| The Ham |
[11 Apr 2004|07:52pm] |
Easter in my house is not a religious holiday. It is a time for every member of my household to exhibit an almost freakish reverence for food that we can't be bothered cooking at any other point during the year.
As with every Easter in our history, the day, and indeed the weeks preceding, revolve around our consumption of ham. Case in point:
April 5:
"Did you go Easter dinner shopping yet?" Michael, my brother, asks my mom.
"Not yet, but I'm going very soon. Who's coming with me?" She looks around the table, awaiting the enthusiastic responses.
"Me." Joey, my little brother, pipes up.
"Me, too." Although voiced more casually, my sister Jennifer cannot disguise the excitement gleaming in her eyes.
"Yeah, I'll come," Michael mutters, striking an almost painfully overdone casual pose.
"How about you, Rosalie?" Four heads swing my way.
I regard them thoughtfully over my glass of iced tea. "I don't know. What are we having?"
"Ham." Four voices resonate, and four sets of faces reflect identical incredulous expressions.
"How could you even ask that question?" my sister wonders aloud.
Indeed. Ham is the backbone, the mainstay, the reason we celebrate holidays in my house. And let me make it known now that we're talking about CANNED ham - not even fresh ham. In all of my 26 years on the earth, canned ham has been the staple of our holiday diets.
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April 8:
Excited chatter wafts from the door. I hear feet stamping, laughter, the crinkling of bags being dropped in the kitchen. I make my way cautiously to the entrance of my room, and peer into the kitchen curiously. The troops are home from shopping.
I eye what has to be no less than 20 bags strewn upon the kitchen table. I look from the bags to the flushed, smiling faces of my family, and ask, "What did you guys buy?"
"Ham!" they answer in unison, all of them smiling broadly.
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April 9:
"I'm bringing home a fresh ham," Michael announces this night over dinner.
Silence prevails.
"But why?" my sister whispers, looking at my mother in alarm.
"Yes, why, Michael?" she asks him, looking none too pleased.
He shrugs. "I can get a good deal on a fresh ham, and it's about time this family steps away from the canned ham. This will be much, much better."
"But what will we do with the canned ham?" Joey asks, his face twisted in misery.
"Eat it another night?" I volunteer.
Four faces stare at me blankly.
"Do you think it will keep till Christmas?" my sister asks my mother seriously.
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April 10:
I rush in the door, checking my cell phone for the time. I'm due to meet my boyfriend in 10 minutes, and I know I'm going to be late.
Speeding past the kitchen, I enter my room, and then abruptly about-face and head back into the kitchen. Yes - there they are. All but my brother Michael, sitting around the kitchen table, looking as if someone has just passed.
"What's wrong?" I ask them, genuinely concerned.
"Nothing. We're waiting Michael to come home with the ham," my mother answers.
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April 11:
Sunlight is streaming through my bedroom window. I groan and roll over, wondering how the blind became raised - I'm sure I lowered it the night before, anticipating this rude awakening. I crack an eye to examine the offending blind. My cat, Leftover, is sunning himself on the windowsill, staring hungrily in the direction of my neighbor's trees where I am sure some birds are nesting. Impossible as it may seem, I am certain that this little hunter has found a way to raise my blinds in order to best outfit himself for pursuit of this cunning enemy.
"What time is it?" I ask him, fully expecting him to answer.
He looks at me and then toward the clock, and I follow his gaze. 7am! It is way too early for me to be up.
I turn to throw myself back into the pillows when sounds greet me from the kitchen. What evil dwells yonder?
I fling my body out of bed, exceptionally annoyed for no real good reason. What greets my eyes is astounding: my entire family, up, washed, and dressed, flitting about the kitchen like newly released parakeets, banging pots and pans, opening and closing drawers, examining and commenting upon silverware. Who are these aliens, and what have they done with my family?
"What's going on?" I ask warily.
"It's Easter," Joey answers by way of greeting.
"We're preparing the ham," my mom offers.
I shake my head. "What?? It's a HAM. It's 7AM. WHAT needs to be done right now?"
"I've never cooked a fresh ham before," my mom says, looking injured. "I have to make sure I have enough time to prepare it."
"I doubt that it will take more than a couple of hours," I tell her.
