Still in Parma. Pietro busies himself with a cathedral of a cheese. Armed with a small knife, he works on each cheese individually. A series of short hits on the rind, he listens carefully, a short sharp and precise movement turns the mass around, a new series of hammer hits, another examination, a smile "This one is perfect, no holes, I'm marking it". There are maybe five or perhaps closer to ten thousand cheeses, all piled high up to the ceiling. The row Pietro is inspecting has been here for eighteen month exactly, which is the minimum time for maturing, the rows are in a large shed open to the winds. A specific wind to be more precise, the one that blows on the vinegar and the ham, the nameless westerly wind, the wind that comes from the sea; it loses its humidity above the Apennine Mountains and soaks up the aroma of the fields as it travels to the Pô Valley. It is this wind, that dries the products, and it is to this wind that Parma and Modena owe their richness and fame.
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