The poet Paul Muldoon wrote wonderfully, in Profumo, of his mother going ‘from ham to snobbish ham’. Plastic-wrapped, sliver-thin and pinkly shiny, it has its place. But the real thing is such a treat; such an ordinary treat, nothing fancy, but enormously uplifting. And it’s just right for Saturday lunch: nothing to do except throw everything in a pan and then the whole house becomes imbued with savoury, clove-scented fog. Buy more than you want and then eat it cold for supper with poached eggs, or in a sandwich, or chopped in a pea soup cooked with the cidery stock the ham itself was cooking in. I love nothing more, on a Saturday night in, than a bowl of thick and grainy pea soup eaten with a spoon in my right hand while my left holds (for alternating mouthfuls), a ham sandwich, good and mustardy, made with unsalted butter and white bread, real or plastic (both have their merits). The leftover stock also makes the basis for excellent risotti (orzotto) and can be used to add depth and pungency to an ordinary chicken casserole.
