Blackened forest ham

What do a pound of butter, a pound of delicious unsliced bacon and half of a perfectly roasted roast beef have in common? One bad dog. All three items being readily available, near the top of the cooler, not far from a dog bed. A dog that was left at home by his lonesome and feeling sorry for himself. Castro, our black lab, has gotten used to us being around. Oh, and the ham at the bottom of the cooler would've had that dog in common too. Except for 20 or so barf spots with butter foil all over the yard.

There is apparently too much of a good thing.

There's not a lot can send me over the top.But when I stepped out of the truck and saw the remaining chunk of butter still in it's wrapper and next to that a package from, oh my fucking god, the bacon. I looked at my  bloated, farting, puking dog, I grabbed the butter and threw it repeatedly in his face. Yelling and screaming till my voice hurt. I hadn't yet noticed the roast missing. I had plans. Yummy fucking plans.

But my story is really about a ham. The one piece of meat that Cas' big bulging gut isn't trying to digest.
We try to console ourselves, Well at least he didn't eat the ham. I run at the cats who are joyfully licking the plate where the roast used to be. Well at least the house is warm, Dennis offers. Which means the door latched properly before we left. Castro has been known to do the downward dog lazily off the couch just as we are arriving home. This wouldn't be a huge deal except that he won't close the door behind himself.

Oh yeah, the ham.
Castro is banished to the outdoors, me snarling at him each time I go out to the cooler to set about cooking said ham. Something that will feed us for three days. We'd had enough meat to feed us for six or seven. Grrr, I say to Castro won't look at me. Slamming the lid down and heaving the propane heater on top of that. Mumbling something like fucking asshole as I protectively cuddle my ham and go back inside.

Just after Christmas... a Dutch oven jam packed with turkey. Turkey for days. A heavy Dutch oven with a lid, the one I cook bread in, the same one I cooked the roast in and the one I am now preparing to bake a ham in. A well-oiled machine.

It was miraculously nudged off the table by the same dog but we had just forgiven him for that. He's old and we love him - old not being an excuse to eat all the meat and butter, but rather we'd be sad if he died of a broken heart in the night. Se we better hurry up and forgive him again. Not tonight though. And at least we still have the ham.

Now, I don't know how it happened but the ham that I baked for two hours in a woodstove, drafts closed and not much going on inside came out - potatoes, salad and peas waiting for the big moment - mean and ugly. Smoking. Couldn't tell if there was much of anything left in the Dutch oven, just a burnt-black stink that quickly filled our little house. Squatting on my haunches in front of the stove poking a shrivelled chunk of charcoal proved to be to much for me. I headed off to my bed, the words at least we still have the ham a taunting memory. I cried myself to sleep. Well, actually Dennis rubbed me to sleep.

The Dutch oven was set outside for two days before I decided to see if I could clean it up, bring it back to a loving, happy life. The mean smoke was long gone and with a less emotional examination and fork poking I could see a lot of pink-colored meat. My ever-happy baby offered to clean 'er up, and out of the substantial and tasty remains we skipped to our usual last meal using a ham, pea soup. And, yea, even unto the last lovin' spoonful, we saw that it was good.

Tammy