She shakes her head. "We need to examine it."
"Good idea," my sister tells her, in mid-poise of beating cake batter.
"I'LL get it from the fridge," Michael informs us, somewhat proudly.
I roll my eyes.
Michael delves into the refrigerator and emerges with a large, covered platter. He places it in the center of the table and looks around at us. "Ready?" he asks, hand poised to remove the cover.
Three heads nod eagerly. I feel the need to roll my eyes again.
He unveils the ham with a flourish. We all stare at it expectantly. My sister leans forward for a closer look.
"Huh," Michael says, looking thoughtful.
"Hmm," Jennifer mumbles, putting her hand in her chin.
"Well," my mom says.
"Uh," Joey mutters.
"It doesn't look like a ham," I say bluntly.
And it doesn't. It's red, large, and kind of shaped like a human heart.
"That's a fresh ham," Michael defends, pointing.
"Yeah, how do you know what a ham is supposed to look like?" my sister demands.
"I've had other hams elsewhere, you know," I say. I ignore their shocked gasps. "And I can tell you that it doesn't really look like any ham I've seen before. Where's the bone?"
"What bone?" Joey asks, looking at the dog. She stares back at him innocently.
"The bone," I say patiently. "Every ham I've seen that was fresh has a bone in the middle of it."
"Well, if it's in the middle, then we can't see it," my mom points out logically.
My sister pokes at the raw meat experimentally.
"It doesn't have a bone," Michael says, sounding exasperated. He glares at me. "It's DEBONED," he says loudly, hovering over the meat protectively.
"Well, there you go. Have you ever had a deboned fresh ham?" my mom asks me.
I stare at the meat. "No, " I admit.
"Well, there you go," my mom says, sounding relieved.
I shrug, but am not satisfied. Something is weird about this ham. I can feel it. "What is that rope around it?"
"Rope?" Joey asks.
"String," my sister corrects.
We all study the ham, which does indeed have a string tied around it.
"Maybe it's to keep it from running away," I offer.
"Fresh hams are tied up," Michael says authoritatively.
"I've never seen a fresh ham with a rope around it," I say resolutely.
"Well, you've never seen a deboned fresh ham before either, so we're not trusting your opinion." My sister looks around the room for support.
"Yeah!" Joey says.
"Yeah!" Michael says, grinning evilly at me.
My mother shrugs, hiding a grin.
Fine then. I retreat to my room, figuring battle is best done when the parties are all fully dressed.
**************************************************
It is 1pm. My sister and I are in our room, reading peacefully, anticipating the meal to come.
"Rosalie?" A call from my mother breaks the silence.
"Yeah?" I call back, distracted.
"Is the ham supposed to be red inside?"
My sister and I look at each other.
"Mom, if it's too bloody, just leave it in the oven and it will become less red," I call back, going back to my book.
Silence greets my reply.
"But...well, do you want to come look at it?" she calls to me again.
"No," I answer back.
"Jennifer?" she calls pleadingly.
"Oh, Mom. It's just the ham glaze. Don't worry about the color," my sister responds, exasperated. She looks at me and shakes her head. "You'd think she's never seen a ham before," she tells me.
**************************************************
3pm. I step into the kitchen, having just been summoned by my mother in her most determined voice.
"What?" I ask her.
She thrusts a knife at me. "Taste this and tell me if it is done." She has a strange look in her eyes.
I shrug, and take the knife from her. I look down at the ham. The outer coloring seems ok, even if the shape and texture seems a bit off. I cut off a piece and stare at the meat. Dropping the knife, I back away from the pan, slowly.
"I told you to come look at it earlier," my mother says flatly.
"What?" Michael says, entering the kitchen.
"It's not ham." I say this definitively.
"What do you mean, it's not ham?" he says, annoyed.
"I'm TELLING you, it's not ham. The coloring is way off. It's grey inside. This is not ham. It's something else."
"I told the guy at work I wanted a ham. This is what he gave me. And now you're telling me it's not a ham. Please." Michael says, waving me off.
I step in front of the pan of meat. "It's not ham, and I'm willing to bet my snapple on it."
Silence greets my gauntlet. If I'm putting my snapple on the line, I must be serious.
Michael pushes me aside and peers into the meat. "Well, ok. So it's not pink. So what?"
