When from the contrada of Trinity or from the market the bounced of the crude screams of “gugnèi” which was about to be slain and the truffle, in addition to the rich harvest, brought in the village the news that the first woodcock had arrived on “Giarolo” montain, only then I felt that the autumn was started. The pork raised by “Guido di Cà dell’Aio”, did on in December during the colder days. I liked to watch Bruno and Pipino, the butchers that for two days settled at home, cleanse the meat carefully, removing even the smallest part of the nervous hams, from cups, the loins, shoulders, discarding the fat “soak” from bacon, cutting all into small pieces and then lay the meat on the mats where rested all night long in the colder room.
Then in the morning we ground it, weighed the salt and he peppercorns, chose the right wine, usually a full bodied “Barbera”, while I was allowed to crush the garlic in the mortar of marble. I remember the trouble of Pipino kneading the minced till it was the “glue”, while Bruno was preparing casings, especially sewn, boiling in the vinegar. Then I remained enchanted by the magical movements of the hands than with a simple spool of twine, wrapped salami, perfectly sacked, in an accurate and dense network
The drying and the subsequent slow ripening demanded great attention. If necessary, we fired the stove, or we opened the north window for few hours! “In spring we changed the room while during the summer we put the salami in the cellar, but not before having slightly brushed the salami to remove the excess mold.
The “hunters” were the first to disappear, but to taste the first sewing had to wait until September and then had to last until Christmas, at Easter, and the last to the next Christmas. The cut was a ritual, not too angled, run by the knife without pressing too much, according to the slice that leans docilely, still soft despite the extraordinary compactness that time had been able to give it. You can not tell the delight of fragrance, flavor, the unique blend of hints that only the great memory of smell can still be transmitted.
Memories. Remember my jealously guarded, crisp, unassailable. Today, I decided to produce the “Brignano Salami”, just for passion That memories kicks often surround me, you sneak in the form of questions and focus on continuous, obsessive question: what has changed since then? The answer is always the same: nothing.