Donna had been married for four years and now that she had a real home and a 3-year-old daughter, in an unspoken yet predictable rite of passage, this set of circumstances conveyed upon her sufficient gravitas to host the yearly family dinner at Easter time. But it wasn’t until she was actually in the kitchen with her mother and Grandmamma that she learned to question the origins of the family holiday traditions she held so dear.
The menu itself took no planning: Without a second thought Sally knew there would be a pineapple-glazed ham with cloves, green beans, sweet potatoes, an assortment of pies and ice creams, and then coffee. Donna’s mother and Grandmamma, sitting at the kitchen table, sipping wine and watching her every move, had turned Donna’s small kitchen into an operating theater.
There was a palpable tension underneath the surface; past experience had taught all three women how quickly this could turn into conflict, usually over perceived criticism or hurt feelings because things were not done “just so” – that is, as they always had been, and how they always should be.
But, the two older women were careful not to spill their wine or to appear too judgmental of the young mother as she carefully tried to assume the role that had been passed down to her.
Although she tried to hide it, Donna was nervous. The ham had to go in the oven; the glaze was homemade; the yams still were not the perfect consistency; the green beans must be just so: not too crispy, but not limp, with just the exact amount of crunch. She worked with a formal, almost ceremonial efficiency while the two older women looked on.
As Donna hoisted the ham onto a wooden carving block and proceeded, carefully and expertly, to carve off exactly an inch and a half from each end, Grandmamma broke the silence and Sally’s already fragile confidence.
“Why on earth did you do that, dear?”
Donna could feel the blood begin to rise to her face. “Because this is how Mom always did it,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders and feeling foolish.
“That is exactly how you taught me, Mother!” Her mother, blessedly, came to Donna’s defense.
“I did?” asked Grandmamma, incredulous.
Now mother and daughter both chimed in. “Every year!”
Donna watched as her mother and her grandmother turned the question – and the implicit accusation – on each other. They stared for a few moments, trying desperately to recall the moment, years ago, in which this strange cooking ritual had been passed down.
Then Grandmamma started to laugh. She laughed so hard she almost wet her pants! She sputtered and spilled her wine. She had to hold onto the counter to keep from falling down to the floor, practically choking, trying to catch her breath.
Finally, she managed to sputter out:
“I cut… I cut the ends off… off the ham… because my pan was too small!”