Up From The Basement

It was over fifteen years ago when I first salted a leg of pork and hung it to dry. Since then there have been some successes, some failures, but either was the result of luck, groping in the dark to find the target by happenstance if favorable conditions prevailed. But recently Brandon Sturm and I, my long time sous chef, butcher, friend, have posted back to back successes in the the cellar. The last few times we have cured and dried a ham, we acted deliberately. Technique has become codified through experience.

Many things make the achievement good ham elusive: vagaries in written mentorship, the rarity of practitioners who can (or will) teach, the difficulty of appropriating suitable environments to age in. But the biggest thing standing in the way of the novice who wants to become an expert is the 18 months or so it takes to make one. You don't have any results to evaluate for a very long stretch of time, and because so much time has passed, it can be difficult to recall the procedures you went through to produce it even if you took copious notes. And then you make your corrections, and wait another 18 months for those results. It takes tremendous patience and fortitude to get good at curing ham, so it's astonishing that I've actually come to a point where I feel comfortable with the technique and feel good about what I produce. Like I am finally at the very beginning of attaining some level of skill and expertise.

I am not typically someone with a lot of stick-to-it-iveness. I have a banjo, guitar, mandolin, several harmonicas, a ukelele, and I can't play any of them. Usually, my enthusiasm doesn't outlast my incompetence. But when it comes to ham, for some reason, I have the patience of Job. I will go down to my basement and spend time with the hams hanging there, searching for any hint of how they're doing and plotting correct courses of action or inaction. Over the years I've learned to keep things simple. For one stretch I cleaned my hams with a light vinegar solution, then a brine, and finally have come to realize that a clean, dry towel is best. Also, that it is best to disturb them as little as possible.

I have also learned that my basement, where I do my aging, is a massive part of what makes these hams unique. Several people who have eaten them over the years can recognize its particular funk. The foundation is built from a mix of flagstone and cinderblock. It is a walk-out, so two walls are exposed to the elements, leading to swings in temperature and humidity throughout the season. This mimics, though less dramatically, what American country hams go through. So these hams, though they are cured using methods very similar to the curing of prosciutto, are a little wild and funky. When people ask me to describe them, I have a little trouble. They're like, well...just what they are. No, not like prosciutto, no, not country ham. They are the hams from my basement. Be nice to me and maybe I'll let you try one sometime.

As we are preparing for St. Anthony, which will have a temperature and humidity controlled aging room, I sometimes wonder if I'll produce hams. They could not possibly be as interesting as what comes up from the basement. And this is what great food is all about. Great food is something that is tied obviously, tangibly, tastily to the place it is born. It would be more than just a little disheartening to make hams without giving them the exposure to the natural environment they need to stretch their legs and become who they should be.

But maybe that's one of the things that makes a ham from the basement worth celebrating. It is truly local, made by and for the people of this place alone, the inner circle.

I'm guessing I felt directed to write this because, for the first time in years, the basement is empty. There was a long stretch where nothing went up and now they have all matured and been eaten, or are in the process of being eaten. It just doesn't feel the same down there.

Time to salt a pig leg, Sturm.