On Friday, I visited the butcher I’d used for twenty-five years.
Mr. Kowalski selected a beautiful twelve-pound smoked ham.
“Special occasion, Dorothy?”
“My son’s in-laws are coming for dinner.”
“Then you’ll want the good one.”
It cost eighty-four dollars.
I didn’t hesitate.
Saturday morning, I woke at six.
I scored the ham, added cloves, and prepared my homemade glaze with honey, brown sugar, Dijon mustard, roasted garlic, and apple cider.
For four hours, I carefully basted it until the outside turned golden.
My house smelled wonderful.
I also prepared scalloped potatoes because Maya loved them.
She called them “Grandma’s cheesy potatoes.”
On Sunday afternoon, I wrapped everything in thick towels, loaded the car, and drove forty minutes to Owen’s house.
Christa opened the side door.
“Oh,” she said, looking at the roasting pan. “You brought it.”
I laughed.
“Well, you asked for it.”
“Owen asked,” she corrected. “Just put it on the counter.”
