Ribboned with fat and gleaming with a clove-studded glaze,Tom Parker Bowles sings the praises of the succulent Christmas ham.
Christmas just ain’t Christmas without the festive ham. Sure, there will always be those deluded folk who believe the terrible triumvirate of turkey, mince pies and plum pudding represent the very essence of edible festive cheer. More fool them. As regular readers of this column will know, I have little time for such turgid Victorian fancies. But, rather than linger on the very distillation of dyspeptic dining, I want to concentrate on the true king of the yuletide feast, that mighty monolith, pale pink in hue, ribboned with luscious fat, gleaming with glaze and studded with cloves.
Brave would be the man who could pass a sight so touching in its majesty. And stupid too. Seriously, who could resist the eternally plaintive, plangent appeal of this sweet-salty delight. It’s the very pinnacle of British cured pork, every bit the equal of Italian culatello or Spanish pata negra. And the transformation from plain hind leg of porker, to close-textured, gently saline delight is one as miraculous as that of coal to diamond. Albeit at a rather faster rate.
As ever, the best ham starts with the happiest pig, a proper free ranger, allowed to snuffle and root in the great outdoors and given enough time to naturally grow to a decent weight. Those sad, horribly abused, factory farmed specimens not only have the most wretched of lives, but suffer the final indignity of producing a flabby, sallow end product with all the edible appeal of wet rubber.
“It’s impossible to walk past without carving off a thick slice, to be eaten on the hoof”
Ham is, of course, a product born from necessity. As winter drew near, the household pig would be slaughtered, cured into various hams, bacons and salt pork, with nothing wasted but the oink. Either wet cured in spiced brine, or rubbed with salt and spices, it would then be left to cure for a few weeks. An hour or four over a gently smoking fire adds still more flavour.
And what a choice we have: York, dry cured and dry textured, often with a subtle oak smoke. Both Auguste Escoffier and Charles Elmé Francatelli, the two superstar chefs of the Victorian era, thought it world class. There’s the gentle sweetness of the Suffolk cure, the chewy, air-dried depth of a dry-salted Cumbrian, simply hung from the rafter to mature, and the rich, wet-cured magnificence of the Bradenham (similar to a Shropshire Black), with its coal-dark exterior and deep molasses allure.
Back to the Christmas superstar. It’s impossible to walk past without carving off a thick slice, to be eaten on the hoof. Or lustily smeared with Colman’s and jammed between two slices of good bread. Or gently fried in butter and topped with a brace of fried eggs. Or… the list is as long as it is lovely. Unlike that dreary pair of socks or some ghastly mini bottle of flavoured gin, ham really is the gift that keeps on giving. So, this Christmas, stuff turkey and slam in that ham.
Recipe: Rick Stein’s glazed Christmas ham
‘Ham from Rick Stein?’ I hear you cry. He may be the piscine pope, but he’s also a jolly fine cook of everything else, too. I’ve really loved his last few books, which move from the fish (or country) specific to the rather more personal. This comes from Rick Stein at Home and it’s a proper Christmas cracker (above). Buy your gammon from your butcher and do substitute smoked for unsmoked, if that’s what you prefer.
Ingredients
Serves up to 10
- 8kg unsmoked boned and rolled gammon
- 600ml cider
- 1½tspn black peppercorns
- 6 cloves
- ½tspn chilli flakes
- 4 bay leaves
For the glaze
- 3tspn English mustard
- 60g soft brown sugar
- 12–15 cloves
Method
Some gammon can be quite salty. To test it, cut a thin slice from the end of the raw joint and add it to a pan of simmering water. Cook for about five minutes, then taste. If it’s too salty, soak the joint in cold water overnight and then drain.
Put the gammon in a large pan or stockpot, add the cider and enough water to cover the meat. Add the peppercorns, cloves, chilli flakes and bay leaves, and bring to the boil.
Immediately turn down the heat so that the water is barely simmering and cook for about 1½–2 hours or until the internal temperature when tested with a probe in the centre of the meat registers 65˚C. Turn off the heat and allow the meat to cool in the water. Remove the cooled meat, but don’t throw the liquor away.
Preheat the oven to 210˚C/190˚C fan/425˚F/gas mark 7.
Mix the mustard and sugar together in a small bowl. Using a sharp knife, remove any string from the meat and then take off the rind. Score the fat with a sharp knife in a diamond pattern and stud the meat with a clove at each intersection.
Set the meat on a wire rack or trivet in a roasting tin and add about 120ml of water to the tin. Then, using the back of a spoon or a brush, spread two-thirds of the glaze over the fat. Transfer to the preheated oven for 15 minutes, then brush with the remaining glaze. Top up the water if necessary and return to the oven for a further 10 minutes until browned. Remove the tin from the oven and allow the ham to cool before carving.
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