“Ham”
Ham
Mimi made me a ham,
glazed with honey and smelling sweetly,
a surprise so I wouldn’t have to eat turkey.
The aroma greeted us as we entered,
lingering and melding with others,
bread and cranberries and pumpkin.
We were all gathered, talking over each other
about the small dramas that consume us,
catching up after months apart.
Mimi would fuss over the details,
direct whoever was around to place spoons
or get the rolls out of the oven.
I’d stand nervously waiting.
Papa would call us to settle and bow heads,
and he’d give thanks for the bounty and
say words about our health and Jesus.
Amens would follow, and the kids would
converge to be first to go through
a carefully laid out buffet line. I’d wait,
and my mom and I would exchange a look,
her giving me the permission I needed.
I’d get to the end of the line and pile turkey
onto my plate, skipping the ham,
a particular favorite of others.
Mimi eventually would sit down,
time finally for her to enjoy the company.
I wouldn’t say anything, avoiding conflict,
hoping she hadn’t noticed me
at the kids’ table in the adjacent room.
But she would notice, and she would apologize
and she and I would laugh about it.
She would make a mental note about
Brian not liking ham, a note she would lose.
The next time we’d gather,
the next time Mimi spent days cooking,
organizing everyone’s particular tastes,
I’d arrive again to the smell of a ham,
cooked especially for me, and I’d smile.
I still don’t eat ham,
but nobody makes it for me anymore.
Brian Fuchs, “Ham” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
Written 26 April 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska & 11 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Featured Image Art (right side): photo of Christine Tucker, my Mimi, & myself
–––––––––––––––
Original version:
Ham
If I had liked ham
maybe I wouldn’t have
disappointed at least one person.
She’d reveal the surprise,
glazed with honey and smelling sweetly,
the scent lingering from outside.
But it wasn’t me and I’d wrinkle
my forehead, politely thank her,
and eat my turkey, the ham meeting
with praise from enough
for my neglect to not seem to matter.
She’d notice, apologize, and make
a mental note that Brian doesn’t like ham,
a mental note she’d promptly lose.
And for the next gathering
requiring food preparation,
we’d repeat the game.
I still don’t like ham,
but nobody makes it for me anymore.
4.26.2008
“Mimi” is my mom’s mom, Bonita Christine “Chris” Tucker. She was the matriarch of our family; the force that connected us all and kept us together. She orchestrated every event that brought us together, reminded us to connect with one another, and nagged us all mercilessly. Mimi was an extremely confident woman who knew who she was. She was totally devoted to her husband, her God, & the other members of her church. She was generous with her money and her time, but was never afraid to tell you her opinion on what you were doing. Evidently, there wasn’t enough money to be made as a writer to justify her supporting it. I cherished talking to her. I would sit with her and talk about people for hours… she knew absolutely everything going on in Stillwater. But it never seemed like gossip. Mimi was a very good-hearted person.
That week was surreal. I still don’t remember much of it. Of course, it culminated in a beautiful funeral. I had gone back home to Tulsa to get some clothes and for the funeral I chose the shirt she had just given me for Christmas. The shirt was a gold knit with a collar. I wore khaki pants. I wouldn’t have felt right in dark colors and I really wanted to celebrate life. The funeral was made that much more difficult when I discovered that my cousins’ nanny was sitting with them and I couldn’t sit with my immediate family because of it. Furthermore, I ended up next to my mom’s friend, who had apparently not figured out that I was an adult and kept talking to me as if I were a child.
