Looking back at my formative years in Southeastern Ontario, I’ve realized how many of my memories of Christmas smell like cloves and taste like pig. My mom’s Christmas ham was a beautiful beast. An un-apologetic 1950’s-syle mountain of honey-glazed pork covered in glowing orange slices shot through with cloves. The table would groan under the weight of the unwieldy thing, and our stomachs would groan with anticipation as it was carved. Read More