Ham

We're eating ham. Ham is something eternal and everlasting; also, it's cheap. Last week, I bought a ham. Ham seems expensive when you buy it, because even the tiny hams that I buy run just a little below $10. These hams are tiny, you understand. They are so tiny that they probably came from Charlotte, as in Charlotte's Web, and no, I don't think the pig is named Charlotte. These hams are spider sized; they are arachnid and minuscule. They're the hams from a tiny spider legged pig - Spider-Pig, even. They're small and sliced and pink and will cost you just about $8.52 and when you buy them you think, ow, this is expensive.

They are not, however, expensive because you will be eating that ham for a couple of weeks and by the end, when the ham wins and you watch yourself throw the last ends away, you will swear to whatever gods you swear by that you will not buy ham again, no, nor eat it either. $8.50 for an entire week of trying hard not to eat what's in the refrigerator! It is cheap! And it will be three or four months before you try it again!

Ham has that ham taste. That odd ham texture that can't really be disguised in quiches or collards or omelettes; that ham thing. After about five ham sandwiches, even the ham devotee will admit defeat. The mustard, the melted cheese, the randomly chosen horseradish sauce, the half tomato - they're only staving off the inevitable moment when you look down at your half eaten sandwich and say, dude. Whoa. I can eat ham no more forever. I am hammed out.

And that is why, dearest reader, that after my lunch of two slices of ham and my rebellious tuna sandwich dinner, there is a ham quesadilla that I made for my son (about which he said, after a moment of silence, "Wow, Mom, hammy.") lingering half eaten on my kitchen counter, waiting to be wrapped in saran wrap and put in the fridge, where it will stay until I throw it away in two or so weeks, the American funerary rite for cold cuts observed.