Two days ago in the grocery store, teenage son says, “Oh Mommy, can we get a ham?” Yes, he calls me Mommy. Deal with it. “We have ham in the fridge,” I reply, quite sensibly. “No, not ham, A ham. For the pot luck at school on Friday.”
Oh. A ham. Great. He goes to a school where a lot of the kids are on free and reduced lunch. They will bring items to the potluck, but they won’t bring a ham. I know these kids. They are great kids. I want to feed them, and I have the means to provide a ham. “Fine,” I tell him, “but you have to deal with it.”
I don’t have the first clue about what to do with a ham. I grew up in a semi-kosher household and we never had a ham. I have never purchased a ham. I do buy deli ham, though, and bacon has been in my house on more than one occasion, but a ham? Never.
Now it’s Thursday night, and he reminds me of the ham. “When are we going to cook the ham?” he asks. I’m planning on walking out the door in five minutes to go to a class. My finace, who advised him on the finer points of ham cooking, is out cold feeling ill. Um, we?
So the quandry is, do I go to class (it’s the last meeting, and certainly not for a grade or anything, just for fun) and worry all evening about the ham and the possibility of him burning down the house, or at least drying out the ham, or do I stay home and google ham and it’s preparation? Oh this parenting thing, it just never gets old. Next year I hope he signs up for paper plates.