The curing cellar at Pio Tosini unfolds in more directions than the eye can see. Salted hams hang on floor-to-ceiling racks in long corridors, each a mirror image of the next. It's vast and eerily still, but undeniably alive; I feel as though I've been swept into a current of silent, invisible activity.

A molecular ecosystem is hard at work here, a partnership of mountain breezes, enzymatic reactions, and microorganisms that will, with time, transform each leg of pork into coveted prosciutto di Parma. The smell is overpowering, a riot of yeast and funk, and the air is saline-sweet, slightly piney, and crisp. Light washes in from open windows, breaking into jagged shadows on the floor. 

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