Neal Pollack
Nashville, Tennessee, is a very Christian place. You can’t go five minutes in December without hearing that damn “Christmas Shoes” song on the radio. So why don’t the stores have better food at Christmastime? In December 2004, as my wife, Regina, and I lurched through her mother’s neighborhood store, I felt my seasonal joy, never high to begin with, draining away under the gray-dim fluorescent lighting and because I couldn’t find any organic peanut butter. It was a perfectly ordinary American supermarket, but I walked the aisles as though it were a crematorium.
Living in Austin, Texas, has spoiled me. The grocery stores are so good that people from Europe visit to study them. On its worst day, my neighborhood store has sixty different varieties of citrus. I’ve purchased three kinds of bleu cheese made by the Amish in Iowa. My two-year-old son asks to snack on peanut butter–flavored yogurt pretzels. His favorite food, other than ice cream, is capers. And we don’t spend any more money than we would at a regular store.
As I walked around that non-Yuppie grocery store, my nose crinkled in disdain. My mouth curled into a sneer usually reserved for people who wear baseball caps backward.
“This is horrible,” I said.
“It’s not that bad,” Regina said.
“How many different kinds of cereal can people actually eat?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Why do they call this a grocery store?”
“Because,” she said, “this is a grocery store.”
We arrived at protein alley. The fish looked like it had been in the deep freeze since June. I chose some tilapia for that night, December 23; I could render it inoffensive with tomatoes, garlic, and parsley. The beef, however, looked slimy, with a slight greenish tint beneath the wrapping. I nearly gagged at the sense memory of the sour-sweet smell that red meat gives off just as it’s going bad.
“Look at this chicken,” I said. “It’s all… muscle.”
Then I saw my dream food, enveloped in a golden glow. A sweet chorus of angels drowned out the tinny Christmas carol Muzak. It sat there alone on the shelf, the last survivor of its kind, in a light-brown burlap bag tied with a little metal ring.
A Smithfield ham.
I’d been dying to eat a Smithfield ever since I read an essay by Southern culinary historian John Egerton in which he called country ham “an ancient and inimitable treasure, the highest form of the Southern gastronomic art.” The only thing I coveted more than a Smithfield was a ham from Trigg County, Kentucky. I’d even briefly considered buying a Trigg off the Internet. After all, the mail-order turducken had been a big success two years before. But it was obvious that this Smithfield ham and I were destiny.
“That’s our dinner,” I said to Regina. “Glory be!”
“Are you sure you want to spend forty dollars?” she said. “It’s awfully big.”
I looked at her indignantly. “Woman,” I said. “Don’t you understand? I’ve longed to prepare a Smithfield ham my entire adult life.”
I picked up my ham up and cradled it. The bony back end poked me in the ribs. I bent down and gave it a kiss.
“I love this ham!” I said.
“You’re frightening me,” Regina said.
“Do you see anyone else volunteering to make dinner this year?”
“No,” she said. “But that’s because…”
My mother-in-law had just moved into a new house and she couldn’t figure out how to use the stove. My brother and sister in-law, usually reliable cooks, were bunkered down with a new baby. Regina, as was typical for the holidays, had buttoned up her personality tighter than a Salvation Army sergeant’s jacket. The duty fell to me, and just like Mary in the manger, by God, I was going to deliver!
This cheery thought, along with a soap opera magazine, buoyed me all the way through the interminable checkout line. The grumbling clerk ran my items through the scanner without enthusiasm. I got nervous. Did she think I was a Yuppie? Did she resent my forty-dollar porcine baby? I had to prove that I sympathized with her hard life as a working-class Christian, trapped in an awful job in an ordinary neighborhood in a more or less lame city.
“Gosh, I got a really big ham!” I said.
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“When I saw that Smithfield ham, I just had to have it!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well,” I said. “Happy Holidays to you!”
“I hate it when people say Happy Holidays,” she said. “It’s anti-Christian. You say, ‘Merry Christmas.’”
I looked back at the other people in line. Surely they would mock the provincial attitudes of this foolish woman. No one put up with this kind of crap where I lived. But then I remembered where I was. They all stood there, dour and disapproving. A thin film of menace enveloped the line.
