After this episode of Cooking with an Italian Accent, we'll be taking a two-week break. Partly to tackle the technical issues that are still keeping our blog in Google’s shadows. Partly to finish the Italian translation of Vegetables the Italian Way. And partly to make the most of these last summer weeks by pushing ahead with the renovation of the little apartment we’re restoring for next year’s guests.

Saturday is Ferragosto, one of the biggest holidays in Italy and the symbolic peak of summer, a day I fully intend to spend eating an unreasonable amount of watermelon, tucked away in the mountains of Mugello and searching for some respite from the heat near Monte Senario. After Ferragosto, the days will start to gather speed, and little by little that familiar melancholy I feel every year as summer begins to fade will return: as exhausting as this season can be, at times even brutal, I know I’ll miss its long days, its sense of freedom (sometimes more imagined than real), the vegetable garden, sun-kissed skin, and hair left to dry in the warm air.

I'm also hoping to devour a few detective novels, spend evenings watching the stars, enjoy long walks in the cool early mornings, and perhaps squeeze in a couple more day trips to the beach before summer slips away and school starts again.

Don't worry, though. While we're away, you'll still have an archive bursting with seasonal recipes to explore—pasta alla norma, Siena-style focaccia stuffed with ham and mozzarella, or stuffed zucchini and peppers, for example—, more than 20 hours of cook along replay videos to keep you company in the kitchen (perhaps fresh pasta could be your next end-of-summer project?) , and hundreds of stories from Tuscany waiting to be discovered, including my Florence foodie guide.

We'll be back in September with the announcement of a new season of cooking classes, a couple of recipes that will convince you to roast more peppers—including these tuna-stuffed pepper rolls), and, drum roll, please, the return of our live monthly cook-alongs. I can't wait to cook with you again, live, one Sunday a month!

And if you're new here, this might be the perfect time to wander through the archive. You may well find a recipe—or a story—you've been waiting for.

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I spent more than a month reading Northanger Abbey when I was in high school, curled up on the sofa at home or with my nose buried in the book while waiting for the bus. I would carefully underline every word I didn’t know, then look it up in my dictionary as soon as I got home.

English was my superpower.

I was painfully shy at school and rarely raised my hand in class, but something changed during English lessons. I felt a little braver, even with my hesitant beginner’s English. Perhaps it was because making mistakes felt like part of the process rather than something to be ashamed of. So I threw myself into Jane Austen.

I learnt English because I fell in love with it, and I improved it because I found a way to study it through my passions: first it was Jane Austen, then British films and actors (Four Weddings and a Funeral, Bridget Jones’s Diary, Love Actually, just to name a few) and eventually it was food and Jamie Oliver.

I was a proud subscriber to Jamie Magazine from issue number 2 until the very end, reading each recipe as if it were a poem, rolling the words on my tongue, savouring the verbs and adjectives. I’ve read and re-read Elizabeth David’s and Nigel Slater’s books for years, poring over their words and descriptions.

Now I teach my cooking classes in English. I record this podcast in English with my unmistakably Italian accent. I write my blog and newsletter in English, and I’ve even written two cookbooks directly in English for an American publisher.

I dare say I’m fluent in English, as long as we can talk about food. Don’t make me talk about politics, plumbing, or philosophy.

I know that many of you read both the English and the Italian versions of this newsletter to improve your Italian, expand your vocabulary, and become more confident and fluent in a language you love just as much as you love Italian food.

That’s why I wanted to invite someone who could help you do exactly that.

Today I’m talking with Margherita Berti, an Italian teacher now based in the United States, to inspire you and give you some tips on how to improve your Italian, through something you are equally passionate about, Italian food.

You can listen to the interview in today’s episode of Cooking with an Italian Accent

Where to find Margherita: Italian Matters
and her book: Speak the World Italian: History & Culture Through Language
and her Instagram profile: italianmatters

What's the first Italian word you ever fell in love with? Tell me in the comments! I have a feeling we'll end up with a beautiful collection.

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During cooking classes, I often refer to classic Tuscan recipes and old favourites from my blog, and I have always found it quicker to search for them on Google than to navigate the archive directly. Then, one day, I could no longer find my recipes.

There might be a link to an Instagram post, or a pin on Pinterest, but my blog was nowhere to be seen.

Around the same time, I also realised that enquiries for cooking classes had slowed down noticeably, more than they usually do during the summer, when people are already on holiday and have not yet begun planning their activities for the following year.

Since I have been focusing mainly on this newsletter for the past five years, I was slow to notice that something had changed.

To cut a long story short—and spare you the full account of one of my meltdowns—we discovered that, since April, our blog, in both Italian and English, has effectively disappeared from Google, and therefore from almost every online search for recipes and cooking classes.

All the pages are still there: almost eighteen years of work, more than 600 tested recipes, thousands of photographs, and what has gradually become an online archive of my life. You can still access everything by typing www.julskitchen.com directly into your browser. But you need to know that it exists. You need to know what to look for. Otherwise, I have vanished into online oblivion (allow me to be a little dramatic here). Any clues on how to solve it??

It is every blogger’s nightmare, but, more importantly, it is also a small business catastrophe.

Our cooking classes are now much harder to find through Google. After almost eighteen years of publishing online, we often appeared organically on the first page of search results, without advertising or paying for visibility.

We are now trying to understand what happened and how to fix it. Should we fail to find a solution, we may have to build a new website from scratch, at least to promote our cooking classes.

I am hopeful that we will solve it, but, at the back of my mind, I am also slightly panicking at the thought that we might have a difficult year ahead.

We have always relied primarily on the blog to promote our cooking classes; only a small proportion of our bookings comes through tour operators and travel agencies. Most guests have found us independently, often after reading a recipe or following the blog for years (and I love nothing more than building a relationship with them via email before meeting in person).

Come September, we will announce our new calendar of classes for 2027, which gives us about a month to solve this puzzle. In the meantime, may I ask for your help?

Please share our cooking classes with anyone planning a trip to Tuscany this autumn—we still have a few places available—and, even more importantly, with anyone who might be visiting next year. For the moment, word of mouth may be the best search engine we have.

Learn more about our classes here

…and one last thing, if you are dreaming of Tuscany. We partnered with The Genuine Experience to design a seven-day experience in Tuscany (April 6-12, 2027): expect market mornings, hands-on cooking, Tuscan hill towns, and slow days spent between countryside, coast, and the Italian table. Learn more about our Tuscany at the Table experience here.

That was the catastrophic note on which we closed out July, while making our way through the fourth heatwave since the beginning of summer.

This is what summer in Italy looks like these days: scorching days, sticky, sweaty and sleepless nights, and mosquitoes. The heat leaves me constantly exhausted, and I hate turning into the sort of boring curmudgeon who checks the weather app every time she picks up her phone, desperately searching for the promise of a storm (preferably not a catastrophic one) or even a slightly cooler night.

What unsettles me most is knowing that this is not an exception, but increasingly our new reality. So I will keep planting fruit trees, eating a more vegetable-forward diet, and doing whatever small, imperfect things are within my reach.

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My original plan was to finally share the recipe for the green bean and ricotta tart that I promised you two weeks ago. But after beginning this newsletter on a rather anxious note–sorry–, I felt we could all use a change of mood.

So, before getting to the recipe, I gathered together a few good things, favourites, and recent discoveries that are making this summer more enjoyable.

Star gazing at night

School is out, and summer camp follows a more flexible schedule. So every night, after dinner, we spend half an hour in the garden, stretched out on faded blue deck chairs with our faces turned towards the sky, searching for planets and constellations. One evening, we even watched the ISS pass directly above us as we talked with Livia about space and astronauts. Feeling so small, and so full of wonder beneath an infinite sky, helps put everyday worries back into perspective.

