My tata (dad) is a maker of things. Each year, the smell of wood fire permeates the air in his backyard as he goes about making sausages, prosciutto and other preserved meats. In Istria where he is from, charcuterie were hung and dried by the winds of the bura, or bora in English. This particular wind would herald the beginning of the preserving season. Now that it is cold enough outside, the activity has begun. Most of my older siblings have picked up the knack of making their own, but in the quest to learn for myself, I've been watching and taking notes. As kids we were given the task of peeling what seamed like a million garlic cloves, which we hated as it left a terrible smell on your fingers that was near impossible to get out. Now that he doesn't use garlic, the pressure is off. The prosciutto below are from last year and sausages we made on Sunday. My tata is one of those people who aced rope and knot tying, and he turned the long filled casing into individual sausages with a few deft turns. Six new prosciutto legs sit on a table laden with salt. They will be ready to eat in a few years time. My sister reminded me of something my father says quite often when making sausages; pazi zrak! It translates as be careful, air! Air is the enemy of the humble sausage. I'm looking forward to trying these out in a few weeks, once they have had enough drying and smoking time. For now, I can't help but smile at the thought of my tata saying pazi zrak over and over again.
