When my wife told me we had dinner plans with friends on a Saturday night, I didn’t flinch. In fact, I cheered the development because I like to get out when I can.

We were kid-free on this particular weekend so I really appreciated the idea. A Saturday evening in Dillsburg with Maria’s best friend from college sounded perfect.

A day or so after learning of the short trip, I inquired about the menu. I did so innocently because we were visiting a church campground where her friend has a cottage. The kitchen options are somewhat limited so the meals are pretty simple.

My first clue that something was amiss came when Maria laughed at my question. Then she got a very serious look on her face. I started to see my enjoyable Saturday evening slipping out of my grasp.

Hamloaf. We were having hamloaf for dinner.

Times like this make me wonder if my wife has decided to slowly push me out of the picture. She is quite aware of my feelings on the subject of hamloaf. Not only did she plan a hamloaf dinner for me, but she withheld the information willingly.

When she asked a couple of days later, I had to admit that I did honestly get mad when I heard the news. Then I realized I could just suck it up and deal with things. Plus, I needed a column idea for this week, and hamloaf worked perfectly.

So where does this hamloaf hatred come from? I had actually never eaten the food before the recent dinner. The two words just don’t sound right together. The cook at my fraternity in college made it once, but pretty much everyone skipped the meal on principle because they, like me, fundamentally believe you should not loaf a ham.

That feeling has stuck with me ever since. I had strength in numbers. My pre-conceived notions about hamloaf had to ring true.

But this particular variety of hamloaf, my wife and her friend pointed out, is made by sweet church ladies. It has brown sugar on top. Everyone who eats it loves it.

Like the droning chants of a cult, I heard those sayings in my head as we sat down to eat. Thankfully, my wife brought along mac and cheese so something appealing appeared on the table. I cut off a small slice – OK, half a slice – of the “meat” and said a quick prayer.

No great revelation happened. I didn’t spit out the food in disgust either. I merely confirmed that hamloaf might sound like a great idea to some people, but I have no use for such an idea. Make me a ham sandwich. Cut me off a piece of baked ham. But let’s leave the loafing to meat.

In the end, I’m glad I gave it a try because I can better justify my righteous indignation. Plus, our friend suggested we go out for drinks after dinner, which pretty much makes any meal turn into a good idea in my book. Even one with hamloaf.