It was snowing. Or raining. Or both.
That heavy slush that feels like grief and smells like February.
The ham wasn’t planned.
Mae had a concert, the kind where parents clap politely and whisper about whose kid can actually sing. I wanted something warm to come home to. I wanted the house to smell like something good.
So I found the recipe.
Her Highness. Of course.
Honey. Ginger. Cloves. Orange zest.
Like a memory disguised as a glaze.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version reads like a holiday postcard.
She says to mix clover honey with orange zest and juice, fresh ginger grated down to a paste, and just a whisper of ground cloves. Brush it over a spiral-sliced ham—bone-in, eight pounds, perfectly poised—and roast it slow.
Wrapped first. Then unwrapped. Then glazed. Then brushed again like you’re painting joy in layers.
She calls for D’Artagnan pork. I used what the store had. No label. Just weight.
Her version feels… curated.
Mine was something else.
What I Did Differently
Didn’t have orange-blossom honey. Used the clover one that’s been in the cabinet since the pandemic. Crystallized around the lid. Still worked.
Skipped the fresh ginger. Used the ground stuff and told myself it was fine. It was.
Only had one orange. Zested it straight over the bowl until my fingers stung.
Forgot the cloves the first time. Added them halfway through. They caught up.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The radio was playing old Motown. Mae’s voice echoed upstairs. I wrapped the ham in foil, parchment poking out like a bad hospital gown. Tucked it into the oven like a secret.
The first hour passed slow. I glazed in silence.
The second half, I burned my thumb. Not badly. Just enough to curse quietly.
Every 15 minutes, I brushed more glaze on. It dripped and hissed and smelled like something ancient—sweet, sharp, warm.
The last time I made a ham, it was Christmas. Before the divorce.
He carved it like he knew how.
He didn’t.
This time, I sliced it crooked.
But every piece shone.
A Few Things I Learned
- Glaze smells like memory when it hits heat.
- Don’t skip the parchment. The foil alone doesn’t catch the stick.
- Spiral hams are easier than they look.
- The quiet between bastings is longer than you think.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae made a sandwich at 10 p.m. with mustard and white bread. Called it “hammy bliss.”
I ate some cold from the fridge the next morning, standing barefoot on cold tile, wondering if I should’ve used more orange.
Froze the bone. Might make soup. Might forget it’s there.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. But not for a party.
For a quiet night. With music. And no one waiting.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The ham held heat for hours.
The radio stayed on, even after we stopped listening.
And the house smelled like sweetness, even the next day.
FAQs
Yeah—Just Reheat It Slow And Cover It So It Doesn’T Dry Out. It Won’T Sing Like It Did The First Day, But It Still Hums.
Nah. But Spiral Makes It Easier When You’Re Tired Or Distracted Or Emotionally Slicing After Wine.
Not If You Use Ground Like I Did. Fresh Has More Bite. Either Way, It Warms You Up.
Sure. It Won’T Collapse Without Them. They’Re The Background Singer, Not The Lead.
Foil Will Do. Just Be Ready To Scrub The Pan. I Wasn’T.
Yes. Any Kind That Pours. Even The One With The Crusty Lid From The Back Shelf.
Depends On The Dinner. But With Mustard On The Side? It Balances Out. Mae Called It “Dessert Meat.” She Meant It As A Compliment.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Honey-glazed Spiral Ham
Description
Sweet, Sticky, And Warm Enough To Make The House Feel Like Someone Still Lived In It.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Set the oven to 325°F. Took the ham out of its wrapping and patted it dry—gently, like it might bite. Stirred the honey, zest, juice, ginger, cloves, and pepper together in a chipped green bowl I’ve had since college.
- Wrapped the ham fat-side up in foil over parchment (trust me—foil alone’s a trap), put it in a pan, and baked it for about an hour.
- Unwrapped it carefully—juices were hot, hands were bare—and brushed on the glaze. Generously. Almost emotionally.
- Baked it again. Glazed it again. Every 15 minutes. The air smelled like old songs and almost-frost.
- Took it out when the top caramelized and started to crack. Let it sit. Sliced it messy. Didn’t apologize.