I am standing at a huge freezer counter maybe ten feet long and it is filled with hams, bone-in, water added, spiral cut, shank, butt, shoulder, boiled, cured, smoked, raw and fully cooked. Meat has never been my strong point and I face cooking it with only scanty information and experience. My mother always bought the ham for Easter so I never bothered to learn ham language because she was always supposed to be there to cook the damn thing. She and my father would travel to Cuba City, Wisconsin, home of Weber's Meat Market, a fine German establishment and purchase a fresh ham, the pale, pink color of a rose's heart. She would inspect that chunk of meat and sometimes request a new cut not liking how the fat veined or some other mysterious process.