Ham Stand

In this Christmas season, I thought I would share a cherished Smith tradition.

We are all at my parents house. The kid are in he playroom, making a disaster of the floor. Toys everywhere. Aunts and uncles are in the family room, enjoying in ice tea and coffee. Shelly is there with them, too, crocheting. The food is almost done, so Mom, Dad and I are running around the kitchen.

Dad is adding butter to the top of his pepperoni rolls. Mom is adjusting everyhhng on the counter, making sure there is enough space when we make a buffet line. I, though, may have the most important kob of all. I am master of the ham stand.

Two years ago, as a result of this tradition, adn perhaps the overabondance in zeal the men in the family have taken with it, we all relieved a ham stand for Christmas. I'm embarrassed to say, I don't know where my stand is. I'm past the days of making it a center piece, or trying to figure out how you can gt a turkey propped up on it. So, it is missing. I hope that doesn't call into question my bility to serve.

Then last year we had a near catastrophe. The ham stand was missing, completely gone. Perhaps my mm, too, had relegated hers to the back of some cupboard. The was her tradition, how could he o easily dismissi. I ran the house, every cabinet, until the glorious, shiny piece of pig supporting chrome was found. With.victory, I held it above my head s I marched it into the kitchen. Christmas was saved.

Now this year, the ham stand was present, ready and waiting when I arrived. My mom then tells me the ham is too big. I'll never gt it on the sand, she says. This is cruelty. She brings out the stand, the Han is almost done, then she says I can't do it. I will not be defeated. I will not have this tradition tread upon.

The ham is huge. It is like some something from the Fintsones, enough met to feed a small country. The ham and look insignificant to the task. I consider duct tape, but that won't do. I make sure he stand is level in a spot it win't slide around. A select the giant black forks, like little pitchforks, for maimum leverage. I lift the beast. I can feel the muscles in my back pull, as I move the non sliced end over the top of the stand. The angle is right and the balance is good. It is go time. I press the meat, with all my might into the hole of the stand. It squeezes into place and sticks. It looks like an ant apcarrying a sandwich, but it holds. I step away and admire the beauty.

Now we can eat.