I have a vision of a place in northern Italy, a landscape of rolling, golden hills dotted with oak trees. As my mind’s eye zooms in on this scene, it becomes clear that something is hanging from the branches of the oaks. A sea breeze brushes past, and I realize that the boughs are laden with ham—not deli slices draped over branches, mind you, but beautiful, trussed-up, whole legs of ham. They are swinging in the salty air, curing, actually, into what will eventually be prosciutto, one of the most delicious of all meats.
In this age of refrigeration, Cryovac preservation, and aseptic packaging, not to mention the chemically extended lives of most any food you’d pick off the shelf, it seems a little ridiculous to imagine ham in the wind. Some might even blow past “ridiculous” and say, “Dangerous! Unsanitary!” And then I see my picturesque grove of prosciutto-bearing trees overrun by men with lab coats and clipboards, throwing up yellow “caution” tape as far as the eye can see. Foreign meats come under strict investigation by the FDA if they are to be sold in the U.S., which means a lot of the old traditions don’t pass muster. Sadly, it’s been largely forgotten that the curing of meats is a cornerstone of our collective food history; we humans would not have survived without it. Along with other types of preservation (smoking, pickling, drying), curing was once a means of survival—a way to extend the stock of the larder during colder months and harder times. Now these once-essential techniques themselves only survive as boutique industries or hobbies.
A wide range of meat and fish can be cured (gravlax is cured salmon, bresaola is cured beef), but I’m most riveted by the tastes and traditions of salt-cured ham, the making of which is regarded by many as an art form. Maybe that’s because my early ham experiences were limited to pre-packaged slices and the annual Easter feast, during which I was compelled to make someone cut the “bark” off my ham. Once I discovered prosciutto, as well as Spain’s jamon Serrano and Iberico, deli slices become virtually extinct in my diet. The beautiful terra-cotta colors and rich, dusky flavors of cured ham make more mundane meats seem like cardboard.
As old as the salt that drives it, the curing process is thought to have been perfected by the ancient Egyptians. And while the techniques have been perfected through the generations, the basic elements have remained unchanged. Wet curing, also known as immersion curing, involves covering the meat in a seasoned brine that must be changed every seven days for weeks or months, depending on the size of the ham and the depth of cure. Dry curing, the method used to make prosciutto, involves rubbing the meat with salt and letting it age in dry, cool air.
In Italy, the northern province of
Parma is the land of prosciutto as much as it is the land of cheese. In fact, the making of Parmigiano-Reggiano helps fuel the ham industry by providing whey to feed the pigs. Only the cured ham from this region, which must abide by strict rules and regulations set by the local prosciutto consortium, can be called “Prosciutto di Parma.” Centered in the small village of Langhirano just south of Parma, the Pio Tosini Prosciuttifici (production house) uses age-old techniques. The hind legs of pigs are trimmed, cleaned, and then coated with sea salt and rubbed by hand. The salt applications are repeated once a week for one to two months, during which time moisture is drawn out of the meat. The hams are then washed several times, scrubbed, and hung to dry.
With its winds from both the sea and the mountains, Parma has an ideal climate for air-drying and aging—a crucial part of the process, and one that creates Prosciutto di Parma’s distinctively delicate taste. Prosciutto from San Daniele, in the Friuli region, has a different, salty-sweet flavor and smoother texture than Prosciutto di Parma, because of the higher altitude and drier air. Similarly, Spain’s Serrano (“from the mountains”) hams are cured in drying sheds located in relatively high-altitude, cool climates. During different stages of the drying period, which can last up to two years, the hams rotate to different rooms within the shed. Italian prosciutto is tested for readiness by an inspector who inserts a horse-bone needle and judges the issuing aroma.
If you can’t get to Italy to see the swaying hams, certainly you can make it to Iowa, where Herb and Kathy Eckhouse have brought the secrets of great prosciutto. After living in Parma for three years, Herb believed he could re-create great cured ham right in his own home, in the small town of Norwalk. The couple’s young company, La Quercia (meaning “the oak,” www.laquercia.us), recently released “Prosciutto Americano,” its first domestically cured ham, made with organic U.S. pork. Because he’s not obligated to follow the constraints imposed by Italian consortiums, Eckhouse has been free to experiment with trim size, handling techniques, and the curing process overall. The resulting product is garnering national attention for its creamy texture and depth of flavor.
Prosciutto can be found in most grocery stores, and more and more places carry Spanish jamon. La Tienda, a family-owned gourmet Spanish food importer and Internet retailer (www
.tienda.com), has begun taking advance orders for the elite jamon Iberico, which is aged between two and four years and won’t be available in the U.S. until next year. In the meantime, La Quercia’s Prosciutto Americano can be ordered at Surdyk’s by the slice, but if you’re willing to spend the cash, it really is a treat to purchase a whole leg online. That way, you can discover the varying richness in different sections of the leg, the area around the bone being the most flavorful. For those who opt for a few ounces here and there, try one of my favorite distractions: Slather a spear of cucumber with goat cheese and wrap it with prosciutto. Find a sunny patio and dream of ham in the wind.
