Thanksgiving 2006

Dear Lynn,

I have good news and bad news. The good news is that the Thanksgiving ham that you should have made tastes great. The bad news is that I utterly destroyed it when I tried to carve it. Lee donated a ham from her pet pig and it was twenty pounds if it was an ounce. I have never seen such a roast beast! Neither have I ever cooked something the size of my living room. Since the butcher did not put the weight on the packaging, and also since my bathroom scales are either broken or needing batteries, I had to guess the weight like a carnie at the county fair. It seemed about the size of a small child so I guessed at around twenty pounds and cooked it accordingly. Since you were not here to ask (you could have at least waited until after the holidays, you know), I went to the Hormel web site and did a little research. That’swhen things began to go wrong.

First of all, I have made many hams. Probably about three. All of these hams have been pre-cooked, spiral sliced and properly trained and neutered. I always roast them with a few cups of Dr. Pepper and a half-cup or so of peppercini juice, smear them with mustard, pack them with brown sugar, sprinkle with cayenne pepper and mist with more Dr. Pepper. Good stuff, always perfect, and they cook in a couple of hours. This is what I was expecting.

This ham was enormous. It was bigger than both of my cats put together and slightly meaner. I think it would have intimidated my Great Dane if it suddenly got up and started walking. Not only was this carcass bigger than my own substantial derriere, it was not even pre-cooked or pre-sliced. How quaint. I felt like a medieval kitchen wench slaving over a haunch of Yuletide wild boar.

So I went to Hormel for help, and the site was very informative, explaining the different types of hams (country hams, inner city hams, suburban hams, wet cured hams, dry cured hams, pox cured hams…). I had to go unwrap the mound of fatty flesh (I think it was pulsing and sentient) and actually identify what it was. After deciding that it was, I think, a wet-cured country ham, bone-in, I waffled between roasting it in foil and putting it in a cooking bag. I settled on foil because I did not think I could ever wrastle the thing into a bag, and set the oven on 375 degrees. Then I decided to get brave and try the bag and, wonder of wonders, it fit! After rotating a few disks and pulling my shoulder out of joint, I managed to situate it in the bag and get it all cozy for its seven-hour stint in Oven Hell. All was well, and I was feeling quite smug. Undaunted, we would have a lot of glorious ham for our first Thanksgiving without you and your culinary expertise.

…

Six hours later, I happen to go by the oven on my way to get a drink and realize that I have left the oven set on 375 degrees instead of the requisite 325, as it should have been for roasting in a bag. This thing had been languishing for six hours at 50 degrees higher than it should have, and I get this sinking feeling in my stomach. Mind you, it is now 2:00 A.M. because I did not anticipate having to cook it so long – this was supposed to be a two-hour project. Gritting my teeth, I find a couple of towels and work it out of the oven very, very carefully. Five minutes and a dislocated elbow later, I manage to heave it to the top of the stove (which I had just cleaned) and cleverly slosh half the juice out onto the previously glistening white surface. Drat.

Deep breath.

It doesn’t matter. How stupid to get stressed out over a piece of meat when there will be at least three other large haunches to choose from at our feast. It doesn’t look that bad. Once I pull off the skin that looks like an NFL regulation football and pack It in brown sugar and bake It just a bit longer to caramelize It, It will be fine. Really.

…

3:00 A.M., and It is not fine. This monster was, as I believe I mentioned previously, not pre-sliced, so I bravely set about attacking it with fork and serrated knife. After creating about two full cups of desiccated pork-meat, I switch to a knife with a deeper serration, thinking this would be the answer. Another cup of ham-shred. A dead pig butt will not defeat me! I grab a fillet knife and go to work, painstakingly carving It and bringing all my high school biology dissection skills to bear upon this overcooked albatross. Success! A full slice falls away, slamming to the platter like a cartoon coyote falling from a cliff onto hard pan. It is about two inches thick, but it is intact. I am triumphant.

4:00 A.M. I survey my kitchen. It looks like Beirut after the 1982 Israeli invasion. Bones of fallen ham warriors litter the counters and bits of shrapnel and overcooked flesh cling to the stove, towels, refrigerator, floor, me. It is not pretty, but I will live to cook ham another day, and take what I have learned from this travesty into yet another holiday spent without you.

Pre-cooked and spiral sliced is the way to go.