All I Want for Christmas Is Deer Ham
The steam that rises from a deer’s entrails on a cold December morning is equal parts comforting and barbaric. On one (literal) hand, you might have a warm liver warming your cold fingers. On the other metaphorical one, you’ve emptied an animal’s rib cage of everything that kept it alive, the organs spilled onto the dirt like an overturned laundry basket. At 16 years old, I hated the hunt because it was freezing and I couldn't talk for fear of scaring the deer away. But once we made the kill and did the field dressing and dragged it home, it was worth it, even if I didn't realize it yet.
I haven’t been hunting in over a decade, which is probably best for all involved: the deer, me, and my dad, who had to drag me out into the woods surrounding Douglas Lake in east Tennessee for six years in a row. It took twelve different trips for me to finally kill my own deer, and by that point, my dad and I agreed that it was a miracle that it had happened at all. But even after retiring my hunting boots and leaving Tennessee, I can't imagine a Christmas without a deer ham. Your Christmas ham is salty and tastes like a grocery store. Mine has more of a gamey, umami flavor. Deeper than the flavor itself, there’s also a sense of accomplishment, because I know how it came to feed our family.
If there was a season where something could be hunted, my dad was out there opening weekend. Turkey in the spring. Goose and duck in the winter. And in the fall through early winter, Dad would meet his bag limit on deer and stock our freezer with venison, making sure to save one hunk for Christmas. Then, days before the holiday, Mom would dig through our stash of meats, unearthing that lone deer ham—the name we gave to the cut of meat that contains the shank and shoulder—to thaw for cooking.
Early in life, I was blind to the fact that few other families ate as much deer and wild game as we did, but the older I got, the more it settled in and bothered me. I wanted to be like those Norman Rockwell-esque clans who lived in subdivisions and cooked all the traditional foods you’re supposed to have on Christmas. That felt more legitimate to me. All the while, I'd drag myself out of bed at 3:30 a.m. twice a year during deer hunting season, layer myself in no less than six inches of camouflage padding, and tag along hunting with my dad. I’d waddle into the woods behind him, plop down against a tree, and wait for it to all be over. Eventually, I’d fake a stomachache around 7:00 a.m. so that we could go back home. Even after I killed my one deer at 16, I wasn’t convinced that these excursions were anything more than sniping an animal down in the woods. I didn't want to be the hunting kid. I didn’t see it as something to be proud of.
Well after I left for college, my mom and I had a conversation about the way she and my dad raised me and all that game we ate growing up. Early on in their marriage, when my brother and I were still babies, money was tight. For anyone who has frequented a grocery store, it’s common knowledge that meat is one of the priciest items on the shopping list. To help make ends meet when his construction work was limited, my dad could always depend on his ability to go out into the woods and bring something home, because game was a cheaper alternative to beef. And yeah, our situation improved, but by that time, hunting had come to mean more than just shooting a living creature. All of those animals were sacrifices for my family—sacrifices that sometimes required looking into an eye before taking a life. That Christmas ham that anchors our dinner table, technically just smoked deer shoulder, is a reminder of the pride and determination that defines us.
That’s a lot easier for me to see at 30 than it was at 13. Granted, I still refuse to go hunting. I try to avoid being awake at 3:30 a.m., no matter the occasion. But with time and perspective, I wish I could go back and talk to the kid who would have traded deer meat for steak. I wish I could explain to him how important that meat was and how he could have tried a little harder to be a better sport in the woods. I want to tell him that my family was anything but a stereotype, and how after college, I'd move away and want nothing but a deer ham. But I suppose that defeats the purpose of learning a lesson.
Now, when we sit around the table each December in Knoxville and join hands and Dad says the blessing over Christmas dinner, I find myself breaking the rules and opening my eyes. I look at this table with deviled eggs and homemade macaroni and cheese. I look at my mom, eyes closed and determined, because in this moment she can relish the rare occasion of having all four of us at home. But I always find the deer ham last, because it represents something much bigger than, you know, a deer ham. We’re grateful that we’re here together, sharing this thing that has taken care of us for years. If I could blink my eyes and replace it with the nicest cut of ham in the world, I wouldn’t. There’s no way it’d taste as good.
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