Not Just Talking Soup

I did it. I threw away the ham.

I had stopped picking at the leftover half not long after the party, when I couldn’t stand the thought of one more honey-baked slice. Still, the ham remained in the fridge. It was all about guilt, about not wasting. The Indians would use all parts of the buffalo, you see, and although this was more out of necessity and not so much about maintaining some abstract equilibrium with nature, still, I couldn’t bring myself to toss the pig.

I emailed my mother on her cruise ship with my dilemma. How long will ham last in the fridge, I wanted to know, and how can I turn it into soup? Specifically, that sublime soup she makes every year, just after Christmas. She took time from her wilderness excursions and tango lessons to reply. Soak small white navy beans overnight, she said. Boil them in tomato juice. Then something about bay leaves, onions, cutting ham off the bone, words to that effect. I have to be honest with myself. I'm not Mr. Chef-boy America. I only cook for special occasions, and usually when a girl is involved, one that needs impressing. The rest of the time, I'm okay with an aluminum can. I'm okay with barely edible oven-ready meals. I'm at peace with my sub-par gastronomic choices.

I decided against the soup, but left the ham in the fridge, just in case I changed my mind in the middle of the night. Perhaps I would be jerked awake with an overwhelming urge to chef-it-up. I could see myself jumping out of bed, rushing down the stairs, and doing a little dive and roll towards a wooden spoon and cutting board.

This never happened. The soup, like so many of my projects, did not make it past the concept. Just like the several dozen unfinished music loops, left dormant on my computer from attempted techno mixes. Or the hundreds of self-made promises that I will pick up the violin again and not throw away 13 years of lessons. Or all the unopened tablature books lying next to my guitar. Or the half-white, half-painted canvases, still bearing faint graphite marks from old pencil sketches. Or my sparsely-weeded garden, one abandoned work glove buried deeper every day in fresh batches of green. Or the stack of short letters never mailed to friends in France or Senegal, because I keep thinking I will spell-check the French. Or all those futile attempts to pursue a meaningful romantic relationship...…

I always feel like I'm a project or two away from accomplishment. Just a few simple tasks away from feeling content. But it's never the case. I scatter out my interests in fifty directions, and in turn I'm left with little to show for my efforts. I really admire the uber-motivated folk, the kind who like to talk about how they won’t let anything stand in their way and how they follow their dreams and whatnot. Well, maybe admire is too strong a word. Let's try...loathe. Yeah, that sounds better. I loathe how I can't get anything done.

Except maybe two long blog posts about ham. I’m all over that.