I have been to the sine-qua-non of smoky-salty pork, and it is within a two-day drive of my house. Ham-el-lujah! Forty-eight hours after my visit with Allan Benton of Benton’s Smoky Mountain Country Hams, my hair, my favorite driving skirt (one needs room to spread on a trip like this), my car, Stella---all still smell like smoke. I don’t care. There are still artisans in this country who put their money where their morals are, without concern for a bottom line, and one of the best is holding court in a small building by the side of Highway 411, about an hour south-west of Knoxville, Tennessee. When I walk in, Allan is leaned up against a large cold-case chatting with a large baseball-hatted man who is draped on a bench opposite. Since I’ve called ahead, first about a month ago, and then again ten minutes ago,