By December 2041. We had Christmas in Las Cruces for the first time in my adult life. Not at Mamá and Papá's — at ours, one block closer. They came on Christmas Eve and we made tamales together: Mamá and Lisa and Maya (who drove down with Diego and Keisha), Elena, and Priya. Marco came but said he was only there to eat, not to assemble, which is his right as a man with championship rings. Sofia and Adrienne flew in from Seattle and Adrienne said she'd been learning about tamales for weeks in preparation and then demonstrated a technique for spreading masa that she'd learned from a YouTube video and that was, genuinely, not far off from correct. We incorporated her technique without comment. She noticed and smiled.
The house full of people. Mamá at the counter where she's been making tamales since before I was born, now in my kitchen, a fact that requires no comment other than that it is exactly right. Papá at the table, watching, offering guidance at key moments like a coach who's retired but still attends practice. Maya at her step stool with her apron with her name on it, which she now considers non-negotiable for any kitchen activity. The tamale steam on the windows. Lisa's oil paint smell from the spare room where she'd worked all morning. The Organ Mountains at the end of the yard dark against the December sky.
I stood at the stove and stirred the posole I'd started at four in the morning and I thought: this is what I moved for. This is the exact thing I moved for. For Christmas to happen in this kitchen with these people in Las Cruces, where it was always supposed to happen. Home. Thirty-two years of leaving and returning. Finally returned. Finally home.
The posole was mine — started before dawn, stirred until the hominy bloomed — but a table full of people who’ve come from Seattle and across town and from thirty-two years of leaving deserve more than one pot to gather around. In the years since that Christmas Eve, whenever I’re recreating that feeling of a kitchen finally full of the right people, I anchor the table with this Brown Sugar Orange Glazed Spiral Ham: the kind of centerpiece that announces, without any words at all, that this is a real holiday, that everyone came home, that it was worth it.
Brown Sugar Orange Glazed Spiral Ham
Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 2 hrs 30 min | Total Time: 2 hrs 45 min | Servings: 12
Ingredients
- 1 fully cooked bone-in spiral-cut ham (8–10 lbs)
- 1 cup packed dark brown sugar
- 1/2 cup fresh orange juice
- 2 tablespoons orange zest
- 2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
- 1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
- 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
- 1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
Instructions
- Preheat and prep. Heat your oven to 325°F. Place the spiral ham cut-side down in a large roasting pan. Pour 1/2 cup of water into the bottom of the pan to keep the ham moist during roasting.
- Cover and begin roasting. Tent the ham loosely with aluminum foil and roast for approximately 15 minutes per pound — about 2 hours for a 8-pound ham — until an internal thermometer reads 130°F.
- Make the glaze. While the ham roasts, combine the brown sugar, orange juice, orange zest, Dijon mustard, apple cider vinegar, cinnamon, cloves, and ginger in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir and cook for 4–5 minutes until the sugar dissolves and the glaze thickens slightly. Remove from heat.
- Glaze the ham. Remove the foil from the ham. Brush a generous layer of glaze over the entire surface, working it between the spiral slices. Return the ham to the oven uncovered.
- Finish and caramelize. Roast uncovered for an additional 25–30 minutes, glazing once more halfway through, until the exterior is deep golden and caramelized and the internal temperature reaches 140°F.
- Rest and serve. Remove the ham from the oven and allow it to rest for 15 minutes before transferring to a serving platter. Spoon any pan drippings over the top for extra richness.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 410 | Protein: 38g | Fat: 16g | Carbs: 22g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 1380mg