Pig farmer visits a Prosciutto de Parma factory

We drove into the city of Parma on a Sunday and almost all the shops were closed – apart from the tourism information centre, a tobacco shop, a gelateria, and a couple of bars.

It seemed only right to have ham for lunch. In the bar we chose, the Parma ham legs hung in the window, and a half leg sat melting on the slicer. I asked for a little taste of ham, enough for one. The chief slicer turned on the machine and began delicately lifting translucent slices onto a round timber board. Then he picked up a darker piece of meat and sliced. And then a salami.

When the board arrived in front of me it came with a chunk of parmigiano and a plate of toast dribbled with olive oil. Enough for a family.

I was confused about the different cuts of ham, so I picked a piece up in each hand and chased the waitress around the bar asking for details. They were both from the back leg, she told me, but had been cured for different lengths of time.  I told her I was a pig farmer – trying to excuse my behavior.

With a full stomach we negotiated the roundabouts out of Parma, and headed for the mountains where the ham I had been eating was made.

In the village of Langhirano the five, six, and seven storey factories towered above the stone houses. Their windows were long and narrow – a feature left over from when the mountain air was allowed to flow through the buildings to dry the meat. The signs by the road were over-sized and cartoon-like: jumping and flying pink pigs with chubby, smiling faces.

These factories produce hundreds of thousands of air-dried hams each year that are exported around the world. When I had thought about the brand of Parma ham, I had assumed all the pork legs came from Italian pigs – but it’s just not possible: the hams outrun the farm production.

With our agriturismo hosts Diadorim and Chiara, we visited a smaller factory, Vescovi, in the village of Lagrimone. They used strictly Italian pigs - the closer the farm the better - and showed us the tattoos on the legs.

But does it matter to the consumer where the pork comes from? Or is it the story of the curing process and the history that they are interested in?

Lean beef and lean times in Italy

Beef production in Italy, a set on Flickr.

I realise I’ve been taking grass for granted. It’s hay-making time in Italy, and every valley, meadow, and road verge is being baled to feed stock. If you think Australian farmers take their tractors to dangerous places, you should see the hills they’re working on here. I’ve been wondering how many round bales bounce across the roads and end up in the rivers.

I have actually seen very few animals grazing outside: a flock of Cornigliese sheep, four horses, five Friesian bulls, and a herd of black pigs. I think it’s for a few reasons. Firstly, some areas get a lot of snow in winter, so there’d be no grass and the animals would get thin in the cold. If the animals grazed, farmers would need bigger farms to rotate the paddocks – but the farms are mostly small and there’s little room to move. And I think some of it is because of tradition and tastes. 

Andrea Mongiorgi has a large farm business at Castelfranco near Modena. It’s a mixed farm, growing grass and maize for fodder, grain for pasta flour, vegetables, grapes, and beef. 

When I visited his stable, he told me Italians don’t like the flavour of grass-fed beef – so the cattle are fed only hay and maize. Dairy cows used for Parmigiano Reggiano production cannot be fed fresh feed because it can cause fermentation in the milk and ruin the cheese.

Andrea’s main operation is producing fodder for farmers who are part of the local Parmigiano cooperative. There are 1,300 cows in the cooperative and their milk makes 70 wheels of Parmigiano every day. The good thing about the cooperative is that farmers with tiny farms can participate. In the mountains, we drove through villages with tiny stables right on the road with less than 10 cows in them. Whether these businesses are profitable, is another question.

In Andrea’s region, the Bianca (white) Modenese is the local breed of cattle. It’s a dual-purpose breed (meat and milk), but in the past was also used for farm work. Andrea keeps these, and a few cross-breds, just for beef production. The cattle are killed when they are at least two years old. The Bianca Modenese is considered a rare breed, but I had trouble communicating with Andrea about this. He didn’t seem too worried about its future.

I was a bit surprised at Andrea’s cross-breds. He had a number of Belgium Blue crossed with Friesian – producing a very lean beef. He told me that Italians want lean meat, but the locals want more fat. Andrea suggested that people in the cities don’t have a great understanding about the different kinds and qualities of beef.

Andrea sells all his beef through his farm shop. The animals are killed off-site, but his butchery is large and clean and he showed me the carcasses hanging in the coolroom. People can come to buy cuts of meat, parmigiano and preserves, but they can also order large mixed boxes. The economic crisis, that everyone we meet talks about, has had an impact on sales. Andrea says people are preferring to eat cheese, or are opting for cheaper, imported beef. The beef comes from France, Germany, Holland, Ireland, Argentina and Brazil, and sells for about half the price.

It’s clear that eating Italian beef is a luxury for people who live in the cities, and that there is a huge industry growing the fodder to feed the animals. We are so lucky in Tasmania that we can grow grass easily, and that we have enough land to graze our animals outside. And fortunately, our tastes are moving away from grain-fed to grass-fed beef.

Pig farmer visits a shepherd

Pecora Cornigliese, a set on Flickr.

While we were staying at Agriturismo Casanuova, in the Province of Parma, we heard about a rare breed of sheep that was making a comeback in the area.

The Pecora Cornigliese is an old breed native to the mountains near Parma. It's useful for milk, meat, and wool.

The breed has become rare because of a shortage of shepherds. In the village I visited, Rigoso, there used to be about 20 shepherds. Now there are less than a handful - including the one I met, Onorato.

The shepherds receive support from the EU (15 Euros per animal, per year), but there doesn't seem to be support to help them get their products to the markets.

Italians don't actually eat much lamb, so the future of this breed may be determined by how well it is marketed.