An Unusual Relationship

The Elusive Ham Unicorn

My love affair began when I was a child. My mother used to cook amazing food. The scent of her cooking and the taste of her meals still fill my nose. She has been gone for over a decade. What kind of voodoo is that?

During the holidays, she would make a ham. She sprinkled a little of this and a little of that. She would pay close attention to it, keeping it moist and lovingly basting it every so often. Then she would add the sweet to the savory meat by adding pineapple rings with a cherry in the middle of each one.

I don’t ever remember eating sides with it, though I know we did. The star for me was the ham. I hate ham. What did I just say?

Yes, you heard me right. I hate ham. I always have. I don’t know why. The only ham I have ever liked was my mother’s. I don’t know where she bought the smoked meat, but each year it tasted the same and was wonderful.

I have a love-hate relationship with ham. My entire family laughs at that and then asks me why I even try to eat it if that is the case. I try ham every time I see it. I do.

Let me explain. I am a good cook. I have a strong sense of smell and taste. So strong that if you list the ingredients of a dish and tell me how it’s prepared, I can taste it in my head. It’s a weird phenomenon. Food memories are real.

Memories can be tied to food, the place you ate, what you ate, and so on. Often, a memory is triggered by a food or a smell. Sometimes, it's people or emotions as well.

The first time I made Konigsberger Klops (pronounced cur-neegs-burger clups), I cried. I cried because I used my mother’s recipe, and it turned out exactly like hers, down to the spatzle. The smell and the first bite brought back flashbacks of mom and the meals we cooked and ate together.

Each bite transported me to my childhood and simpler times. Times before responsibility and the stresses of the world, when my biggest concern was whether I could go down to the lake for a swim or a skate that day. Magical times.

For decades, as an adult, I tried ham at every turn. I could not stand it. It was always either too salty, too sweet, or too smoky. I dislike smoked foods. Not that wood smoking is bad or imparts a bad taste, but most of the time, that smokiness and flavor have been artificially added with liquid smoke. Who on earth decided it would be awesome to make a liquid that tastes like a burnt forest or a charred home? It’s nuts.

If you think torturing myself by forcing myself to try ham again and again is a new psychological disorder, which it may be or should be, I would make a ham or two every year for special occasions. Then I would stop eating it after a bite. I hated it, even though I knew it tasted great to my guests or family. I was searching.

The smells were always on point whenever I cooked a ham. I could smell memories lingering at the edge of my mind, waiting to be set free with the very first bite of ham. But those first bites would slip away, elusive with every bite I took over the years.

Then it happened. I ordered a hog from a local butcher here in Kansas one day. It is a more efficient way to buy meat and a whole lot cheaper per pound. If you can get past the need to know which cuts are where on a pig and how you want the butcher to process it, I do recommend it.

I placed my order and gave the cut order to the local butcher. When we came to the legs, the question was posed. Did I want the hindquarters left as roasts or made into hams? I said both. One was just like pork; the other was smoked, as my nemesis, ham. I think I am certifiable.

A few months later, I made the ham. By then, I had wised up and always prepared an alternative meat for myself. But I made the ham as usual.

The smells were that familiar tease I gave myself every ham occasion. The preparation and cooking process was the same, my mother’s way. I knew the disappointment and the waste of my time, and hope would always come.

I plated the beautiful dish and served everyone. I took a slice and placed it on my plate, and we all sat down to eat.

“Let’s get it over with,” I thought, and I grabbed the morsel and put it in my mouth. To say I immediately broke down in tears is a sorry understatement. I had to leave the room for a minute to get myself together. When I came back, my husband, who was in the kitchen as I plated a full serving of this mystical unicorn, asked what happened.

I told him I had done it. I had finally found my mom’s ham. I had. It was such a magical moment for me. No, I know it’s silly, but it was.

Just thinking about that day, that exact moment, makes my eyes well up. Every memory of mom and of meals with her, every holiday and cuddle I ever had with her, played in my head like an old black-and-white silent film, but in full-on Technicolor.

I buy that ham and only that butcher’s ham each year. I love ham.

I am a nostalgia addict, and I don’t even think about coming at me with a 12-step program to get me off of mom’s ham. When I make the elusive ham, I get to remember in three dimensions.

(Published by Pen With Paper on Medium, June 2026)

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