I’m not a fan of ham. 

Not much of a carnivore overall, but swine?  I raised pigs one summer --–part of my colorful 4-H youth -- and frankly, they were a lot smarter than my dog.

Toby and Mr. D were fast, clever, and deeply committed to their freedom. I often needed to hare off on horseback to retrieve them from the neighbor’s garden. When anyone drove up to the house, the pigs would come galloping from around the corner of the barn, oinking spiritedly. 

I think we all know the single word that has the power to overcome scruples and grief both. That would be “bacon.”

And now let me add: "Prosciutto." 

            Prosciutto is a rustic ham, dry-cured and tender. I ate prosciutto and pecorino cheese and bread at least twice a day: for breakfast, lunch, appetizer, for two weeks when I was in Italy. Occasionally, cantaloupe would be involved. More than once it was simply a ribbon of prosciutto folded luxuriantly straight down the old gullet. Neither proud nor elegant, but yum yum yum.

After a week of pig- and pecorino- and bread-free days back at home, I lingered at the grocery store for a long time. I suppose pre-sliced prosciutto packaged in plastic would only disappoint. And naturally, I wouldn’t find a chunk of sheep’s milk peccorino without heading to a specialty store. But I did buy some rustic boule bread and serve bruschetta for dinner. More than once.

While in Italy, I didn’t develop a taste for porchetta, which does say something about my overall commitment to pork. Porchetta falls into the category of “Meat on a Stick.” More or less. 

Pork parts wrapped in pork belly (i.e., unsliced bacon) and cooked slowly, porchetta is served on a roll, often from a food truck on the street. My mom would have recognized the texture and flavor of chittlins in the mix, as well as fennel, rosemary, salt and pepper. The result is juicy, crunchy, savory, and very meaty. Some porchetta-istas might sprinkle a few mushrooms or chopped liver into the sandwich. One of my traveling companions was a fan, and while I appreciated her enthusiasm, honestly, I just miss the prosciutto.

They liked to have their backs scratched, they enjoyed baths, and they picked up half a dozen tricks that the dog, a wonderful working retriever, could never quite manage. 

At the end of the summer, I sold the pigs and sent them -- screaming -- to the slaughterhouse.  Not that I had a real choice, as I had taken out a farm loan for the summer. And any farmer will tell you, if you have livestock, you are going to have dead stock. Hard work.

Still, I didn’t eat pork for years.