Maybe it's because I recently listened to "The Road" on audiobook, or because I barely escaped a layoff. I can't take these ridiculous feelings seriously, of course, so I make jokes. I tell Wendy that for Christmas this year, the children can have real ham rather than photographs of ham that were cut out from a magazine. With the bad economy and looming apocalypse, these types of jokes are inappropriate, but I can't help myself.
Whenever I open the refrigerator and see the Prize Ham, I put my hands on my hips, spread my legs, and puff my chest out like a Turkish Pasha. "Behold!" I say with a booming Yul Brynner voice and a quick wave of the hand. "The Ham!"
I will be cooking the Prize Ham later today for our Christmas Eve dinner. As I do so, I will pretend that my musket is leaning against the log cabin wall near my coonskin cap. No bear jerky and canned leeks for Christmas this year. We'll be eating the Prize Ham.
The children will sleep well with full bellies as they dream of pulling walnuts and oranges from their stockings.