Thing a Day: 007/365

Iberian cured ham. One of the reasons that I adore living here. The nuances of this stuff get people snobbily involved in conversation the way the French throw themselves into debates about wine, and the Italians get persnickitous over the proper thickness that garlic should be sliced. Though, it is Spain, so snobbery is always kept more than arm's-length away.

The ones you're seeing here, that occupy an entire aisle of my local grocery store, are the hind legs of the pig, slow-aged over months and months. These ones are pretty run-of-the-mill. Not necessarily Sam's Choice -- there's pride taken with this delicacy, no matter who is responsible for it -- but €160 is still a pretty decent bargain. If you want the ones that have been lovingly fed acorns, oysters, and have had Brandy mixed in with their feed? A similar hoc can run you upwards of €1200. But these do the trick juuuust fine.

I was talking to a friend of mine. He's a local artist, and he sold a couple of pieces recently. So he took it upon himself to buy one of these hocs at Christmastime. His massive family was getting together for the holidays, and even with a couple of dozen people running around, occasionally slicing razor thin pieces as they walk by in the kitchen (the same way I would always pluck a sugar cookie out of the popcorn tin in my kitchen) it'll last the whole season, with some leftover. A damn fine investment.

The curing process doesn't involve a goddamn thing. No salt, no spices, no seasoning. Just dryness, and smoke. The flavors are left over to speak for themselves. If done even halfway decently, the result is something that you grab a few slices of, wad into your mouth, and chew on while you let the aroma waft into your nasal passages.

It's the closest thing to pure romance that a dead animal could ever possibly hope to offer.

I eat a hamburger, and I don't give a shit about the cows life. You eat a piece of this, and you can't help but think about the life of the pig led, and it's long, dirty, glorious days under the Spanish sun.

There was a quote by one of my very favorite people, Anthony Bourdain, that I heard only recently (and laughed myself to tears). He waxed more philosophically and more poetically then I possibly can about the exact same subject. I'm going to recite it from memory, so it's likely that I'll butcher it, but it went something like this:

"It's pornographically good. To travel through Spain and not try this most traditional, most heartfelt expression of Spanish culture and history is like letting the great love of one's life slip through one's fingers. The result, then, is inevitably a slow spiral into depression, regret, despair, and ultimately, death."

I mean, I know the guy hated vegetarians, but… Damn. 😜

🐷

No wonder I've got a bit of a belly on me.