Ham it up

Grandma Eleanor gave us a book for Christmas that she wrote about her life (so far). I'll just say, I hope she writes another one. It was fascinating. I read it in one night. It happened to be on Christmas night, after getting the kids down off their sugar high, and into bed. Also, after eating ham, which I had to prepare myself. Or so I thought.

Well, the ham legs here don't come all nice like Honeybaked or Costco where all you have to do is find the right platter and decide if you want to eat it cold or hot... Here, in 3rd world Australia, you have to remove the rind and a whole lot of fat, then poke in the cloves and cook it, etc. I totally prefer the Costco variety, but seriously, this wasn't all that hard. I was actually feeling proud of myself for getting through this, just like I felt after my drama with the Thanksgiving Turkey.

Good for me. Right? I can take a ham leg out of the wrapper and chuck all the disgusting fat/skin into the rubbish bin and toss it into the oven, and even kinda slice it, and put it on a platter!

Well, that's where Grandma's book comes in. She grew up on a farm in Minnesota. By age 13 she could catch a chicken and take all the necessary steps to have it on the table for Sunday dinner. (I'm leaving those steps out on purpose cuz I'm already tasting the vomit coming up my throat...) And then there's the pig. NOTHING went to waste. I should quote her, but then I'd have to go upstairs and grab the book. I'll paraphrase... They made headcheese, blood sausage, who knows what from the fat and rind, and actual ham dinner, too. K. I made you dry heave, I know. (Sorry Grandma.) But, I have utter respect for you and yours. I mean, I already had deep, undying respect for Grandma's generosity and patience and optimism, not to mention cooking skills. But this is a whole 'nother level.

All I can say is, I promise never to be so smug and proud of my weak attempts at bravery in the presence of meat. Promise.