Spring daffodills growing by the tiny creek feeding our pond. Spring is here earlier than last year and seems to be getting earlier each year. Too bad we have not had very much sun. And now it is a bit chilly. We're expecting below freezing temperatures tonight and I hope all the fruiting buds don't suffer because of it. The pond tends to ameliorate the colder temperatures such that we will have fruit some years when our neighbors don't. Fingers crossed ...

Well. It came as quite a surprise, the other day, when I prepared a new recipe - Parsleyed Ham.

I found it in a recipe book with stories and recipes from the grandmothers of Lyon. Evidently, all good French recipes were initially discovered and developed in Lyon by our ancestors - except tarte tatin, which was the result of a mistake in the Sologne. My attempt at parsleyed ham, though, looked simply wonderful - just like the picture in the cookbook. However ... it tasted like ... SPAM (Hormel's trademarked, canned meat product). OK, laugh a bit at my expense. But that got me wondering. What is SPAM, exactly? And why does my parsleyed ham taste so much like it?

According to the Hormel website, SPAM was "invented" in 1937. But, beyond the simple list of ingredients (pork shoulder, ham, salt, water, potato starch and sodium nitrate), there is nothing that relates to it's "discovery." And I know it has spices that give it a distinctive flavor, but they aren't listed. Nothing about that marvelous cook (now, this is my imagination, just after a large cup of coffee), newly immigrated from France (Lyon, naturally), the newest employee in the Hormel kitchens, trying out his (or her) grandmother's recipe for parsleyed ham and then, when inspiration struck, canning it, making the Hormel company lots of money (she later received a "Thank You" card after 25 years of production and one billion cans sold).

Could it be that simple?

Could SPAM really just be canned, parsleyed ham? I say, "Why not?" Recipes travel around the world; and I'm sure there was someone living in Austin, Minnesota (the home of Hormel) with a French background in the 1930's (my imagined immigrant chef, maybe). So, as far as I'm concerned, parsleyed ham is the forerunner of SPAM. Therefore, under my thesis, SPAM is really French food. That means, of course, next time an American political party gets angry with the French for not going to war when the whim asserts itself, SPAM will have to be taken off the table ...

Marie-Louise tried it.

"Yuk," she said.

Oh, not because of the taste (though, that might have had something to do with it, too). No, rather, she doesn't like anything "slithy" (from slimy and lithe, thanks to Lewis Carroll) in her mouth. The recipe calls for cooked ham (and its herbs and spices) to be ladeled into a mould along with its juices, forming an aspic when cooled.

So, I tried something else - I put the whole thing, now cooled but not yet stiff, into my food processor and, well, processed it; then I poured it back into the mould. The next day, out of the refrigerator and sliced, it sure looked like (you know what). Tasted like it, too.

Now, who says that living in France isn't full of odd surprises?

Here's the recipe. Try it yourself, especially if you like SPAM. This is fresher and isn't full of nitrates and nitrites. It must be be healthier, yes?

These ingredients serve four to five comfortably. They can easily be halved or doubled.

Parsleyed Ham

Simmer for a few hours, skimming the top of foam and whatnot. When the ham is falling-off-the-bone tender, take it from the liquid and cool. Filter the stock, keeping only the liquid.

Once cooled, remove the tough skin from the ham as well as its bone, then chop the meat and fat (don't forget the fat - it's not very much and it adds juciness) into a variety of small and large pieces. Add the meat to the shallot, garlic and parsley.

I know these spices seems to be so little for such a lot of meat. But they are just right, becoming subtle and virtually unidentifiable flavors. Put the mixture into your favorite parsleyed ham terrine and pour the strained stock over until it completely covers the mix. If you didn't have a calf's foot, add and stir in gelatin to the warm stock at a ratio of one, ¼-ounce package per two cups of liquid. If you have gelatin leaves, seven grams (or ¼ ounce - usually 3½ leaves) should have the same binding power for each two cups of liquid. Cover the terrine and chill for a day.

Serve in slices all by itself for a small lucheon with cornichons, French baguette, maybe some mustard and pickled onions or as an appetizer before dinner. When sliced, it is rather pretty with its meat, shallots and parsley suspended in the aspic.

Or, you can do what I did and turn it into mush in your food processor, using enough stock to make a loose slurry which will then bind everything together. Then chill it for the morrow. This time, when it is sliced, it will be uniform and taste very much like, well - "you-know-what."