Ham and Church

During our weekly trips to Kroger, while Erin peruses the fruits and vegetables, I make my way to the deli counter to carefully select the meat which will inevitably makeup my lunches for the following week.

Erin and I are both in favor of spending a little bit of extra money on deli meat. As I've grown older, I've lost my youthful exuberance for things like pimento loaf and the products of Carl Buddig. Therefore I try to select meats that are "non-slimy," to use an Erin term, and not pre-packaged.

So each week I pick a basic, but not too cheap, ham or roast beef for my lunches. On several occasions, I've heard people order "tavern ham" at the deli counter. This stuff is pricey (in the $8/pound range), so I haven't tried it, but this week I thought I'd give myself an early, pork-based Christmas gift, and oh my, is this stuff wonderful.

The ham in question is Boar's Head Tavern Ham. This is the Filet Mignon of the ham universe. So much flavor...so little slime. The perfect tenderness. Erin and I actually simultaneously called each other at our respective jobs, both wanting to discuss the greatness of this ham. Now I look forward to lunch everyday. Thank you Boar's Head.

Now about church. This week, I went to church on Sunday on my own, since Erin and the kids were all recovering from various ailments which would prevent them from entering most civilized countries. As I got dressed and ready to go, I realized how much I dislike going to church alone. (Due to my own ailments and traveling, I hadn't been to church in about a month, therefore I didn't feel right playing the "Get out of church free!" card this week.)

The basic problem for me is that I'm not very good at face to face communication, something apparently valued by other Christians. (Erin covers my deficiencies in this area very nicely, so when she's not around, I'm in a world of hurt. So much can go wrong for me in so little time, "Gee Mavis, I didn't realize you were still alive! Nice mole.") Therefore I left the house with just enough time to get to services so that I would minimize the mingling.

Historically, I have had an amazing knowledge of the streets and neighborhoods surrounding whatever church I attend. I know to the minute how many loops I need to make in order to kill six minutes. Occasionally I have fallen asleep in the church parking lot awaiting the passing of at least one opening song and perhaps a prayer or two.

This Sunday, I arrived just before things got rolling and took my seat at the back of the auditorium. A woman initially came in and placed her Bible a couple of chairs down from me, but when she returned to see "the alone guy" sitting at the end of the row, she shuffled a few seats down with a slight smile.

My least favorite part of any church service is the "turn, shake hands with thy neighbor, and try to ignore the festering wound on their person as you slowly pull your own, now sullied hand from theirs." It's even worse when you're by yourself, and you have a couple of minutes of chit-chat to kill. I discovered on Sunday that my identity in our new church is defined entirely as "the guy with the Chinese kid and the black kid." Until I mentioned that, I might as well have been the meter reader.

I don't blame anyone but myself for this. My answer to "So did you have a good week?" will always be, simply "Yes." And "How are the kids?" will always be returned with "Good." Therefore I don't expect anyone to know that I like 90's indie rock and have a penchant for tavern ham.

In a church made up 90% of families, I always feel bad for the few single guys around the room. For whatever reason, I think a stigma follows single guys at church, perhaps unfairly.

Any time the sermon involves drinking too much, you can sense the eyes slipping over to the 24 year old in wrinkled khakis, flipping through the maps at the back of his Bible. Same goes for sermons on pre-marital sex. You know those poor guys can feel the heat of the stares saying, "Stay the hell away from my daughter, single dude." I had this thought on Sunday as I glanced at Paul's 2nd and 3rd missionary journeys.

Following the service, I was the first one out the door. I was three blocks away before the preacher got to the back door for the post-service meet 'n greet. And when I'm without my family, that's just how I like it.