My zinnias

Even though I thought I had chosen the wrong flowers for the bed in front of the studio, I have been rewarded with an abundant, colourful display of zinnias and several other plants I honestly cannot identify. A note for next year: lavender and helichrysum on the right, where the afternoon sun beats down relentlessly, and generous handfuls of zinnia seeds on the left, sheltered by the shade of a holly tree.

Summer vegetables (obviously)

I have to mention summer vegetables once again. Especially the white eggplants, with very few seeds, sweet and meltingly tender when roasted; the sweetest date tomatoes, which I usually cook down in a pan with garlic and a handful of fresh basil leaves until they become a chunky sauce for pasta, for sautéing Swiss chard, for poaching an egg in, or simply for eating by the spoonful.

Then there are silky roasted red peppers with a faint smoky aftertaste, often finely chopped and spooned onto a slice of bread with mayonnaise, following my nonna’s recipe; and green beans, slowly cooked with onions and tomatoes, as in the recipe on page 51 of Vegetables the Italian Way.

Summer vegetables are abundant and more affordable now. They bring freshness, nourishment and much-needed hydration to the table, giving us exactly what we need.

A day at the beach

We packed the car as though we were leaving for a quiet month-long holiday by the sea, when in fact we were only heading to Carbonifera, a beach near Follonica, about an hour and a half from home.

I had always assumed I was not cut out for day trips to the beach. The sand, the heat, the logistics. Where would we eat? Wouldn’t the early afternoon be unbearably hot? And yet, throughout the day, I kept hearing myself say: I’m having such a good time. I love it here.

There was a cool, shady pine grove, a large car park close to the shore, a campsite café just a few steps away, and a quiet stretch of free beach with crystal-clear water. Add a packed lunch waiting in the cooler (with that green bean and ricotta tart!), and it all made for a wonderfully easy, relaxing day. There will definitely be more day trips to the beach during these last five weeks of Livia’s summer holidays, before school starts again in mid-September.

Old-fashioned ceramic bowls

While clearing out my nonna’s house before giving it a fresh coat of paint and renovating her apartment for next season, I went through all her kitchen tools and possessions. Alongside Bavarian dessert plates, Chinese teacups, and a Japanese serving platter (I am still wondering how they all found their way into this Tuscan country house), I found a pair of chipped ceramic bowls, their colours softened slightly with age.

They are reliable old workhorses, and I will be bringing them into my own kitchen to serve pasta and big salads. They must be at least fifty years old and are humble, everyday pieces, but they have a tactile quality that makes them deeply appealing, the kind of bowls that make even tossing a salad feel pleasurable.

And, provided we manage to solve our website problems, we will soon begin sharing more about this small, cosy apartment too, which we are restoring in time for next season.

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And now, as promised, here is the recipe I have been testing for the past three weeks: something halfway between a savoury tart and a flan, made with green beans, ricotta, and sun-dried tomatoes.

It is perfect for packing for a day trip to the beach, or for baking in advance and leaving at home for your return in the evening, with sand between your toes and showers still to be taken by the whole family. Reheat it briefly, slice a tomato, and dinner is ready.

Paid subscribers can find the full recipe below, along with a downloadable PDF to save, print, and keep in the kitchen.

I have finally come to terms with a trait of my personality that, for years, I tried to hide because I was a little embarrassed.

I like celebrating my birthday, and I like being celebrated.

I think of it as a special day, one I look forward to with anticipation every year, much as I still look forward to Christmas.

I do not think it is because I am a Leo, or at least, not only because of that. I love growing older: that is something worth celebrating. I like adding a few more lines to my face (though I still wear SPF 50+ every day, come rain or shine), discovering new sides of myself, some of which I have learned to regard with tenderness, learning to soften my edges and choose my battles, and seeing things more clearly, understanding what truly matters and what is simply not worth losing sleep over.

I love the birthday messages and the early-morning phone calls from my father-in-law and Tommaso’s aunt and uncle, who, ever since I became part of the family, have never forgotten an important date.

