The first time I ever ate prosciutto was in a subway train, speeding downtown to the college where I took bread-baking lessons with my best friend Jenny.
“Most people eat fast food or fruit on subway trains. But we, we are those kind of people who casually whip out a roll of prosciutto layered with parchment paper. It’s totally normal.” I told Jenny as I saw the woman sitting opposite of me staring at the thin, almost translucent strips of salty meat. I stared back, and finally she averted her eyes. It’s amazing how I didn’t feel the least bit embarrassed.
Lest you formulate the idea that polishing the better part of a two-pound roll of prosciutto in a subway train is a regular practice for us, let’s back up the story. That Friday, I left my last period photography class half an hour early to bus to Jenny’s school with my school’s dragonboat team, where we use their pool. Pool practice usually lasts until five something in the afternoon, but I left a little bit earlier to meet Jenny, who was coincidentally still at school rehearsing for her school’s talent show.
We hightailed it to her house, where she dropped off her school bags and frantically looked through her kitchen for baking tools. “Want some prosciutto?” Jenny yelled from the kitchen?
“Um, okay,” I replied. Prosciutto was kind of random, but hey, I was so hungry from practice that I would have eaten anything. Jenny opened the fridge, grabbed a roll of prosciutto from her fridge, and shoved it at me. “Wait, are we eating the whole thing...? Where did you get this?”
“They were going to throw it out at work because they’re closing down for renovations.” Jenny works at a restaurant. “You can bring this one home actually.”
We polished off most of the prosciutto. (When I say "we", I really meant "I". Food is food and prosciutto is pretty delicious.) The next day, I made myself a Prosciutto Wrapped Cantaloupe Salad with the seven strips of prosciutto that were left.
This is definitely my kind of bacon.