"The hams are in the back, Silas," Miller grunted, pointing a gnarled finger toward the cold room. "Honey-glazed and hickory-smoked. Pre-sliced, just the way Martha likes 'em so she doesn't have to wrestle with the carving knife."
"My grandad says in the old days, you had to slice the meat yourself," Leo said, eyes wide. "He says if you slipped, you’d lose a finger before you tasted the glaze."
Silas chuckled, placing the gold-wrapped ham on the counter. "Your grandad's right, Leo. But some things are worth making easier. This ham here? It means more time for stories and less time at the cutting board."
He paid his silver, tucked the cold weight under his arm, and stepped back out into the flurry of white. The spiral ham was more than dinner; it was the promise of a quiet afternoon, a full belly, and a holiday where the only thing being cut was the tension of a long year. He walked home, his boots crunching on the frost, carrying the gold-foiled heart of Christmas.
Silas nodded, stepping into the chilled air of the pantry. There they were, rows of spiral-cut hams wrapped in gold foil, shimmering like buried treasure under the dim yellow light. He picked one up, feeling the weight of it—ten pounds of tradition. The spiral cut was a marvel of the modern age to Silas; a single continuous path from top to bottom, ensuring every guest got a perfect, uniform slice drenched in sweetness.