Here’s what I thought: You people belong to a majority religion in a right-wing theocracy, yet loudmouthed jackasses have somehow persuaded you that you’re some kind of oppressed class! Meanwhile, the government you love is collapsing the economy on purpose. You’re all idiots!
Here’s what I said: “Heh.”
Here’s what I should have said: “Yeah? Well, screw you, bitch! This year, Christmas belongs to me! I’m a Jew! And I’m gonna cook a ham!”
Regina’s father used to make Christmas the stage for his own personal Southern Gothic Christ-figure melodrama. He was a Catholic by birth only and avoided church like Nosferatu. Nevertheless, a few days before the holiday, he’d dramatically proclaim that no one in his family appreciated him and he’d storm out of the house in a fit. Regina says he would check into a hotel, volunteer at a homeless shelter, and then return home on Christmas Eve day with a car full of lavish presents, pretending that nothing had occurred. This happened almost every year, she says.
In the late eighties, he hit a lode in the risk-management business and began throwing holiday parties at his country club. These parties featured, at one time or another, operettas, vaudeville shows, and Chet Atkins. There were the inevitable ice sculptures, sumptuous dessert buffets to rival anything at the Four Seasons, and thousands upon thousands of dollars’ worth of French wine. Several years before he died, he opened a restaurant, which quickly became the only five-diamond establishment in the state. He invited so many people to his final holiday party, which he held at the restaurant, that the party had to be held over three days. In January 1996, his liver gave out.
He’d been gone almost two years when I made my first trip to Regina’s family’s house for Christmas, in 1997, but this was the South, so his ghost hovered over the proceedings that year like a supporting character in a mid-era Tennessee Williams play. By then, Regina’s mother had regained control of Christmas. She was a pious Presbyterian, though not born again and not pushy. The only book in the house I could find, other than the Bible and a volume of cat jokes, was Barbara Mandrell’s autobiography. I had more in common with a Bantu elder. The party was over.
Regina’s dad had bought a player piano during the 1980s, when every mall had a store that sold them. This one operated via hard disks inserted into a panel on the left side, a technology that was outdated then but now seems as distant as the passenger pigeon. Regina claimed that her mother owned a variety of music for the piano, but she could have had The Decline of Western Civilization Part One soundtrack for all I knew. I got to hear only the Christmas disc.
The piano emitted a tinkly moan, playing a song at about one-third its normal speed.
“What the hell is that?” I said to Regina.
“‘Away in a Manger,’” Regina said. “Don’t you recognize it?”
I didn’t, and I could barely make out “The Little Drummer Boy.” “Silent Night” seemed more familiar, but the player piano’s version sounded like a Twilight Zoneepisode. I imagined a music box turned on its side, playing the same tune over and over again while an old woman shivered in a corner, waiting for death to take her away. Meanwhile, my mother-in-law hummed away cheerfully, dusting the mantel.
“Regina,” I said. “How can you… stand it?”
“Because it’s Christmas!” she said.
The next morning, I came up the stairs to the unbearable racket of a thousand white people backed by an organ. Regina’s mother, apparently, had one CD that she played on Christmas when she got tired of the player piano. I’ve never seen the cover, but if the group doesn’t call itself The Worst Church Choir in the World, they’re lying. The house shook:
“Noel, Noel, Noel, No-elllllllllllllllllll!”
I had to get out of there.
That night, Regina’s brother and sister-in-law came over for dinner. We sat around a big-screen TV and watched a video of Dad playing Santa on his last Christmas. I slumped so deep in my chair that my butt almost touched the floor.
“There he is!” Regina’s mother said.
“Aww,” Regina said. “I see him.”
I reached for the champagne and refilled my glass. Regina’s father had left behind a wine cellar of high quality. Before I’d popped the first appetizer in my mouth, I must have drunk six glasses from six different bottles. That’s about how many drinks it takes, I learned, for a Protestant family to lower its inhibitions. It was a little much for me on an empty stomach.
I ran for the bathroom and bent over the toilet, making a noise along the lines of: “Bleeeeeeeeeeeech. EEEEEEK! URRRRRGH! AAARRRRR!”
