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PROSCIUTTO RESOURCES: A Brief History of Ham Or, in Italian, Breve storia del Prosciutto A Nutritional Analysis of Prosciutto Definition of Prosciutto PROSCIUTTO RECIPES: Prosciutto Pasta Ravioli Al Mascarpone E Prosciutto Condimenti: Chicken, Prosciutto, and Tomatoes Prosciutto and Asparagus Bundles Prosciutto and Brie Sandwiches with Rosemary Fig Confit Prosciutto, Pear and Fennel Salad Ouzo-Marinated Melon with Prosciutto Prosciutto Recipes Page

I could hardly claim that it wasn't my fault. I knew we were watching every penny at that point in our lives together. And I couldn't deny that my father always accused me of lavish tastes. As he used to put it, I always needed to get the most expensive thing on the menu. But in my defense, I have to say there was something about this little Italian store where I went for the prosciutto that made it impossible to ask the right question and avoid this food-fueled crisis in our relationship. It's hard to tell whether Pasta Fresca is the name of the store, or just a description of what's inside. It's hardly a store at all, just an appendage to a medium-fancy Italian restaurant run by one of Washington, DC's most famous chef/entrepreneurs. "What kind of prosciutto do you have?" That seemed a proper question. Not the crass, "How much is it?" There were, as with everything, two kinds -- a nice one, and a cheaper, "domestic" one. (It wasn't until later I learned that almost all the prosciutto available in this country was made here.) We were preparing dinner the following weekend for my sister-in-law and her family. How could I get them anything but the best? And how expensive could it be? Even the nicest meat at the grocery store is five, maybe eight dollars a pound. The severe young man behind the counter brought the good stuff to his slicer. Slowly and artfully he began to separate tissue- thin, rose-hued slices from the hunk. How much did I need? About half a pound, said the recipe. "A little over," he suggested? "O.K.," I smiled. "Twenty-three dollars," he sighed. I knew I was caught in a trap. Clearly, I was paying for labor, as well as materials, and the labor had already been expended. We had a sort of contract. I was going to catch hell when I got home, but there was not a thing in the world I could do about it. The store is only about 8 feet wide, maybe 14 feet long. It was just the two of us there among the sun dried tomatoes and the four kinds of fresh breads -- olive, walnut, rosemary and sage. No reason to be intimidated. But the guy. Fifteen years my junior and the Italian accent that will never disappear, no matter how long he lives here. Exactly two days of dark stubble set off against his starched white jacket. How could I tell him to take back more than -- maybe just a little. At the time, we were making just barely enough money to the pay the bills. The usual bills, that is, not an astronomical prosciutto bill. Should I lie to Rosanne? We don't do that. But maybe I should have lied. In our house, there is "our" money and "my" money. I could have said the prosciutto cost eight dollars, or ten dollars, and made up the rest painlessly with my money. Instead, I told the horrible truth. She yelled, and screamed, and then went silent with the accusation that I was squandering our meager funds. I was just out of a job, without too many prospects, and since Rosanne manages our money, she couldn't reconcile our spending twenty per cent of a week's food budget on one home-cooked dinner. I understood that. If the issue were merely money, that would have been grist enough -- but the volatile connection between money and food was what kicked the argument into hyperspace. It's a dangerous triangle. Money, food and love. Spending too much money on food meant I didn't love her. It proved me irresponsible, and showed I didn't care about our joint welfare. And when I admitted that I hadn't even asked the price before making this scandalous purchase, that was the greatest transgression of all. At least I had a benchmark for future encounters. And depending on how we were doing financially, I could always tell from then on when Rosanne wanted to be consulted about a purchase. But a few years earlier, during another food fight, I'd been totally baffled. Why did Rosanne go crazy when I bought two dollars worth of onions on Long Island the summer before we were married?