I cannot begin to describe the smell that's been hanging in our kitchen, or our house for that matter, these last few weeks. It reminds me of my grandparents' place. The house is no longer there. It was sold and demolished after my grandmother died a couple of years ago. My granddad had been gone for some time then. He was a slaughterman: he used to go around in the area to slaughter the pigs that people used to breed at home in those days. He also smoked their hams for them, and these chunky lumps of pork would be hanging near the fireplace to dry. That smell is locked inside my nostrils for the rest of my days.
Now, my brother-in-law usually brings home some smoked bacon from Austria. He goes there for snowboarding a couple of times a year, and has found a nice B&B the landlady of which, Maria, apparently knows where to get her hands on some of that traditional delicacy. Of course it's not as good as my grandfather's hams used to be. But I'll settle for this alternative any time...