After five minutes of this racket, I emerged. Regina’s family looked extremely concerned. I reassured them. “No big deal,” I said. “I thought I was going to throw up, but I didn’t.”
A Jew had joined the family.
Over the years, a pattern developed. I would say or do something horribly obnoxious and offensive to Regina’s mother. Regina’s brother, Brett, who’d been a fullback at Auburn until he’d blown out his knee, would make a comment or two demeaning my manhood. My mother-in-law would get mad at Brett for accidentally dropping something down the garbage disposal. And the painted ponies went up and down. Though I cared about Christmas about as much as I cared about water polo, I wanted to show my new family that I could adapt.
By 2004, Regina and I had been married four and a half years. I was the father of a toddler. By degrees, I’d become a man. And on Christmas, a man cooks his ham.
I took my ham out of its bag as soon as I got it back to the house. It was majestic, but also kind of disturbing. I’d expected something bright pink that was ready for immediate consumption. This thing looked like it had just been unearthed in an archeological dig.
“There’s a lot of fat,” I said.
Regina, who’d been dealing with hams her whole life, shook her head.
Smithfields were very salty, or so I’d read. I filled the kitchen sink with water. Gingerly, I lowered my prize and went upstairs to hide from my mother-inlaw. A few minutes later, she knocked.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Yes?” I said.
“Why is that ham sitting in my sink?”
“It’s soaking.”
“Don’t you need water for something to soak?”
No! The sink couldn’t have drained! Stupid cheap sink! I needed every minute until that ham went into the oven. It had to be the perfect ham.
I soared down the stairs and into the kitchen. This time, I slammed the stopper down hard. I rubbed the ham. A little chunk of slimy fat lodged between my fingers. Eww, I thought. No, I corrected myself. Not eww. This is how hams are supposed to behave.
“It’s going to be okay, baby,” I said.
Regina entered the kitchen.
“Are you giving that ham a massage?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “It needs me.”
That Christmas, my mother-in-law had finally moved, but we had other problems. An epic ice storm hit Nashville, hemming us all into her town house, which would have been cozy and easily escapable in good weather but now had started to resemble Cell BlockH, with a toddler. The ham became a point of contention.
“That’s too big for my oven,” my mother-in-law said.
“No it’s not,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “It is. I don’t have a pot big enough to cook it in.”
“We’ll figure something out,” I said.
“I’m worried that it’ll be too salty,” she said.
“I’m soaking it,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
“I really don’t see how you’re going to cook it.”
“Listen here,” I said. “I bought this ham and I am going to cook it!”
“Don’t get mad at my mom,” Regina said. “She’s just trying to help.”
Later, under my breath, I said to Regina, “She’s not trying to help. She’s trying to ruin my ham. I know she doesn’t want to eat it. I know that none of you does. But I’m making this ham and no one is going to stop me. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“Mommy, Daddy,” Elijah said. “Pick me up!”
“Just a second, honey,” I said. “Daddy has to soak his ham.”
That evening, as I continued to massage my ham in its cold-water bath, I accidentally got into a conversation with my mother-in-law about faith. She suspected that there was a secular humanist in her midst. I tried to dodge.
“You don’t really practice, do you?” she said.
“Well, um, uh, well, uh, not really, but I still observe the holidays for Elijah, because I think it’s, uh, good for him to, um, know traditions and all. We light Hanukkah candles and have Passover dinner.”
“Eventually y’all are going to have to make a decision.”
“I think that if we raise him knowing about a lot of different faiths, it’ll be fine,” I said. “I kind of think of it as an education in comparative religion.”
By the look on her face, I might as well have told her that I will raise my son to believe that Satan is King.
That night, my son sensed that the golden day was drawing near. I desperately tried to be a good dad on Christmas.
“Santa outside!” he said.
“Soon,” I said.
“Elijah see Santa!” he said.
“Santa will come while you’re sleeping,” I said.
Regina had found a forty-year-old Little Golden Book edition of The Night Before Christmas. I read it to Elijah as a bedtime story, taking time between verses to stop him from drinking a bottle of Nana’s Wite-Out. He went to sleep at seven, but at eight we heard him rumbling. I went in.
