Norwich Mustard
"At the Colman's factory museum, heritage specialist Dorothy gives tours that burn with passion. When food historian Graham seeks expertise, he gets more than expected."
Colman's Mustard had been part of Norwich for 200 years, and I'd been telling its story for thirty. The museum wasn't fancy—recreated Victorian shop, historical packaging, the particular smell of mustard seed that seeped into everything—but to me it was sacred ground.
"Ms. Fletcher?"
The man at the museum entrance had academic written all over him—worn jacket, intellectual spectacles, the expression of someone more comfortable with books than people.
"Dr. Everett. You're the food historian."
"Graham, please. I'm writing about the industrial condiment trade." He looked around with obvious fascination. "This is extraordinary."
"It's mustard. But yes—extraordinary."
The research visit extended. Graham returned daily, taking notes on manufacturing processes, packaging evolution, the complex relationship between a condiment company and the city that hosted it. He treated the subject with the seriousness it deserved.
"Why mustard?" I asked during week two.
"Why anything? It's one of those products everyone uses and no one thinks about. Ubiquitous, invisible, essential." He closed his notebook. "The history of mustard is the history of Britain's relationship with flavor. We pretend we don't care about taste, but we've been demanding this particular spice for centuries."
"That's very philosophical for a condiment."
"Condiments are philosophy. They're the small choices that reveal large preferences." He met my eyes. "Why do you care so much? Thirty years is a long time to talk about mustard."
"Because my grandfather worked in this factory. Because the smell reminds me of Sunday dinners. Because—" I paused. "Because preserving this place means preserving a whole world that's disappearing. Industrial heritage. Working-class pride. The idea that making things well is worth commemorating."
"That's very philosophical for a tour guide."
"I contain multitudes."
The book research became collaboration. Graham wanted primary sources; I had access to archives no one else had opened. He wanted oral histories; I knew families who'd worked here for generations. Somewhere in the process, the academic distance became something else.
"This book is going to be good," he said one evening. We'd ended up at a pub nearby, surrounded by notes and empty pint glasses.
"Because of the research?"
"Because of you. The way you tell the stories—it's not just information. It's love." He reached across the table. "Dorothy. I've spent my career writing about food, and you're the first person who's made me understand that food is really about people."
"That's quite a compliment."
"It's quite true." His thumb traced my palm. "Can I buy you dinner? Somewhere that's not about research?"
Dinner became a walk through Norwich at dusk, became ending up at my cottage on the outskirts because neither of us wanted the evening to end. Graham looked at my home—filled with Colman's memorabilia, historical photographs, the evidence of a life devoted to mustard—and smiled.
"This is perfect."
"This is eccentric."
"Eccentricity is just dedication that others don't share." He pulled me close. "I find it extremely attractive."
We made love surrounded by mustard pots and Victorian advertisements, our bodies finding rhythms that the weeks of proximity had promised. Graham touched me with researcher's attention—thorough, curious, determined to understand.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm a mustard enthusiast."
"You're a keeper of fire." He kissed down my body. "Mustard burns. So do you."
We came together while Norwich slept, generations of Colman's workers watching from photographs. When I gasped his name, it was with the same passion I brought to my tours—genuine, infectious, the joy of someone who'd found their subject.
"Stay," I said.
"In Norwich?"
"In my collection. In my life." I pulled him closer. "The book will be done eventually. But I'm not done. Not nearly."
The book was published to quiet acclaim—"the definitive history of English mustard," they called it. Graham's dedication read: "To Dorothy, who showed me that fire isn't just in the seed—it's in the people who tend it."
We're together now—the food historian and the mustard keeper, living among the memorabilia of a condiment that no one thinks about but everyone needs. It's eccentric. It's wonderful. It's exactly what both of us were looking for without knowing it.
Some passions are obvious. Some are mustard—burning quietly, essential without being noticed, adding flavor that you only miss when it's gone. Graham found that in the factory and in me. I found someone who understood why it mattered.
That's the real spice. Not the seed itself but the shared appreciation. Two people who care about the same small things, building something bigger from devotion that others might call mad.
Mad works for us. It always has.