My family was a large extended family–aunts, uncles, and cousins all lived within walking distance of our farm. I didn’t know what it meant to go to the market and purchase anything. We had apple orchards, blackberry patches, tomatoes, corn, sweet potatoes, hundreds of chickens, fresh eggs, pigs, and cows. Whatever we needed was ours for the taking.

Traditions were important. Women in the family canned what the land produced. I can still see jars of tomatoes, beets, peaches, jams, and pickles lined up on the cellar shelves. They reminded me of toy wooden soldiers showing off their brilliant colors of red, emerald, and gold.

When September rolled around it was time to slaughter our pigs. The men did the dirty work behind the barn. I never saw them stab the pigs, but I knew the knife had to hit a particular spot near the neck. Not just anyone could slaughter pigs. The pig had to be dead, but the meat couldn’t be damaged.

I especially loved to watch Dad prepare the prosciutto. That’s the prime ham he rolled in a mixture of cracked pepper, salt, and herbs. He then wrapped it in cheesecloth, tied it with a string, and hung it on the ceiling.

Meanwhile the pig organs were submerged into a huge pot of boiling water and left to simmer in their own juices. Not a single ounce of the pig was wasted. I never asked what happened to some of the parts!

Then there was wine-making day. Grapes were picked, sorted, and crushed along with just the right amount of sugar. It aged slowly in two old oak barrels in our cellar. The persistent, “When will the wine be ready?” question could only be answered by sampling. Dad did lots of sampling.