“Elijah miss Santa Claus,” he said.
“No you didn’t,” I said. “He’s not here.”
“Elijah want open presents from Santa!”
“Elijah,” I said. “You have to go to sleep, or Santa won’t bring you any presents. He’ll bring them while you’re sleeping.”
“Waaaaah!” he said. “Santa!”
Regina had taken to bed again with her evil stomach bacteria. I was baking her yearly batch of oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies. I decided I could do anything in the kitchen.
“Daddy’s making cookies for Santa,” I said.
“Santa eat Daddy cookies!” said Elijah.
“That’s right,” I said. “Now can you go to sleep like a good boy?”
“Yeah,” he said.
So I went downstairs and lovingly mixed up the batter and put it in the oven while my mother-in-law watched Law and Order in the next room, petting her ancient, bitter cat, obviously wanting me out of her space. Believe me, I wanted out, too. The cookies got done and they were delicious. I put half a cookie and some crumbs on a plate, and put a little soy milk in a plastic cup, covering it with foil so the cat wouldn’t spill it overnight. Then I put the plate and cup by the fireplace.
“So Elijah can see it when he wakes up,” I said.
“Isn’t that sweet?” my mother-in-law said.
I’ve never believed in Santa. He wasn’t a presence in my childhood. But why shouldn’t Elijah? The kid was two, for God’s sake. What kind of dad doesn’t let his kid believe in Santa Claus?
“Mmm,” I said. “These cookies are good.”
In the sink, my ham soaked in its seventh change of water.
“Tomorrow,” I said, “you’re gonna shine.”
The recipe called for me to bake the ham in the oven for three hours plus in a roasting pan, wrapped in foil with four cups of water. Regina did the foil wrapping and the water pouring.
“Shit!” she said.
“What?” I said.
“The water keeps coming out onto the pan. Why didn’t you get heavy-duty foil?”
I gritted my teeth.
“Because,” I said, “no one told me to.”
“Everyone knows you cook ham in heavy-duty foil.”
“I don’t even know what heavy-duty foil is.”
Dinner arrived soon enough. The audience for my ham included: my mother- and sister-in-law, both of whom eat like rabbits that can’t wait to get to the gym; my wife, who had the aforementioned nasty stomach bacteria; my five-year-old nephew, Westlund, and newborn niece, Mackensie (Note: These are not Jewish names); Elijah; my brother-in-law; and me. The ham came out of the oven. Expecting something magnificent, I unfolded the heavy-duty foil that we’d picked up from Walgreens at the eleventh hour. The ham looked slimy and unappealing, like something on a veterinarian’s autopsy table. I spent forty-five minutes trimming off just enough fat to make it edible. And then I tried to make red-eye gravy, which just tasted like smoky water. My sister-in-law added extra coffee, and then it tasted like smoky, watery coffee.
The ham was very, very, very, very, very salty. I might as well have rubbed a salt lick in bacon fat and set it on the table.
“This is delicious,” said my sister-in-law, as she ate other things.
Regina and I cook all the time, and often with great success. But the ham tasted vile. After dinner, we had thirty pounds of it left. We tried to pawn some of it off on my relatives.
“We don’t really eat stuff that’s already been cured,” Brett said. “So it would be wasted on us.”
There are moments when a man sees himself clearly. That was, for me, one of those moments. I felt my heart disintegrate.
It wouldn’t do for me to throw ninety percent of my prize ham into the trash, so I started carving off the bone. I carved and carved. My wrists ached worse than after my typical four-hour workday.
“I’m done,” I said.
My mother-in-law turned the ham over.
“You’ve still got half a ham to go,” she said.
Regina and I took almost all the ham home with us on the airplane. For two days, it sat in the refrigerator. Then we froze it. One morning, I said, “Let’s have ham and eggs.”
We got a serving of ham out of the freezer. The fat had coagulated into thick yellow globules. We looked at it, and looked at each other. And I threw the bag into the trash.
“Next year,” I said, “we’re making lasagne.”