I love blowing out the candles while everyone sings Happy Birthday, even more so now that I have the very best helper, Livia, who shares my enthusiasm. And I love having a cake to round off the celebrations.

A few days before my birthday, though, I began to feel melancholy. This happens often, too: it is another part of myself that I have learned to accept, and that I now almost welcome with tenderness. I am forty-five, but part of me still expects my birthday to feel magical, as though something good should happen simply because it is my birthday.

But what does something good really mean? Judging by social media, it seems to mean travelling somewhere far away, escaping for a weekend devoted to self-care, or treating yourself to dinner at a special restaurant… But what if, for whatever reason, none of that is possible? Do you simply give up on celebrating?

When I realised that I was the one responsible for creating that magic, I decided to spend a couple of days doing the things that make me happy: small pleasures that could fit even into ordinary summer working days. It felt like the best way to celebrate turning forty-five.

I made a semolina sourdough loaf.

A few days ago, I went to my local bakery to ask for some of their bubbly sourdough starter, and Giuseppe handed it over as he always does, saying, “It is ready to make bread straight away.” My first attempt at baking bread after so many months was so satisfying that Livia, who is usually rather sparing with compliments in the kitchen, hugged me and said, “Mamma, this bread is so good.” And I immediately replied, “I will make you another one. One every week!” (She is almost six, and already knows exactly how to wrap me around her little finger.)

And so, on Monday, my birthday, I made a second loaf. As I write, the delicious smell of freshly baked bread is drifting through the house. After a night in the fridge, the dough was ready to be baked first thing in the morning, before closing up the house and bracing ourselves for yet another heatwave.

The smell of the semolina, the feel of the supple dough beneath my hands, and the thought of that thin, crisp crust and dense, golden, slightly salty crumb brought me back to myself and to the things I love doing.

I cooked myself a simple lunch, but it was exactly what I felt like eating.

It took me a long time, but I have learned to listen to my body. I wanted something light, but full of bold flavours, so I looked at what I had in the fridge and pantry and made ’s silken tofu with crunchy lettuce from NYT Cooking. A few days earlier, though, I had found myself craving the flavours of home, so I made coniglio ad arrosto morto, pot-roasted rabbit, the way my grandmother used to cook it: sage and rosemary, garlic and olive oil, and the smell of family Sundays.

When it comes to food, my tastes are deeply traditional, both in what I cook and what I choose to eat (I have written about this before). And yet there are days when I genuinely crave tofu, soy sauce, or toasted sesame seeds. My diet is mostly vegetarian, but sometimes I feel like eating meat or fish. Sometimes even cheese, as long as it is lactose-free.

I have made peace with this, too. For a while, I imposed so many rules on myself that I had begun to feel constrained, as though I were constantly trying to please someone else. Now, the only person I am trying to please is myself.

And what about the cake?

For dessert that evening, I wanted something festive, but I did not feel like baking myself a cake—I was not in the mood to wash too many bowls, whisks, and dishes—so I went back to Elizabeth David’s chocolate mousse recipe, an old favourite from the blog archive. Instead of using raw eggs, I made it with pasteurised eggs and left it to chill in dainty porcelain cups from my great-uncle’s Chinese tea set.

Quick to make, but undeniably chic, those little mousses felt festive enough, and one of them was just the right size to hold a candle for Livia and me to blow out together.

I went for a walk.

It was not a brisk walk squeezed in between other commitments. I had known since that morning that I wanted to go in the late afternoon, when the sun begins to sink and washes the harvested wheat fields in pale gold, the temperature drops just enough to make being outside pleasant again, and I need to clear my head.

One hour, five kilometres, striding along with purpose as though I were late for an appointment, listening to my favourite music and singing at the top of my lungs along the more secluded stretches, where I was certain no one could see or hear me.

I even came across a few roe deer that had ventured out of the woods, tempted into the open by the cooler, gentler hours of the day, just as I had been.

