In 2010, I bought my first jar of mustard.

No, really.

I never touched the stuff as a kid. That hideous color grated on my retinas, and the strong smell scared me. It made indecent sounds as it squirted out of a plastic nozzle, an equally obnoxious shade of yellow.

Why defile a perfectly good hot dog with such vile goop? I would have asked, if my 6 year-old vocabulary permitted. Instead, I responded with a quiet, terrified, “no thank you” when well-meaning adults proffered the ubiquitous bottle.

We all had at least one strange phobia as children, right? Mine was condiments.

I was a picky eater as a child. Shocking, I know. Aside from my irrational fear of all things saucy, I had a strict “no touching” policy, lest my buttered peas become contaminated by my macaroni. Someone tried to make me eat a chicken nugget when I was 5 and I cried.  Really. Sweet pickles were an abomination, but dill pickles were fine as long as their sour juice didn’t soak into my grilled cheese sandwich. (See above for  my “no touching” policy.)

I didn’t eat pizza until I was 8, because tomato sauce seemed almost as bad as ketchup. Of course I hated eggs, too; it wasn’t until I was in middle school that I learned the beautiful saffron-hued goo in my fried rice came out the back end of a chicken. Let’s not get started on hamburgers or onions, the twin banes of my young existence.

Back to the story.

In my early twenties, I bought my first jar of mustard.

The worst case scenario is I’ll hate it, I thought.

This had become my mantra, thanks to a throw-away New Year’s resolution I called the “Three Ingredient Rule.” Living alone for the first time as an adult, vanity was finally at odds with my eccentric food habits.

To avoid being labelled a “picky eater” by would-be suitors, I came up with a plan to slowly but surely make my way into the grown-up culinary world. Part gastronomic adventure and part ego building, I knew my resolution would make for a memorable 12 months.

The concept was simple enough: I go out to eat, I peruse the menu, I see an item that has at least three ingredients I like, I order it. Simple enough, but possibly life-changing. I built in a few exceptions, like my childhood nemeses raw onions and ground beef, but tried my hardest to be open-minded. In the span of a few months I’d tried tempeh, pork belly, salmon tacos, fried shallots, and gin for the first time. One ingredient at a time, a few ingredients a week, I was on a slow-motion gastronomic adventure.

A few days before my fateful shopping trip, I’d sampled truffle fries for the first time, sitting at the bar in an upscale downtown bistro. They were served with aioli, of course. Aioli: a condiment made with egg yolk, oil, garlic, and mustard. I’d surreptitiously googled the ingredients, and looked down at the creamy concoction with trepidation. Two of four ingredients were perfectly within my comfort zone. The other two? They were on my do-not-eat list. Fifty-fifty. Close enough. The worst case scenario is that I hate it.

It’s not mayonnaise, I’d told myself, it’s fancy, French, and therefore worth eating. And, I discovered, it was delicious as well. Truffled pomme frites, with their black specks and sparkling crystals of sea salt were good on their own. But with aioli’s velvety perfection, they were heaven. What alchemy is this, I mused, that can take such humble ingredients and turn them into something sublime? I licked my yolk-glossed lips and realized I should have done this years ago. Aioli was a revelation, the epitome of decadence in a tiny white ramekin.

It was the bite that won me over, a slight pungency cutting through the luxurious fat. A hint of raw garlic, of course, but that new, ineffable something . . . Must be the mustard, I thought. Sighing, half resignedly, half contentedly, I stuck my pinky into the dainty cup and scooped up the last shining dollop, hoping no one would see me lick my fingers.

I replayed the scene in my head as I stood in the condiment aisle. Half a dozen types of liquid gold, in row upon row of glistening glass containers. Bookended by pickles and tapenades on one side, ketchups and salsas on the other, the mustards stood like jars of sunshine. O brave new world, that has such bottles in it!

It was a tallish jar that caught my eye. Sinuously shaped, it sported a purple label proclaiming it’s French heritage. “Whole Grain” the bottle stated; I could see them, yellow and brown, suspended in rich amber. I was intrigued.

Why I chose whole grain mustard I’ll never know. It was, perhaps, the farthest thing from the gaudy, technicolor horror of my childhood. A bit of rustic charm seemed just the thing. I took a deep breath, and pulled the bottle off the shelf.

The worst case scenario is I’ll hate it, I reminded myself.

The baguette came next. Then the white cheddar. A bunch of arugula, bitter and peppery—another recent discovery—was laid carefully on top so as not to bruise. Some other old friends placed just-so in my shopping basket, and soon I was on my way home through the dusk, shouldering  my clinking canvas tote.

Confession: I think a slice of baguette pan-fried in butter might be the most perfect food. That, however, is a story for another time. The Three Ingredient Rule can take most of the credit for this love affair, as good, toasted bread is the ultimate canvas for practically every food. I dropped a few slices of cold baguette into the hot pan, and a few minutes later warm, perfectly crusted bread came out.

Setting my crispy, nut-brown slices aside, I pulled the mustard out of my tiny fridge, and the familiar pop! of a freshly-opened jar being filled me with anticipation. I smelled the sharp scent of vinegar as I peered down into the mouth. Floating in the gelatinous base, the little grains reflected the harsh light of my overhead lamp. I sniffed again, with purpose. Yes, I thought. That’s the smell. I spread it thinly across the crisped surface of my baguette, the soft golden spheres bursting under my knife. Not too much, now. Baby steps.

Cheese came next, of course; the bread was still warm enough to soften the edges of those impossibly thin slices into near-oblivion.

I dressed the arugula with salt, pepper, and a few drops of olive oil and balsamic, and piled it high on top so that my dinner took on the delightfully haphazard appearance of an untended country garden. I took a big, deliberate bite.

It was delicious. Anti-climactic, isn’t it?

Crunchy, creamy, sharp, buttery, spicy . . . heaven. And all because of a silly, life-changing New Year’s resolution. You should see my condiment collection now.

P.S. I still hate raw onions. I’m working on it, though.

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White Cheddar and Mustard Tartine with Arugula

(This is not really a recipe. More of a suggestion)

Serves 1

1/4-1/2 baguette, sliced down the middle

2-3 T butter

4 T whole grain mustard

2oz white cheddar cheese, sliced thinly

2 handfuls arugula

Olive oil

Balsamic vinegar

Salt

Pepper

Directions

1. Butter your bread and place it butter-side down in a warm skillet until it takes on a nice, dark golden color.

2. Take the bread out of the pan–watch your fingers, those edges are hot!

3. Slather on the mustard and lay the thin slices of cheddar on top. You have to do this when the bread is almost too hot to touch, otherwise you don’t get those soft, warm edges.

(Alternately, you can skip the toasting and just put the bread with butter, mustard, and cheese under the broiler to get the whole thing all nice and melty. I won’t judge.

4. Place a few handfuls of arugula in a medium-sized mixing bowl and drizzle a little olive oil and balsamic over the top. Toss with your hands to coat. Taste, adjust if needed, and add salt and pepper. Taste again. Eat a few more arugula leaves with your fingers. It’s fun.

5. Gently pile the arugula on top of your tartine.

6. Grab a napkin, and expect to get arugula on everything. This is half the fun, I promise.