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H O W TO PIC K A H A M : A G UIDE FOR THE C U L IN A R IL Y CHALLENG ED by TAMARA STADNYCHENKO I am not a cook. I can, under duress, prepare a meal that is edible and on occasion even moderately enjoyable, but like Herman Melville's Bartleby, I would prefer not to. I find the Joy of Cooking to be an oxymoron and I marvel at those people who delight in exchanging recipes or recounting in great detail the ingredients of last night's souffle. When they begin to mention pinches of this or dashes of that, I raise my hand and ask if I may be excused. Close friends and relatives know that dinner at my place means bring your own food or settle for Domino's pizza. I am awed and intimidated by people who have large collections of cookbooks which they actually use. I own (by inheritance only ) a Betty Crocker cookbook which I look at occasionally and then replace on the top shelf of my pantry with the resignation of one who has never learned to read a foreign language. The vocabulary may be there, but the sentence structure is incomprehensible and the nuances are lost in the translation. I also own a marvelously straightforward Ukrainian cookbook which I consult assiduously once a year. Every Christmas I bake twelve Makivnyky (poppy seed rolls), not because I want to bake twelve, but because I don't know how to divide the eggs, flour, butter and yeast called for in the recipe into smaller proportions. My third cookbook, the one I peruse about once every two months, is Peg Bracken's "The I Hate to Cook Book." It is funny and I relate to it quite well. Mostly I read passages that catch my fancy without cooking anything at all. My biggest culinary extravaganza was learning to prepare a Thanksgiving dinner for fifteen people. After years of practice I managed to make the turkey and the potatoes and the gravy and all the rest of the trimmings come out on time, serve everybody, clean up, and thank God that Thanksgiving wouldn't happen again for a whole year. Christmas Eve has always been celebrated at my parents' home with mama cooking the traditional Ukrainian twelve course dinner. Easter has always been celebrated at my godmother's house with ham for those who liked it and turkey for those who didn't. I could never understand how one kitchen could produce both a turkey and a ham at the same time, and though nothing in the world would make me attempt such a juggling feat, I am filled with admiration for those who can. Last year, assorted circumstances prevented the Easter trip to my godmother's house and my mother asked if I would mind doing a small Easter dinner just for the family. "Nothing fancy," she said. "Just a ham. That's easy." I don't know what possessed her to make such a request or what possessed me to acquiesce. But having agreed, I was committed. I comforted myself with a mantra composed especially for the occasions: howhardcanitbe, howhardcanitbe, howhardcanitbe. On Good Friday I drove to the local supermarket to pick up a ham. And there they were. Brand name hams and no name hams, Hickory smoked hams, spiral cut hams, whole hams, half hams, pre cooked hams, glazed hams, ham butts, ham shanks, ham slices - an entire universe of hams to choose from. I picked one up and put it down. I picked up another and put it down. I picked up a third and put it down. My mantra was powerless and I tried in vain to conjure up the voices of Julia Childs or Betty Crocker or even Peg Bracken. "Come on, ladies," I pleaded. "Just a hint. Just this once. Please." Julia cackled. Betty smirked. Peg giggled. And the hames ... well, the hams just sat there hostile and silent. I was picking up the eleventh or twelfth ham in the bin when a woman who looked as dazed as I felt approached and asked me the difference between a butt and a shank. I sheepishly confessed that I didn't have a clue. She joined me in my game of dumiy vodu lyav* and there we stood, picking up one ham after another, putting them down and shaking our heads in total confusion. She passed me a ham and asked me what I thought of it. I passed her a ham and asked her what she thought of it. Neither of us made any progress, but we persevered. I discovered on that Good Friday that misery does indeed love company for we were soon joined by a third woman who informed us that she really didn't know much about hams and would we please explain to her what the difference was between a butt and a shank. We explained all right and she, reassured that she had fallen in with kindred spirits, assumed the position and joined us in our maneuvers. A trio now, we intrepidly “НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, КВІТЕНЬ 1999 19
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