In Which the Moth is Presented with Eleven Pounds of Ham
I am, I must say, a very competent cook. I can (and have, on many occasions) cook elaborate dinners of multiple courses, unaided, in the span of a few hours.
That said, I was a vegetarian for eight years, and after that I almost never cooked meat. And by almost never, I mean that perhaps once a year I'll make Shrimp Fra Diavolo or Chicken Parmesan. Currently, I live with not one, but TWO vegans, and I don't even saute in butter any more. Also, I've never been fond of pork. I like crispy bacon in a nice BLT. That's it.
Thus, I was unprepared, when I told Rob, 'For your birthday I'll cook you anything you'd like. What will it be?' for him to answer, 'A Ham.'
Right. A HAM.
So, I did my research (involving reading The Joy of Cooking and The New Best Recipes on ham, as well as calling my mother and Maria), and began to cook.
I popped the eleven-pound ham (the smallest available at Shaw's) into a roasting pan on top of a rack and set the oven to 350, making note that the package suggested cooking the ham to an internal temperature of 160. I even got Rob to buy an instant-read meat thermometer. While waiting, I made macaroni and cheese from scratch (another request), as well as (vegan) spinach steamed with almonds and cranberries, and a (vegan) chocolate cake decorated with an enormous powdered-sugar snowflake.
I'm puttering around the kitchen, and meanwhile the ham is sizzling, and dripping grease all over the bottom of the roasting pan, and the grease in the roasting pan is burning, and releasing porky smoke throughout the house. I did not quite know what to do with this.
So the fans are on full blast, the windows are thrown open, the smoke detector is in the outside hall with the battery half ripped out, when Rob comes home an hour early.
He comes in the door . . . he looks at the smoke . . . he gives me an affectionate greeting . . . he takes off his boots . . . he putters around the kitchen . . . and finally says, almost off-hand, 'Darling, have you tried putting water in the bottom of the pan?'
Right. Brilliant. So entirely obvious . . . to anyone but me.
Despite this, everything turned out very well (including the ham, which, almost a week later, we are still eating in quiche, in soup, on sandwiches, for breakfast . . . ). Although the next day, I noticed that the bath towels had picked up the delicate odor . . . of smoky ham.
That said, I was a vegetarian for eight years, and after that I almost never cooked meat. And by almost never, I mean that perhaps once a year I'll make Shrimp Fra Diavolo or Chicken Parmesan. Currently, I live with not one, but TWO vegans, and I don't even saute in butter any more. Also, I've never been fond of pork. I like crispy bacon in a nice BLT. That's it.
Thus, I was unprepared, when I told Rob, 'For your birthday I'll cook you anything you'd like. What will it be?' for him to answer, 'A Ham.'
Right. A HAM.
So, I did my research (involving reading The Joy of Cooking and The New Best Recipes on ham, as well as calling my mother and Maria), and began to cook.
I popped the eleven-pound ham (the smallest available at Shaw's) into a roasting pan on top of a rack and set the oven to 350, making note that the package suggested cooking the ham to an internal temperature of 160. I even got Rob to buy an instant-read meat thermometer. While waiting, I made macaroni and cheese from scratch (another request), as well as (vegan) spinach steamed with almonds and cranberries, and a (vegan) chocolate cake decorated with an enormous powdered-sugar snowflake.
I'm puttering around the kitchen, and meanwhile the ham is sizzling, and dripping grease all over the bottom of the roasting pan, and the grease in the roasting pan is burning, and releasing porky smoke throughout the house. I did not quite know what to do with this.
So the fans are on full blast, the windows are thrown open, the smoke detector is in the outside hall with the battery half ripped out, when Rob comes home an hour early.
He comes in the door . . . he looks at the smoke . . . he gives me an affectionate greeting . . . he takes off his boots . . . he putters around the kitchen . . . and finally says, almost off-hand, 'Darling, have you tried putting water in the bottom of the pan?'
Right. Brilliant. So entirely obvious . . . to anyone but me.
Despite this, everything turned out very well (including the ham, which, almost a week later, we are still eating in quiche, in soup, on sandwiches, for breakfast . . . ). Although the next day, I noticed that the bath towels had picked up the delicate odor . . . of smoky ham.