In the end, nothing extraordinary happened on my birthday, and yet I found a way to celebrate myself by recognising what makes me happy and choosing what felt right for me.

That realisation was certainly one of the loveliest gifts of turning forty-five, along with a drawing from Livia, a new pair of candy-pink flip-flops, a few plants waiting to be repotted, a project for the garden, and time with my family.

And, if you feel like celebrating with me, tell me: which recipe from the blog or newsletter do you love the most, and make most often? Recipes from any of our cookbooks count, too!

Let me know in the comments, or simply reply to this email, and indulge my curiosity and, let’s admit it, my slightly vain side, too.

5 Recipes to celebrate a birthday

I could blame the savoury tart I wanted to share, which collapsed all over the marble kitchen table when I tried to remove it from the tin. But I have to admit that it needed another round of testing anyway before it could earn the approval of my toughest judge, Tommaso.

I promise I will keep working on it and tell you all about it soon. In the meantime, I hope this small kitchen disaster reassures you that the recipes that make their way here are always tested thoroughly—even if the process is not entirely free from mishaps.

So as not to leave you without inspiration for the weekend, I decided to gather together everything I have written about tomatoes over the years. Because, once again, they are going to save not only my lunch, but this week’s newsletter too.

So, long live tomatoes!

The smell of tomato leaves is something I instantly associate with childhood summers, spent trailing after my grandma in her garden. I remember the towering walls of tomato plants, climbing up slender reeds she arranged almost like little tepees.

I was known for biting into green tomatoes straight from the vine, stubbornly ignoring the sweet, juicy red ones. I only began to appreciate them properly in my teenage years, thanks to a preserved mackerel and tomato salad that Nonna prepared for lunch one day.

These days, the tomatoes grow in raised beds that my dad built during the Covid years, using recycled wooden planks, old shutters, shelves, anything he could find. And I still love the green, unmistakable scent of their leaves, even if now I choose only the ripest, heaviest tomatoes for my quick summer meals.

When we stop at the vegetable stall during a summer market visit, tomatoes — in all their shades, shapes, and varieties — steal the show from everything else.

Big or small, thick-skinned or full of juice, bright red or tinged with pink, firm to the touch or heavy and ready to become sauce: we could talk for hours about the many types of tomatoes and how best to use them in the kitchen.

Ciliegini, datterini, fiorentini, cuore di bue, canestrini, San Marzano... Some of these tomatoes have proper names, some are defined by their place of origin or their shape. And then there are the countless varieties you can grow in your own garden, heirloom tomatoes whose seeds have been passed down from one generation to the next.

If you’d like to dive deeper into the world of Tuscan market tomatoes, I wrote a longer piece about them a couple of years ago. You can find it here in the newsletter archive.

Here are some of the recipes where a really good tomato makes all the difference:

• Eggs stewed in tomato sauce. Think of it as the Tuscan version of shakshuka or eggs in purgatory. My nonna’s recipe sits in between eggs poached in tomato sauce and scrambled eggs: first the whites are quickly folded into the tomato sauce, then the egg yolks are nestled in the sauce and cooked until barely set.

• Pane al pomodoro, bread and tomato. I am not sure you really need a recipe for bread and tomatoe. Or perhaps you do? I have never been much of a bruschetta person, mostly because whenever I try to eat one, the chopped tomatoes inevitably tumble everywhere. Perhaps it is because I grew up eating pane al pomodoro: a tomato—ideally a ribbed costoluto fiorentino—rubbed directly onto a slice of unsalted Tuscan bread until the crumb turns deep red. Then comes plenty of extra virgin olive oil, salt, and oregano.

• Roasted tomato soup. Now that tomato season is reaching its peak, bringing us juicy, sun-ripened fruit bursting with flavour, this is the best time to make it.

• Pasta alla crudaiola, raw tomato sauce for pasta. This is the purest form of pasta al pomodoro, perfect for late summer tomatoes, when their flavour is so intense that they need neither cooking nor much else to become a sauce. Crudaiola comes from the word crudo, raw, as you’re going to use raw tomatoes to make this sauce, along with fresh basil, garlic, extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper.

