By Francesco Bianchini
It all began in Smithfield, Virginia — a place proudly billing itself, with a touch of small-town swagger, as ‘the ham capital of the world.’ Smithfield hams are among the most famous produced in the United States: salt-cured, slowly smoked over hickory wood, and left to age for at least six months. Yet they almost always require soaking for days in water, much like salted cod. Only after that can they be glazed with mustard and brown sugar, then baked whole, or sliced and pan-fried and served ‘Southern style’— with red-eye gravy made from bacon drippings and leftover coffee, alongside freshly baked buttermilk rolls. But the overriding flavor of Smithfield ham is salt — a lot of salt.
In the fall of 2000, a friend of my partner Dan — a doctoral candidate at the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg — purchased a large ham in nearby Smithfield, intending to give it to his family in Pennsylvania for Thanksgiving. Mike drove the ham north in his car, bundled in its traditional muslin casing, all the way to Gettysburg, a 250 mile journey. But once there, his mother balked at soaking, rinsing, and baking the enormous thing. So Mike took it back to Virginia and, before leaving for Bermuda — where he would spend the year-end holidays — decided to present it to Dan, imagining that they might cook it together for Christmas.
The main actor in this drama
It was not easy — nor advisable — to try to slip anything past Her Majesty’s Customs in Bermuda, but Mike succeeded, and the ham duly arrived at Dan’s house after a 900-mile flight from Philadelphia. But his second plan failed as well: Dan was ready to leave the island to spend Christmas with me in Umbria. Still, he accepted Mike’s rather unwieldy gift and, at the last moment, stuffed the seventeen-pound ham — still mummified in its cloth wrapping — into his largest suitcase, wedged between his clothes. By now accustomed to international travel, the package flew incognito — and in defiance of every food-import regulation — to London (3,400 miles), then from London to Rome (another 900), and finally by car the 100 miles from the airport to my small apartment in Todi.
I was stunned to see a wrapped ham emerge from Dan’s suitcase. I was then living in a tiny studio with a kitchenette barely large enough for a portable oven; there was no way I could possibly cook the ham there. We then decided to take it to the New Year’s Eve gathering planned at my family’s mountaintop retreat, San Pietro, where we had invited a select few intrepid friends. But, Dan insisted, we needed to begin preparing the ham immediately — at the very least, to soak it for several days. Since I had no bathtub, we bought a large plasticlaundry basin and installed it in a basement storage room. Twice a day we emptied it, rinsed the ham in the shower, and set it to soak again.
The expectant table
We drove to San Pietro on New Year’s Eve with the entire day ahead of us to prepare the house and cook our plat de résistance. After its prolonged bath, the ham reminded me of my wrinkled skin after long days in the sea as a boy. Dan coated it with an amber glaze of mustard and honey and studded it with cloves arranged neatly at the intersections of his cross-hatching. It was going to look magnificent on the table we were setting. We had to shave a bit off each side to get it into the oven, yet it still touched the walls and the rack.
While it roasted, we spent the afternoon cleaning and airing out the cottage, closed for months. A fire burned merrily in the fireplace, and the stove helped drive out the damp. We had already tucked the bed warmer between the sheets so the mattress would be warm for the night. But the weather worried us: by late afternoon a dense, icy fog had settled in, making the steep dirt road — with its exposed hairpin bends — a dangerous ascent for our guests.
Marooned at year’s end
Browned and lacquered to perfection, the ham emerged from the oven after six slow hours, filling the house with a warm, pungent, spicy aroma. But it was unlikely that anyone would be able to reach us. We placed the ham at the center of the table, decorated with pinecones, berries, and evergreen branches. Candles flickered in every room, and outside, through the veil of night, the cottage looked like a ghostly ship floating on a mountain ridge. No sound of cars. No guests. Never mind — we had each other and a delicious dinner promised.
Deck the halls!
After allowing the ham to cool, Dan carved it and arranged the slices on a platter. He tasted one and looked at me in disbelief: it was inedible, he said. I tasted a slice too: salty, extremely salty — barely tolerable, but not entirely uneatable. We had nothing else beyond appetizers, bruschette, and a good soup. Out of respect for our labor, we would eat some, sparingly, with Umbrian unsalted bread and plenty of red wine. We had hoped to keep the fiasco to ourselves, but in the end two of our friends managed to arrive despite everything. The long and hazardous drive from Rome must have sharpened their appetites, for not only did they devour the ham, returning for seconds, but they gladly bundled up the leftovers to take home.
The end of the journey
