Well, there I am, doing an Easter ham thing. Don't ask me why. I'm not Christian; I don't even particularly like ham.

But the local grocery store is giving one away for free, if you spend X amount of dollars. If you don't eat ham, you can substitute any other meat.

But I'm going for the ham. As I said, I don't usually eat it, but DH does. So I'm game for something new.

Like I have any idea how to cook the darn thing. So it's time for a call to the MIL, and time to search the 'Net to try to get a clue what in the world I can do to this very strange beast I have no clue how to cook.

Multitudes of advice later, I pretty much do what I always do anyway, and wing it. And wing it, and wing it.

You see, we have the Oven from Hell. Can't follow any recipes, because it refuses to conform to any of them. So I cook it. And cook it. And cook it. And stare confounded at why in the world it smells and looks done, but the @#$% thermometer (which I have never figured out how to use properly) says it isn't.

In the meanwhile, there are six very interested cats with extremely large eyes hanging in the kitchen with mournful looks pleading "Ham! Ham? What is this? We have never smelled this thing cooking before. Might we have some, please?" And plotting to steal some any way they can.

Just another 20 minutes, I say. Several times. Let's just try another 20 minutes. Until both DH and I are utterly frustrated, not to mention the extremely interested cats, and I say "That's it! I am declaring this DONE!"

And I nibble and DH pigs out (pardon the pun), while the four-footed ones are looking exceedingly ticked off.

But of course we must share our repast. So they get a wee bit of our feast, and are quite happy with this special treat. Until . . . .

Suddenly, there is an odd sound in the recycling box in our kitchen. And Wolfie, who is always waiting for the Mothership to return, is transfixed. We are imagining that Wolfie is simply quite wired after this unusual meal. But of course, we are wrong.

DH sees it first. "Ummm. There's a mouse in there!" Oh, cripes. They have been here for 15 years, but they tend not to stay around here much. Kinda hard to survive when six cats are sniffing you out, don't you know? But there it apparently is. Eeeeekkkkkk!

What to do? Good thing they've had their ham treat. Otherwise, they would probably be the little carnivores they are and tear the poor little thing into pieces. "Okay. Grab the recycling box, and toss it outside. Then free the mousie from the bottom," I suggest.

"Good idea," DH says. And like the decent person he (usually) is, he runs the box outside, and frees Stuart Little from the holy terror of the Da Boyz.

At least they got to taste ham for the first time . . . . .

Copyright © Ginger-lyn Summer
May 9, 2001