I am surprised that the owners of the dryers are not a stronger lobby: good prosciutto, or prosciutto, means sure attention of the interlocutor. Already when you cut it, you can see everything more clearly. This is an argument that Montenegrins respect very much. Reasonable and nervous, embittered opponents of the government and DPS poltroons - they all like to eat prosciutto, like to talk about prosciutto, they don't hate white.
When it is too dry, it cannot be rolled up, but cracks along its length. Is there anything worse? But when it's good, it's a holiday! People who bring out an oval with this holy thing, even if they dried it themselves, and even if it is not a Dutch pig, and even if it is not a Muslim or a vegan at the table - can count on a safe vote. The lucky person licks himself, smiles slightly as he bends the piece and brings the delicious cigarillos to his mouth.
The secret of tasting is known. The meat should resist the bite, but not leave strips between the teeth, which is passé. The worst thing is when a man wakes up in the middle of the night and realizes that his mouth is full. He went to bed full and had strong dreams, and dreamed of eating again. Then he woke up and saw that there was enough in his mouth. It is not clear to him whether he is dreaming or awake. That's how the old Montenegrins saved prosciutto and stuffed it under their teeth for the harsh winter. Sustainable development - long before the anemics from the EU who came to feed us quinoa, soy and food for servants.
Oh yes, Montenegrins love prosciutto, they dream of an empire of hanging pork legs. The host takes off the specimen, cleans it with a greasy rag, and shakes it in his hands. Then he takes a knife and peels off the peel that is not thrown away. Who knows what kind of lubrication that poison is used for later. When the knife pierces the white and ends with the bone, it is already too late - you have become a voter of the ruling party.
The famous Liza McClain, who taught the Montenegrin parties the safe voice method, must have noted the custom. Because even those who are not experts can see it. It is simply unbelievable that meat has such a hypnotic effect. I often catch myself in front of the butcher looking in love - giblets, zatop, steak, kevap-vinebran, everything goes by until it's the prosciutto's turn and may grace be born on the face. One prosciutto, four voices, meat for emperors.
Some people from Depees have the money to buy Spanish black hoof ham, which costs over 300 euros per kilo. The pride of a proud customer rises from such a bite even while he is in the store. He pulls the country forward, it is the meat for concentration, for the leader. You have to be emancipated and wear moccasins made of turned leather, smear your bum with royal jelly if you want to be worthy of such a delicacy. It's not some drying pot from Cetinje, but the hot breath of Salamanca!
The saleswoman who collects a piece of that red gold rushes home to tell her husband. Do you know who bought the Spanish one? Who, if I don't swear to you? That! The poor one?! Well, let him eat his fill, I'm happy with my life, the country has collapsed!
Another hero, at another cash register, pays for cut pieces, cheap cubes of vacuum-packed meat. Dere without complexes, even this king chews well, it's not bad as long as he has teeth, this is healthier, this is next to the bone, the machine can't reach him - the poor man consoles himself and eats deliciously like he once did when he broke into a Dubrovnik cellar, and then choked from memories and the pieces land on the floor for the kitty to lick.
Both uncles, who are bitter ideological enemies, this Spaniard and this other one who, while you are reading this, has not yet chewed the cud, are both ready to think. Approach them with someone, neither too big nor too small. That her skin was glazed like an Audi gearbox. Talk to both of them, and offer them the knife. You will see that they are both hungry. Maybe their fathers weren't hungry, but their grandfathers were, both on their mother's and father's side. Famine is a political circumstance that is inherited and awaits historical payment. A full mouth does not speak, the old said, or something similar but equally instructive.
When I come to the lesson, I want a good quote. On this occasion, from the film "Why are they tall" by the rector, prof. Vojvodić, filmed at state expense at the dawn of independence:
"Prosciutto, dried mutton, castradina and cheese, it has been a daily menu for Montenegrins for centuries, and pure exoticism for the rest of the world."
Exotica, yashta! And the rector admitted. The lady who runs the University knows what powerful prosciutto is, how important it is to our story. We are what we are. We cannot spit on prosciutto, on the contrary, we will defend it. There is an EU regulation to no longer dry with smoke. I don't know how to approach that. Maybe the EU is not without an alternative, as Milo Đukanović said. Why does he like prosciutto! He attends brunches and dinners with gamblers, and then he comes home, lies down, rolls over and can't calm down. How many times has the lady found him in front of the fridge, making huge slices of prosciutto and chewing a bit grudgingly, to make a man stiffen up...
Now let me say what prompted me to write about dried meat. I see that the global political reality has become a viral hit in my country. Lome is spearheading NATO and the Greek left. Syriza is recognized even by cyber macaronists; anarchists, libertarians - all are in some recognition of history ante portas. Instead of being happy and waiting for a wave of justice for the poor, all this makes me restless. I know how much our political thought relies on prosciutto, I know how much society is full of carnivores who would manage to reduce even Buddhism to the logic of the militia.
I don't like it, brother, when great historical events approach the borders of my country. I had enough of the history of the nineties. I thought that the history of our nations and nationalities was over. I got used to depression. I don't trust enthusiastic people. Now we're going to be loud and sloppy at the table again - I watch Putinbashers, conspiracy theorists, leftists with full bellies, fat beards - nastiness erupts as if it were 1939. Then I remember how important prosciutto is in the formation of political attitudes in my country. And I'm not feeling well, I have a bad feeling. Grok grok!
Bonus video:
