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Ham with Mustard-Cream Sauce -- The Ham That Holds Christmas Together

Christmas week approaches, and the house is full in every sense — full of people, full of food, full of the particular energy that comes from five humans sharing a space that was designed for fewer and that has expanded, through love and necessity, to hold them all. The antique dining table is set for Christmas dinner already, six days early, because Mama asked me to set it and Mama's requests are granted immediately now, because the window for granting them is narrowing and every granted request is a victory against the disease that is taking everything else.

Joy will come for Christmas Day. Sandra from Pathways will bring her in the morning and pick her up in the evening, and in between, Joy will be part of the celebration in the way that Joy is part of everything: fully, loudly, without the self-consciousness that makes the rest of us perform our joy rather than live it. I bought her a new set of paints — the good kind, artist-grade acrylics — because Joy's art deserves good materials, and the giving of good materials is a form of respect that Joy may not articulate but will absolutely feel.

Carrie has been writing Christmas cards in Japanese — a project she undertook without explanation and that I discovered when I found a stack of cards on her desk, each one addressed in English and inscribed in hiragana. She is writing to the friends she made at the Japan Society program, and the writing is a thread — thin, stretched across an ocean — that connects her to the life she is building beyond this house. I am proud of the thread. I am afraid of it too. Both feelings are true. Both feelings are mine.

The fruitcake is ready. Three weeks of curing, and the bourbon has done its work — transforming what was dense and heavy into something rich and deep and complex, the way time transforms grief into memory and memory into gratitude. Mama tasted it on Sunday and said, "That's right," which is her highest praise, her shortest sentence, her most complete review. Two words that contain decades of fruitcake, decades of Christmas, decades of a woman who knows exactly what "right" tastes like and does not waste words on anything that isn't.

The Christmas dinner is planned: she-crab soup to start, then roast ham with red-eye gravy, collard greens, mac and cheese, sweet potato casserole, cornbread, and for dessert, the fruitcake and the peach cobbler, because Christmas is not the meal for choosing between traditions. It is the meal for having them all.

The Christmas dinner Mama helped me plan always centers on the ham — and this year, I wanted the ham to be worthy of the table I set six days early, worthy of the fruitcake that earned two words, worthy of every person who will sit in that dining room and feel, for a few hours, that the world is exactly the right size. Ham with Mustard-Cream Sauce is the recipe I return to when I need a dish that is both generous and precise — a sauce that asks you to slow down and pay attention, which is exactly what this Christmas is asking all of us to do.

Ham with Mustard-Cream Sauce

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 2 hours 30 minutes | Total Time: 2 hours 50 minutes | Servings: 12

Ingredients

  • 1 bone-in fully cooked ham (7 to 8 lbs)
  • 1/4 cup packed light brown sugar
  • 2 tablespoons Dijon mustard, divided
  • 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
  • 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
  • 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
  • 1 cup low-sodium chicken broth
  • 3/4 cup heavy whipping cream
  • 1 tablespoon whole-grain mustard
  • 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar
  • Salt and black pepper to taste
  • Fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped, for garnish

Instructions

  1. Preheat and prep. Preheat your oven to 325°F. Place the ham cut-side down in a large roasting pan. Score the surface in a shallow diamond pattern with a sharp knife, cutting about 1/4 inch deep.
  2. Make the glaze. In a small bowl, stir together the brown sugar, 1 tablespoon of the Dijon mustard, and the ground cloves until a thick paste forms. Brush the glaze evenly over the entire surface of the ham.
  3. Roast the ham. Cover the roasting pan tightly with foil and roast for 1 hour 45 minutes. Remove the foil and continue roasting for an additional 30 to 45 minutes, basting with pan drippings every 15 minutes, until the surface is caramelized and a thermometer inserted in the thickest part reads 140°F.
  4. Rest the ham. Transfer the ham to a cutting board, tent loosely with foil, and allow it to rest for at least 20 minutes before carving. Reserve 1/4 cup of the pan drippings for the sauce.
  5. Build the mustard-cream sauce. In a medium saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter. Whisk in the flour and cook, stirring constantly, for 1 minute until the mixture turns lightly golden and smells nutty.
  6. Add liquids. Slowly whisk in the chicken broth and reserved pan drippings, a little at a time, until fully incorporated and smooth. Bring to a gentle simmer and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, stirring, until slightly thickened.
  7. Finish the sauce. Reduce the heat to low. Stir in the heavy cream, remaining 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard, whole-grain mustard, and apple cider vinegar. Simmer gently for 3 to 5 minutes until the sauce coats the back of a spoon. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
  8. Serve. Carve the ham into slices and arrange on a large platter. Drizzle several spoonfuls of the mustard-cream sauce over the top and transfer the remainder to a warmed gravy boat. Garnish with chopped parsley and serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 410 | Protein: 38g | Fat: 24g | Carbs: 8g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 1380mg

Naomi Blackwood
About the cook who shared this
Naomi Blackwood
Week 143 of Naomi’s 30-year story · Charleston, South Carolina
Naomi is a retired librarian from Charleston who spent thirty-one years putting books in people's hands and now spends her days putting her mother's Lowcountry recipes on paper before they're lost. She survived her husband's affair, her father's sudden death, and the long goodbye of her mother's final years. She cooks she-crab soup in a bowl that Carolyn brought from Beaufort, and in every spoonful you can taste the marsh and the memory and the grace of a woman who chose to stay and rebuild.

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