Carcinogens, Anyone?

Recently, I decided to be a Really Nice Wife and cook something for dinner that my hubs loves and I am indifferent to- because I'm not a Completely Selfless Wife who will cook something that he loves and I hate, like a cousin of mine who is a vegetarian and will regularly make her husband steak.  I'm nice, but I'm not THAT nice.  But anyway.  Back to the dinner.  For this particular dinner, I would be cooking up a nice little ham.  

Hubs has big, strong, man feelings about ham. When a holiday passes in which he believes a ham the designated meat to be consumed during said holiday's meal (Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Arbor Day, etc.), and no ham is present, he gets a little sad.  Or a lot sad.  And, well, I grew up in a house where ham was something you had in a sandwich with a slice of processed cheese food, but never for dinner.  So you can guess how often it crosses my mind to make a ham. 

But, on this night, I decided to make a ham.  I went online to investigate the appropriate cooking time and temperature for said hunk of cured pig and to determine the necessary internal temperature to ensure we would not regret eating it.  Armed with my knowledge, I went to the kitchen.  I set the ham in the baking dish and removed the packaging and then sent it happily into the oven.  Partway through the baking time, I pulled it out to drizzle my soy sauce and mustard glaze all over it, and then I came back a few times to brush the glaze on thickly.  It wasn't getting the shine I wanted and I was annoyed, but I supposed that this particular glazing concoction musn't be prone to shine.  If only that was the actual problem.

Upon slicing the meat, I noticed that the glaze had created a bit of a plastic-y coating on it.  It was difficult to slice through and not very appealing, but I didn't pay too much attention to it because I was thinking about the other components of the meal.  Or, I should say, I didn't pay too mush attention to it until my husband said, "Is this PLASTIC?"  

To which I replied, "No, I took the plastic off.  That's from the glaze."  

He looked at me utterly dumbfounded.  "NO, babe," he said slowly, pulling the substance in question off his plate, "this is plastic."  

"But I took the plastic off."

"Apparently not all of it."

Silence.  I looked at the clear, suspiciously plastic-looking ribbon in his fingers.  It seemed it was... well... uh... plastic.  I tried to come up with some sort of plausible culinary technique that required cooking a ham in plastic to explain my complete stupidity away, but came up with nothing.  (Shocking, isn't it?)  I smiled sheepishly.  "Oops."  

We ate the ham anyway.  

Or Not.

Perhaps my last post about me being a gourmet and such was a wee bit premature. I recently went to visit my husband who has been away on business for a long enough span that I was compelled to go visit him. During my stay, the hubs asked me to make some oatmeal for him one morning. Despite the utter lack of measuring devices and all familiar kitchen accoutrements, I agreed, because I am a team player and I make oatmeal multiple times a week and have mastered it.

Or not.

What was intended to be a little stove-top-cooked pot of stick-to-your-ribs love turned out to be something else. Something solid and inedible with the ability to defy gravity. That's right, DEFY GRAVITY. When hubs saw the abomination that was supposed to be his breakfast, he grabbed the pot, turned it upside down, and NOTHING HAPPENED. Not even one little lump of gluey horrendousness fell to the floor. And then my husband proceeded to laugh at me. A lot. Very loudly.

And that is why perhaps my previous post may have been a teensy, tinsy, almost imperceptible bit premature.