Take a long, hard, penetrating look at your yellow squeeze bottle of mustard. Contained in this mundane testament to modern packaging is a sauce with some serious history.

Way back in 42 A.D.. Emperor Nero was a mere tyke. His mean old Uncle Caligula was still warm in the grave. Paper had yet to be invented. The apostle Paul had just converted to a rebellious new religion—Christianity. And mustard was born.

Nearly 2000 years later, it's had more incarnations than Cher. Go to a nice grocery and the mustard section is overwhelming. Beautiful. I become giddy and light-headed at the sight of a really big mustard display. Ah, the sundry bottles and jars arranged in an impressive, monochrome mosaic! The countless choices! And this is a very good thing because I have a profound mustard obsession. Looking in my own refrigerator, I'm oddly comforted by a real variety of mustard jars. Seriously. If I have enough mustards, I'm somehow prepared for whatever life throws at me. Mustard is curiously important to me. I am still, ten years later, mourning the disappearance of Robert Rothschild's Raspberry Mint Mustard. 'Nothing against ketchup or mayonnaise; they have their place. But they're just young upstarts from the 18th century. They'll never achieve the status of mustard. Certainly, not in my fridge.

And no matter how depleted that fridge becomes, it still looks full. Full like some sad, fluorescent-lit, mustard museum. At this moment, my collection includes plain yellow mustard, sweet hot mustard, Dijon, honey Dijon, two jars of tarragon Dijon, truffle Dijon, Moutarde aux herbes de Provence, Chinese mustard, spicy brown, stone ground, bourbon molasses, orange honey, and Colman's hot mustard. I know. I just checked. I've never inventoried my mustards before. That was quite a moment of self-discovery—especially since I've made a conscious effort, this year, to cut way down on mustard buying. It was getting out of hand.

It's been hard for me because new mustards are multiplying as steadily as blue chip stocks. And I want to try them all. With everything. Steak, pork, chicken, ham, hot dogs, bratwurst, salmon, shrimp—there's a mustard for almost every savory food.

For my money, it's the most versatile and has the most personality of all the sauces in the condiment world. If Fred Astaire and Muhammad Ali, in an unlikely tryst, had sired a condiment, it would be mustard—bold, whimsical, elegant, tart, arrogant and poetic with a helluva right hook.

No pantry is complete without at least a small variety of mustards. If you're inspired to experiment, and maybe do a little reckless mustard buying, good for you! Have at it. But the basic pantry should include Dijon, coarse ground, spicy brown, and plain yellow mustard. You can make a fabulous vinaigrette, serve a proper hot-dog or bratwurst, and create some flavorful marinades with just those four options.

Coarse mustard, balsamic vinegar and molasses make a great marinade for pork. Use garlic, white wine and Dijon mustard for chicken. Spicy brown mustard, brown sugar and melted butter make a lovely glaze for salmon.

And no self-respecting cook should be without a simple Dijon salad dressing. There are a million departures from the classic vinaigrette but I generally use this basic recipe:

Do some online research and experiment with recipes. Splurge a little and buy some new mustards. You may discover a passion for the most exciting, most sophisticated and most important flavor enhancer anywhere.

I sorely miss buying it. My passion hasn't waned, but I've gracefully endured my mustard-buying moratorium. And, come January 1, I'm going to the biggest mustard display I can find. I hope I can handle the head rush. I'll keep my smelling salts handy.