One of my distinct childhood memories, and I mean early on (2 or 3), is of grabbing a fistful of shiny gristle from a well-surveyed platter that had once been full of steak, and giving it a good suck. Much to my toddling dismay, my hand was struck in revulsion, and I was promptly discouraged from ever enjoying the "lesser" of an animal's bounty. Legend has it, I had somewhat of a palate for fats: fingerfuls of sour cream, butter, and whipped cream by the bowlful. (I used to make it just to eat by itself. True story.)
I once delicately placed, with chopsticks and all, an entire chunk of pure fat in my mouth that was intended to be a grill lubricant. I was in Thailand, and I had never had what we were eating. It wasn't gross to me, though I did get a leery look from my table-mate. I just didn't know, and was trying to be polite. Oh well...
Tonight is more clear, though. The ribbons of succulent, buttery, and yes, salty beauty on this particular prosciutto is not to be wasted. I could savor it by the yard. Anyone who trims it would be performing sacrilege.
Here we go, Day 143: https://ia600804.us.archive.org/5/items/Improv1412/1_4_127_48Pm.mp3
Don't even get me started on cheeses. Love of fats and cheeses, pigs feet, etc. (bar foods of yore, really): definitely a legacy passed down from dear old dad.