The New Gastronomes

I had to come out to my parents last weekend. It was emotional. I didn’t really know how to break it to them, but since my UNISG study trip to the producers of the famous Prosciutto di Parma, I’ve lost my appetite for the stuff.

This was difficult for my family to understand because, you see, I am a food nerd. Though I shy away from the term foodie for all of its elitist connoisseurship connotations, I wear the badge of the food nerd with pride. I inherited this trait from my parents, Rod and Louise. They participate in a monthly event called Foodism: potluck dinner parties based on a chosen region or theme. Past Foodisms have focused on Persian food, Cajun food, Spanish tapas, sandwiches, comfort food, and even soup. Last weekend, the theme was Italian.

As part of our proud, food-nerd heritage, my parents picked up a package of Prosciutto di Parma for the party. They chose the Parma ham over La Quercia Prosciutto from Iowa, rationalizing the extra expense and food miles with the idea of having an authentic Italian product for Foodism.

If I had been there, we would have had a chat about hogs.

My only experience with hogs before coming to UNISG was a glimpse of Farmer Phil Landis’ Berkshire pigs in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. These black beauties were resplendent in their mud and more interested in rooting around in the pasture than in their citified visitors. To me it seemed that they lived in an Amish paradise, which fit perfectly with my near religious dedication to their thick-sliced, double-smoked bacon.

If the hogs of Meadow Run farm live in heaven, the hogs destined for Prosciutto di Parma are another story. My classmates and I likened walking through the door of the barn where the hogs lived as descending into one of the seven circles of hell. The stench was remarkably, astonishingly awful. It hung humid in the air, catching in our hair and our clothes and lingering for days. These pigs live on concrete in place of pasture. Instead of rooting in the fields and forests for acorns, mushrooms, and other morsels, they suck down cereals and whey from Parmigiano Regginno production and get nice and big as quickly as possible.

The pigs don’t know it, but their hindquarters are highly regulated commodities. It was in the 1970s that Prosciutto di Parma became a PDO (Protected Designation of Origin) product. This means that the pigs must be raised, and the legs cured, in a particular geographic area under specific conditions using historical methods. The Parma hams are salted and dried for a year, hung in rooms with tall windows open to catch cross breezes from the sea, and eventually shipped to salumerias far and wide.

For me, the story about Prosciutto in Parma began to fall apart when I learned that the breed of pigs used for the famous Parma ham—the Large White—is an export from Yorkshire and not Italian at all. The reason behind this has everything to do with industrial production and animal uniformity. Further, prosciutto was once a seasonal product. The curing process, to keep the meat for months without refrigeration, began in winter when contamination risk was lower and the meat could be preserved. Now, the year-round demands of the food industry and high-tech refrigeration and humidity-control systems have replaced the tall windows and their sea breezes.

If I eat a supermarket pork chop at home I expect industrial pork (probably from a Large White), but if I eat Prosciutto di Parma I expect an Italian product that reflects history, not the industrial interpretation of history.

When my mom reached across the deli counter at DiBruno Brothers and paid a premium for Prosciutto di Parma, it was with this idea of history in mind. I don’t know if it’s my memory of the smell of the hog farm, or the bad taste in my mouth left by industry and economics winning out over this history, but I just don’t crave Prosciutto any more.

I stick to culatello instead.