It's Easter Sunday. I walk out to the kitchen to survey the progress of the ham in the oven, because a good ham is the way to my heart. Forget diamond rings. Can you make a good ham? Maybe we'll end up alright.
Anyway, I peek at this ham like the dad in A Christmas Story. I actually stick my hand in the oven in order to pry off one of the end slices, and my mother's pork senses activate in the other room. Just as the skin is melting off my fingers and I'm about to dislodge a delicious slice of sweet honey ham, I hear "ASHLEY GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF THE HAM."
Then I look up at the oven. It says 2:33 left, and I cry a little inside at having to wait another two and a half hours. The turkeys that are usually running around through the backyard are probably laughing their asses off at me. I trudge dejectedly out of the kitchen.
I come back later in search of a crescent roll, and I happen to glance at the oven again. The display now says 3:17. I stand for a moment, crescent roll sticking out of my mouth, completely flabbergasted. I chew the last of the crescent. I take a step out of the kitchen to find my mother's eyes already on me, just waiting to yell at me for getting at the ham again.
And then it happens. The confused expression is still on my face. I glance back at the oven. Then I say the dumbest thing I've ever said in my entire life.
"Why does the time left for the ham keep going up?"
She stares at me. Then I get it. Instantly I get it. But it's too late. The damage is done. This is normally something that would happen to my mother. Normally she says something ridiculous and I get to make fun of her for the next hour. And she's not about to let this go. Not now, not five years from now, not when we run into my boss in public, not when she meets whoever it is that I end up marrying.
"Ashley, that's the CLOCK."
Just shoot me now. Ah well, at least the ham was a salty sweet meaty dream of juicy deliciousness.*
*Don't even say it. I know what you're thinking. Barbeque ribs, am I right?