To try Sally's recipe for prosciutto with figs and raspberries, click here.
I saw some fresh figs in the market the other day and was reminded of the simplest of dishes: prosciutto—ham that's been carefully dry-cured for eight to 24 months—with lush, gently perfumed fruit like figs, melons, peaches, apricots, or plumcots in summer (comice pears, fresh or roasted, in fall). I love this classic combo for breakfast, midnight supper, lone-lazy-dog supper, light lunch, and of course, appetizer.
There is a secret to a marriage of only two or three ingredients like this: that they be at their best. The fruit should be truly ripe and fragrant. The prosciutto should be of fine quality and sliced to order—NOT pre-sliced who-knows-when and pre-sealed in plastic packages, which seem to suffocate its flavors and cause its creamy texture to turn rubbery. This means planning ahead a bit in order to have an ingredient so delicious and complete it requires hardly any effort at all to serve or eat. Once you understand how prosciutto works, you can make it work for you. Here's what you need to know...
I view a good prosciutto as an essential resource and have been known to buy a fat chunk to keep in the fridge.
Prosciutto is best eaten within a few hours of being sliced, two days max if it's well wrapped and refrigerated (as soon as it's sliced it begins to change), so that's your window. Buy it from a store known for quality (don't buy mass-produced brands like Boar's Head), where they slice their hams to order. If you are unfamiliar with dry-cured hams, your best bet is to buy Prosciutto di Parma, one of the world's great hams, which will have a crown branded into the side that identifies it as the real thing and is a good assurance of quality (feel free to ask to see it). If you like bolder-flavored Prosciutto di Parma, look for a more aged one; the rivet at the top of the hock will show the month and the year the ham began aging. Ten months from that date is a young ham; 15 to 18 months is optimal. Or go with another ham you know to be delicious, like Jamon Ibérico from Spain.
Or try one of the great artisan dry-cured ham makers from America. I'm a fan of La Quercia's stunning prosciutto made in Iowa from acorn-fed organic Berkshire pigs, and the wonderful lomo (a dry cured pork loin) and culatello, from the "heart" of the leg, that Armandino Batali (Mario's dad) masterminded at Salumi in Seattle. I'm also planning to check out Boccalone prosciutto in San Francisco. (And I've been known to serve lightly smoked, dry-cured Southern hams—like Colonel Newsom's from Kentucky or A.B. Vannoy's from North Carolina—like prosciutto.)
Always feel free to ask the counterman for a taste of whatever interests you; tasting different hams side-by-side will be a revelation. But don't let him trim off the thick layer of creamy white fat. It is delicious—like a kind of estoteric butter—and is part of the experience. (Check out Regina Schramblings liberating article about pork fat that ran in Slate a year or so ago.)
Just-sliced prosciutto is a great thing unto itself, the slices arranged side-by-side in a plate; it is also satisfying on some excellent bread with fine unsalted butter. I view a good prosciutto as an essential resource and have been known to buy a fat chunk to keep in the fridge for slicing ourselves—it will last several weeks wrapped in wax paper—on our cheap home slicer, or by hand with a long, thin tensile knife usually reserved for slicing smoked salmon.
Note: If you want to bring fabulous prosciutto home from some distant place, I recommend buying a chunk and having it vacuum-packed. (Or just buy the whole leg, and have a party.) When home, unwrap it and let it air out in the fridge for a day or two, covering the cut end only with a piece of plastic wrap or wax paper. Slice it as you need it.
If you want to cook with prosciutto, the shank—the last couple of inches left after a whole leg has been sliced—often offers great value.
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