I never thought the day would come, but here it is, in all its perplexing, fat-streaked glory: I’m taking a break from ham. It even feels weird to type that. I’m. Taking. A. Break. From. Ham. Nope–no easier. Maybe it’s the residual cottony lard still coursing through my newly thick fingers. Or the remaining salty stench pouring from my every pore. Or the fact that, whenever I hear a word whose sound is vaguely reminiscent of “Iberico,” I weep like a diehard Jagger fan at a one-night-only Stones show.
My new Angie is a pig, and I’m not ashamed to say it.
I just returned from a weeklong trip with several other Wine Schoolers to Priorat, about two hours from Barcelona. More details will certainly seep out during classes. In blog posts over the coming weeks–stories of flash-fried sardines, heaping plates of wood-grilled meats (including the best damn rabbit kidney I’ve ever snapped between my molars), barrel tastings of wines that will likely never see this side of the Pond–but for now, it’ll have to suffice to say just this: We back. And for the time being, the pigs of Pennsylvania are safe from my hammed-out maw.