Where's my ham?

Roger, my husband, is a talented Drupal developer, and when I told him I wanted to create a website for my writing endeavors, he was happy to oblige. Together we selected a theme, and he added a few modules that fit my particular needs as a writer. He needed a placeholder for the site slogan, so, more as a joke than anything, he threw up "Where's my ham?"

Roger always kids me about my ham-ish ways, and often when I walk into a room (especially the kitchen) he'll sing, "look out here she comes, she a ham-eater." (For those of you born since 1990, "Man-eater" is a single recorded by Hall & Oates from their 1982 album H2O.) He expected me to change his silly placeholder, and put up something more meaningful and less offensive to my vegetarian friends, but for now I'll think I'll keep it.

I do love a good ham. When I was growing up in Oklahoma during the 60's, ham was on Sunday dinner rotation along with pot roast and fried chicken. Ham was as much a part of our Thanksgiving feast as was the turkey, and we served ham for Easter dinner and special company. Then for the week or two after, the ham hock made its way into pots of beans, and leftover ham brightened up plates of eggs over easy. I love ham's salty, fatty, chewy texture. Even when it is smoked and cured and aged and baked and fried and, as my mother used to say, cooked within an inch of its life until every morsel of nutritional value has been sucked out, there is still a rawness to ham that I don't find in other meats.

Of course, there's more to ham than meets the palate. For instance my sister, Kathy, is a ham. Before I had ever heard of any of the characters in Winnie-the-Pooh, I had Tigger bouncing on the bunk bed below me. When she's in a room something is bound to get turned upside down.

Lately, as I stride into my 50's, my thighs have begun to resemble a couple of hams. They narrow at the knees and broaden up toward my hips where they hold up my now substantial derriere. Since my mother died at age 56 of heart disease, I began this sixth decade of my life determined not to go gently into any good night. I started a training regimen that enables me to walk long distances, including marathons, so, fortunately, my hammy thighs are more muscle than fat.

So, where's my ham?

Come in, dear readers, for a feast. Let me over-act. Let me sing and dance and play for you. Let my words carry you the distance and drape a medal over your shoulders at the finish line.

I will find words and stories that make you feel like special company. I will give you something to chew on. I will provide salty plots and ideas and characters that you can lick raw. Come back again and again because you never know what amazing concoctions can be created from left-overs.

Come in and find the ham. Bon appétit.