If I can wind our minds back to ancient history for a
moment, the day my housemate left to spend Christmas and
New Year's with his family in country South Australia he
gave me a Christmas gift: a leg of smoked ham. OK I spent
the Christmas break in a house by myself with four-and-a-half
kilograms of smoked ham.
Four-and-a-half kilograms. What are you supposed to do?
It has been several weeks now since Christmas and I am still eating ham. Ham on toast for breakfast. Ham sandwiches for lunch. Ham in my noodles for dinner. Ham on Ritzes in front of West Wing DVDs before I go to bed.
“Hey guys,” I tell my friends, “come over to my place and we'll have ham.”
Ham béarnaise.
Trifle with ham.
Gin and tonic and ham.
Lobster Thermidor aux Crevette with a mornay sauce served in a Provençale manner with shallots and aubergines garnished with truffle paté, brandy and with a fried egg on top and ham.
Just between you and me — I think that's too much ham.