"So what? So what? What is it?" my sister asks shrilly.
"I'll taste it," I say bravely. I grab a fork and spear the piece I cut off.
Four sets of wide eyes watch me. I chew and swallow, and look at the roped lump with renewed fascination.
"What is it?" Joey whispers, stepping behind my mother and peering around her.
"I believe," I tell them, mentally cataloging the taste, texture, and color, that what we've got here is pork."
"PORK?" My sister asks, looking disgusted.
"Pork?" Joey says, looking terrified.
"Pork," Michael says, looking at the meat thoughtfully.
"Pork," I state with finality. I glance at the meat again. "It looks like a giant porkchop."
"It looks like a heart," Joey says, almost tearfully.
"Maybe it's pork heart," my sister says fearfully.
"You mean pig heart," Michael corrects her, absently. He is moving from side to side to examined the platter from all angles.
"If it's pork, then it's pig, right? And ham is pig. So - what's the difference?" my mother asks, putting on a brave front.
"I think it's different parts of the pig," I say.
"Yeah. Ham is ham. This is pork heart," Joey says, looking distressed.
"Ewwwww, I don't want to eat any heart," Jennifer says, backing away.
The five of us grimace at the meat.
"What did the packaging say?" Jennifer turns to Michael.
"There was no packaging. It came in clear plastic," he mutters. He is poking the meat with a long-handled knife.
"Clear plastic? What did you do, bring home a bootleg ham?" I chortle, unable to help myself.
"Did it fall off the back of a truck?" Jennifer asks, grinning. We start laughing.
"You know, with bootleg, you don't always get what you should. I guess we're not really getting what we should," I say, wagging my eyebrows.
"Mike, you shouldn't have bought bootleg meat," my mother tells him softly.
"It's NOT bootleg meat!" he explodes. "I thought I was getting a ham."
"Obviously not," I jeer.
"How sad is it that none of us could tell the difference?" my sister says, laughing so hard she is near tears.
"Well, we still have the canned ham," my mother says, a grin threatening to spill over her face.
Michael makes a face, but says nothing. We all surround the ham-pork-heart. It looks like we are waiting for someone to administer last rites.
My sister breaks the silence. "Well, I'll say one thing," she says, a wicked smile on her face. "I'm glad we all know what a turkey looks like!"
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| The Doctor's Visit |
[05 Apr 2004|09:57pm] |
I've been feeling ill recently. For the past three weeks, I've been unable to wear shoes because of some mysterious affliction to the back of my right ankle. Public opinion has been mixed:
"You have a blister." (Rosalie's mom)
"It's a wart." (Joey, Rosalie's brother)
"It's a calcium deficiency." (Random woman at work)
"It's a heel spur." (John, Rosalie's boyfriend)
"ANKLE spur." (Annie, John's mom, correcting John)
"Oh, Rosalie." (Jill, Rosalie's boss)
I figured I would suck it up and deal with the pain, because, really, for how long could it go on? I have a podiatrist who I adore (how sad is it that I am the type of person who uses PODIATRIST and ADORE in the same sentence), but the man is surgical happy ("You have a sore foot? Minor surgery may be the answer..." "Hurt toe? Have you considered minor surgery?" "You don't like your pink nail polish? Have I discussed minor surgery with you?...")My god, man! Drilling holes into my feet isn't the answer!! (Or maybe it is, but I fully intended to drag out the finding out...)
On to other ailments. For the past 2 weeks, my throat has felt swollen and sore, but not to an extreme extent--JUST enough for me to say, "Hmm, something's not quite right here." That, combined with headaches that are coming more and more frequently, and the fact that my jaw locked up on me Friday night ("Ok, John, I guess this means you can have the last chicken popper.") finally forced me to confront a reality I've been avoiding:
I haven't been feeling ill. My body is falling apart, piece by piece. I don't need a doctor, I need a refurbisher. (Sigh)
So we settled for the doctor this evening. My PCP is an internist, an old italian guy who can't remember my name and who caters to an elderly italian population who always look suprised when I walk into his office. I can't remember how I wound up with him - like with a lot of italians, the other italians in our lives seem to have just always been there -- like an old italian priest, plumber, doctor, deli guy are part of the package deal of growing up in an italian household. (Ask any person named Carmine. They know what I'm talking about.)
