I’ve decided that I want a big, fat-marbled fantasy ham – the sort that hangs from the ceiling looking rustic. God, that would be the greatest thing ever. It would go something like this:
“Would I like some ham, now? Yes, I think I would. Oh hey, look over there! A big wad of ham from which I may cleave many meaty wodges!”
I never buy meat, see. It’s too expensive, and I don’t know how to cook it. Mostly this doesn’t bother me, as I grew up eating 15 oz of steak every evening, cooked rare enough to kill anyone who hasn’t been carefully conditioned to withstand all varieties of probable bacteria. The bloom is off the rose. But not today. Today I want HAM. And perhaps an entire goblin larder to go with it.