Ham and English Mustard Sandwich

Saturday. Back from the market with a paper bag of tomatoes, a loaf still warm from the baker, and a few slices of ham cut thick from the bone while you waited. The kettle is on. The kitchen smells of bread. And before you unpack anything else, before you plan the week or think about dinner, you make this sandwich. Because you're hungry now, and this is what hungry looks like when you've got good ham and a jar of Colman's in the cupboard.

There is nothing to teach here. A ham and mustard sandwich is not a recipe. It's an instinct. Two slices of white bread, buttered properly. Ham with some texture to it, not the wafer-thin, vacuum-packed sort that tastes of water and apology. And English mustard, the real kind, the one that clears your sinuses and reminds you that condiments should have opinions.

I've eaten this sandwich a thousand times and I wrote it in the notebook once. The entry reads: ham, mustard, white bread, Saturday, good. There was nothing else to say. Some things don't need improving. They just need making, with attention and without fuss, and eating before the bread goes stale.