My childhood attic was a place of mystery. Dark shadows under the eaves potentially hid mice. I dreaded hearing that quick scurry. But it also held trunks of treasures - Mother's wedding dress, books of jig-saw puzzles, Christmas decorations, pennants from trips, a rocker with a broken cane seat, rolls of old wallpaper, an old heavy tin camping set where all the utensils fit together in a snug lidded pot, and many other unexplored cartons.
But hanging from an east rafter was always a ham from the fall butchering, covered with fat and salt. From time to time, some adult person would go up and cut off a piece for our dinner. As I recall, Mother cooked it for hours with green beans and served it with mashed potates, a sweet/sour tomato cucumber salad and a sweet, creamy rice pudding that she simmered in her double boiler.
Heaven.
The anemic slice of ham slathered in plastic bearing the banner "Boars Head's Best" that I bought at Harris-Teeter yesterday should blush with shame.
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