At Santo's office this evening, I jumped up on the examining table and looked at him expectantly, hoping he would perform some doctor magic. But first, the preliminaries:
"So, Jennifer-"
"Rosalie."
"Right, Rosalie. I saw one of your sisters last week."
"Jennifer."
"Maybe it was."
"No, it definitely was. I only have one sister."
"Oh, really?"
(I have been seeing this man for 10 years.)
"So, you went to Boston college, right?"
"No."
He smiles, waiting for me to volunteer more information. I smile back, volunteering nothing.
He clears his throat. "I thought you went to Boston. Maybe I was thinking about someone else. One of your sisters, maybe."
"Jennifer?"
"Right, Jennifer." (He looks relieved.)
"Nope, Jennifer didn't go to Boston, either." I smile again, sunnily.
"Well, then." He clears his throat.
(My sister has been seeing this man for 7 years.)
I check my nails. I imagine that I can see them growing as I am sitting there.
"Well, did you think about Boston when you were applying?" (He is tapping my bad ankle.)
"No." (I point to the problem lump.)
"Ok. Did your sister?" (He pokes at the lump.)
"No." (I almost pass out from the pain.)
"Well, then. Have you seen a podiatrist for this problem? You may need minor surgery."
***********************************************
The nurse is examining my chart while I slip my socks back on. She is a dark featured italian with badly dyed blonde hair. She leans her nose real close to the words. Either what she is reading is fabulously interesting, or she has a vision problem. I decide that neither bodes well for my visit.
"So Jennifer-"
"Rosalie. Do you have the right chart?"
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Looks like you gained some weight."
I glare at her, feeling like the gauntlet has just been thrown. Other than my slip-on shoes, I am weaponless. She is back to reading my chart and does not see my reaction. I decide not to dignify her comment with an answer.
"So how many of you are there, exactly?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You have how many siblings?"
"Enough." I smile at her.
She stares at me suspiciously.
I raise my eyebrows at her.
"You are the oldest." It is a statement, not a question.
"I am."
"Your mother sometimes brings a little boy with her. He is the youngest."
"Correct."
"How many in between you and him?"
"Enough." I grin at her, enjoying her carefully blank face.
"I see." She does not, but there is nothing left to say.
"Yes." I agree, knowing there is nothing left to say.
"Did the doctor give you a prescription?" She's back to a safe topic. I decide to humor her.
"He did. Antibiotics for my throat. Nothing for the ankle, told me to see a podiatrist. Nothing for the jaw, told me to see my dentist. And for the weight gain, told me to see a plastic surgeon."
"What?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What did you say?"
"I have antibiotics for my throat, nothing for the ankle, I have to see a podiatrist, and nothing for the jaw, I have to see my dentist, and he'll give me referrals." I look at her, confused.
She stares at me. I continue to look confused.
"Right. Ok. You may go."
"Great. Jennifer's outside, if you want to say hello."
"Who?"
"Jennifer. My sister."
"Right. Between you and the little one. So there's at least 3, right?"
"Oh, at least."
***************************************************
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[03 Apr 2004|11:48pm] |
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You're upbeat, insightful, effervescent and imaginative.
Sometimes a little too imaginative... You're all about the subtext, about what's going on between the lines. You very rarely take anything at face-value.
You also have a tendancy to be a little neurotic and self-absorbed, and fall for guys who are either (for the most part) emotionally unattainable or completely wrong for you.
That's okay, though, everyone loves you anyway. You're very well-liked. You always have a shoulder for your friends to cry on or an ear for them to gossip in. High-profile and fun, you're the life of the party.
Carrie quotes:
"You can't make friends with a squirrel. Squirrels are just rats with cuter outfits."
"I'm thinking balls are to men, what purses are to women. It's just a little bag but we'd feel naked in public without it."
"The only thing I've ever successfully made in the kitchen is a mess. And several small fires."
Which Sex and the City Player Are You? Find out @ She's Crafty
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| My worse subject |
[03 Apr 2004|10:29pm] |
You are a MASTER of the English language!
While your English is not exactly perfect,
you are still more grammatically correct than
just about every American. Still, there is
always room for improvement...
How grammatically sound are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
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