Parsley

Parsley occupies an odd position in charcuterie. Its flavour is mild, clean and grassy, and in most products it is not what anyone tastes first. What it does reliably is look like something: the green fleck through a white pudding, a boudin blanc, a morcilla blanca or a jambon persillé is a visual signature, and in the Burgundian ham in parsley jelly it is close to being the entire identity of the dish.

The two common types differ in the usual ways. Flat-leaf, often sold as Italian parsley, has more flavour and is easier to chop cleanly. Curly parsley holds its shape and its colour better in a mix and is more visible as a distinct fleck, which is why it survived so long as a garnish. Either is legitimate; a formula that specifies one is usually thinking about appearance.

Dried parsley is the point to be firm about. Parsley's aroma is carried in volatiles that do not survive drying, and dried parsley is close to flavourless. It will give a green speck and it will do nothing else, so a recipe that uses parsley for its taste needs it fresh. Where a formula lists dried parsley it is either after the appearance alone or it has been written by someone substituting without noticing.

Fresh herbs bring two practical considerations into a mix. The first is water: parsley is mostly water, and a generous handful through a kilo of farce adds measurably to the moisture, which matters in anything being dried and matters little in a cooked product. The second is that fresh green material carries its own field flora and is not sterile, so it belongs in cooked and fresh sausages consumed quickly rather than in a long cure. It is essentially absent from the dry-cured traditions for both reasons.

Chop it late and chop it dry. Parsley bruises and oxidises, going dark and slightly bitter, and parsley chopped wet turns to a paste that smears green through a farce rather than flecking it. Where the fleck is the point, that difference is the whole job.