Bonjour
My nickname at home was Madame Jambon. I earned it. I ate the shit out of that ham. I ate it on yeasty rolls for breakfast and lunch and I ate it straight from the fridge for snacks. It was salty and sweet and porky. It was bliss. I should have photographed it, not that I had a hard time making my quota of ten photos for the week, but because a love like that wants to be documented.
I took a reasonable number of photos over the break but I left my camera cradle at my mom’s house, so now I have to wait—have to stave off gratification—before I can download and organize and print. My camera might as well be flipping me the bird. The whole point of a digital camera is instant gratification but I’m waiting.
Ham as a carry-on got me a lot of attention. It was wrapped in red foil and then in black netting. The netting was fashioned into a handle eliminating the need for a tote so I carried it out in the open. It was Christmas; I had a ham; it didn’t seem weird to me. As it went through the x-ray the security guy stopped the belt and stared at it for a while before shouting out loud: It’s a ham! I wanted to say something sassy—wanted to match his tone and to up the ante with some wit—but I kept my comments to myself because it seemed the civil thing to do (Christmas spirit and all) and because those guys at security can do anything they want to you and I know better than to pick on a giant. As I was getting on the plane a man from Texas, with an embroidered longhorn on his baseball hat, said, “You got a pretty good deal on that ham!” I smiled in return and soon we were talking big oil, big money, and where to buy the best meat. He did most of the talking but I enjoyed the conversation because he reminded me of my father-in-law. When I got off the plane a man turned to me and said in a low voice, “Nice ham.” I told him thank you. He made me smile. And at my destination, the Minneapolis airport, a women several paces behind me shouted, “You still have your ham! I saw you in the Anchorage airport!” She must have thought I was going to eat it in-flight.
The dog managed just fine. But I can tell she’s glad to be home where she belongs.
I took a reasonable number of photos over the break but I left my camera cradle at my mom’s house, so now I have to wait—have to stave off gratification—before I can download and organize and print. My camera might as well be flipping me the bird. The whole point of a digital camera is instant gratification but I’m waiting.
Ham as a carry-on got me a lot of attention. It was wrapped in red foil and then in black netting. The netting was fashioned into a handle eliminating the need for a tote so I carried it out in the open. It was Christmas; I had a ham; it didn’t seem weird to me. As it went through the x-ray the security guy stopped the belt and stared at it for a while before shouting out loud: It’s a ham! I wanted to say something sassy—wanted to match his tone and to up the ante with some wit—but I kept my comments to myself because it seemed the civil thing to do (Christmas spirit and all) and because those guys at security can do anything they want to you and I know better than to pick on a giant. As I was getting on the plane a man from Texas, with an embroidered longhorn on his baseball hat, said, “You got a pretty good deal on that ham!” I smiled in return and soon we were talking big oil, big money, and where to buy the best meat. He did most of the talking but I enjoyed the conversation because he reminded me of my father-in-law. When I got off the plane a man turned to me and said in a low voice, “Nice ham.” I told him thank you. He made me smile. And at my destination, the Minneapolis airport, a women several paces behind me shouted, “You still have your ham! I saw you in the Anchorage airport!” She must have thought I was going to eat it in-flight.
The dog managed just fine. But I can tell she’s glad to be home where she belongs.
posted by Jessica at 18:20
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