The relevant section of the article:
I hope you like jamón, too!
Luckily, there's something more important than television here in Spain, something so much more alive and vibrant and special than TV that I can hardly wrap my small American brain around it, something that embodies the spirit of the people of this country, and breathes life into the land like the warm air that rises from the crystal blue waters of the Mediterranean:
Or as they say back in the states: ham!
Ham, yes, but not just any ham. Jamón ibérico is cured for four or five years, sometimes while hanging from the rafters of a fine restaurant, so that guests can gaze up at the brown, cracked flanks and speculate as to the rosy, wondrous slices of meat that hide inside. Jamón ibérico, cousin to chorizo, great aunt to mortadella, close friend and former business associate of prosciutto. If prosciutto is sweet and delicate like Veronica Mars before her best friend's murder, then jamón ibérico is a little tougher, a little saltier, and yet far more resilient and intriguing, like the saucy post-tragedy Veronica Mars we've come to know and love.
I was thinking of head58 when I posted this.
I'll have a more detailed post later about my recent escapades.