. Lighter and a bit tangier than their mustard, the dill slithers onto my fish and I can't stop spooning more and more onto my plate before I manage to drag my glazed eyes to the Nutrition Facts and see that two tablespoons of this manna contains eight grams of fat.
No matter. I will spend extra time chasing after Baby Balsamic who's become a little, disappointingly, crazy for French's mustard. It's okay. I'll still love her no matter what's on her condiment hit parade.
I have not been able to find out any information about Norman Bishop. When I last ordered my two cases of G*D mustard and Cranberry mustard, I spoke with a Sales/Marketer/Taster who told me it was a "small, family operation." Then I went on to describe in probably too much detail how much I loved the smooth, creamy consistency of the mustard; how it was different than other mustards. "It's because of our special mixing process." Then, as I went on and on in my freakish way, he got a bit uncomfortable and mumbled something about getting the cases out to me. Then he hung up.
Sigh. I still love them so. Anyway, I keep thinking of the classic biopics, like the one about Schubert, I think, where he and his beloved, played by someone like Norma Shearer in fetching bonnet and giant bell skirt, are riding through the forest and he starts humming a bit of a song, then a bird tweets in time, then another carriage drives by blowing horns in harmony and Voila! He's written "Stairway to Heaven."
I picture Norman Bishop as a Russell Crowe-type, all burly, but handy with a mortar and pestle. Mmmmmm... Hold on. I have to picture that for a moment. Ooookay. Continuing. So, he's in his manly yet warm, French country kitchen and he's just been informed by his evil landlord that they're going to sell his house and decapitate his chicken and sell his mother to the gypsies. He stares out the window, desperately trying to think of a way to save his chicken, and he starts grinding mustard seeds in a certain way. Then, he has an idea and turns and his elbow knocks over a jug of vinegar, splashing some into the bowl. Then the chicken frantically flies into the kitchen, being chased by the landlord, and it has dill all over it's claws that it shakes into the bowl.
Russell, I mean, Norman never stops stirring, stirring, stirring. Music swells as his muscled wrists grind and press into the pliant mustard seed. He teases some olive oil into the mix and it gets all slippery and creamy. Then a milkmaid, looking strikingly like, oh, I don't know, me, stumbles into the kitchen and her finger falls into the mix and she lifts it slowly to her mouth never taking her eyes off of Norman's manly wrist.
"Oh my god. I've never tasted anything so delicious in my life."
"Really?" Norman asks, setting the bowl down.
"Stairway to Heaven" swells as the camera pans out.
What's that? It's Dreamworks on the phone. Gotta go!
Condiment Grrl
I am waxing rhapsodic tonight because the last few days have been spent in a haze of Norman Bishop's Seafood Dill Sauce with Mustard. Lighter and a bit tangier than their mustard, the dill slithers onto my fish and I can't stop spooning more and more onto my plate before I manage to drag my glazed eyes to the Nutrition Facts and see that two tablespoons of this manna contains eight grams of fat.
No matter. I will spend extra time chasing after Baby Balsamic who's become a little, disappointingly, crazy for French's mustard. It's okay. I'll still love her no matter what's on her condiment hit parade.
I have not been able to find out any information about Norman Bishop. When I last ordered my two cases of G*D mustard and Cranberry mustard, I spoke with a Sales/Marketer/Taster who told me it was a "small, family operation." Then I went on to describe in probably too much detail how much I loved the smooth, creamy consistency of the mustard; how it was different than other mustards. "It's because of our special mixing process." Then, as I went on and on in my freakish way, he got a bit uncomfortable and mumbled something about getting the cases out to me. Then he hung up.
Sigh. I still love them so. Anyway, I keep thinking of the classic biopics, like the one about Schubert, I think, where he and his beloved, played by someone like Norma Shearer in fetching bonnet and giant bell skirt, are riding through the forest and he starts humming a bit of a song, then a bird tweets in time, then another carriage drives by blowing horns in harmony and Voila! He's written "Stairway to Heaven."
I picture Norman Bishop as a Russell Crowe-type, all burly, but handy with a mortar and pestle. Mmmmmm... Hold on. I have to picture that for a moment. Ooookay. Continuing. So, he's in his manly yet warm, French country kitchen and he's just been informed by his evil landlord that they're going to sell his house and decapitate his chicken and sell his mother to the gypsies. He stares out the window, desperately trying to think of a way to save his chicken, and he starts grinding mustard seeds in a certain way. Then, he has an idea and turns and his elbow knocks over a jug of vinegar, splashing some into the bowl. Then the chicken frantically flies into the kitchen, being chased by the landlord, and it has dill all over it's claws that it shakes into the bowl.
Russell, I mean, Norman never stops stirring, stirring, stirring. Music swells as his muscled wrists grind and press into the pliant mustard seed. He teases some olive oil into the mix and it gets all slippery and creamy. Then a milkmaid, looking strikingly like, oh, I don't know, me, stumbles into the kitchen and her finger falls into the mix and she lifts it slowly to her mouth never taking her eyes off of Norman's manly wrist.
"Oh my god. I've never tasted anything so delicious in my life."
"Really?" Norman asks, setting the bowl down.
"Stairway to Heaven" swells as the camera pans out.
What's that? It's Dreamworks on the phone. Gotta go!
Condiment Grrl
posted by CondimentGrrl at 11:03 PM
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