Ham, A Love Story

Today is a great day. Not only has my seven month separation from my true love ended (hello NFL) but I have finally, after six weeks of obsessing, decided to make a baked ham. I desire ham crazily, pretty sure it has to do with this life growing in my belly. Please note that my last foray into haminess probably occurred circa 1998. It is in my thoughts at least three times a day. Dreamingly, I ponder the heavenly taste of it dipped into buttery mashed potatoes and then driven into my hungry wanting mouth, over and over again. I imagine there is no greater joy to me at this time than that of a freshly baked ham with cloves and pineapple. Saturday I have a date with destiny, until then I will drool and daydream. At the supermarket, after a careful and probably fraught filled selection process of the bone-in ham, I will pick up my love and dance a disco of delight. Shall I crochet a cozie for its journey home? Perhaps. Will it mind me peeping at it through the oven while it cooks in its juices and coca-cola (my mother swears by it)? Of course not. Will Owen or John get a single bite? I don’t know. Will I change my name to Hamzilla? It does have a ring to it. Will I eat it all in fit of ravenous desire? Most assuredly. Oh ham, I love you so. I can't wait until Saturday. Ham, sweet precious ham.