• Burst cherry tomato sauce for pasta. The small, plump tomatoes burst in the heat and melt into the olive oil, becoming a chunky sauce flavoured with basil and garlic. Isn’t it the quintessential taste of an Italian summer? A little chilli adds gentle heat and a handful of pine nuts adds texture to the sauce.

• Roasted tomato risotto. Simple as the ubiquitous pasta al pomodoro, and equally satisfying and comforting, risotto al pomodoro is an everyday dish that you can make special by using a roasted tomato sauce and a generous spoonful of stracciatella.

Here are a few more recipes from Cucina Povera and Vegetables the Italian Way:**

• Pappa al pomodoro, from Cucina Povera, p. 239

• Roman-style rice-stuffed tomatoes, from Cucina Povera, p. 43

• Panzanella, from Cucina Povera, p. 250

• Pantelleria-style salad, from Vegetables the Italian Way, p. 23

• Tomatoes with tonnato sauce, from Vegetables the Italian Way, p. 20

• Spicy tomato jam, from Vegetables the Italian Way, p. 225

**The Italian translation of Vegetables the Italian Way is moving forward, and I am realising just how far it goes beyond a literal translation: it is also a process of cultural and structural adaptation.

The book was written directly in English, so we are now taking the journey in reverse, a process that is proving both fascinating and cathartic. It feels deeply moving to return to writing in Italian.

What tomato recipe always comes to your rescue at lunchtime? Tell me about it in the comments, or simply reply to this email. I always love hearing from you!

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And finally, today’s recipe: pomodori a mezzo

Pomodori a mezzo literally means “tomatoes cut in half,” which is exactly how they are roasted in the oven, generously dressed with olive oil, garlic, and herbs.

I first discovered this traditional dish from Roman Jewish cuisine a few years ago through my friend Barbara Toselli, who had shared the recipe on Instagram. Whenever someone mentions roasting a vegetable in copious amounts of olive oil—I cannot remember whether those were her exact words, but that is certainly what my brain took away from it—I am immediately won over.

On the one hand, it feels as though it has not really begun yet. It is a feeling I share with many friends who, like us, work in tourism and hospitality. Spring got off to a good start, then things slowed down, and the usual summer rush never came. I keep waiting for that moment when everything speeds up and the days begin to tumble one into the next, though I already know it will not happen this year. For us, the busiest period will be in September and October. Perhaps, after years of saying that these are the best months to discover Tuscany, someone finally took us at our word.

On the other hand, though, it feels as if I have been living in summer forever. Perhaps it is because we went on holiday to Salento as early as the end of June, or because ohe heatwaves have followed one another without respite. By now, the days have settled into a precise rhythm, at least when there are no cooking classes: closing the windows and shutters during the hottest hours, turning on the fans, putting everything off until the evening, when at last we can breathe again. The ingredients filling the kitchen, my sun-tanned skin, and that tiredness that comes after weeks of heat all make me feel as though grape schiacciata must be just around the corner.

But it isn’t. There are still full weeks ahead of us, moving from a cooking class to an afternoon spent working on the translation of Vegetables the Italian Way, from a morning clearing out nonna’s house to a session in the kitchen testing new recipes.

Livia still has a couple of weeks of summer camp ahead of her. Then August will come, followed by the first half of September, when she will settle into the same slow countryside summers I knew as a child.

I hope her enthusiasm for this hot season will eventually rub off on me: her love of ice lollies, of running barefoot across grass turned yellow and brittle by the sun, of afternoons spent in the half-light watching a film, waiting for the temperature outside to drop enough for us to venture out again.

Perhaps, through her eyes, I will rediscover a little affection for summer, a season that seems to grow slightly more demanding with every passing year.

What has not changed, though, is my love affair with summer vegetables.

I love the colder seasons, when the warmth of the stove is not only comforting but sometimes even necessary to thaw numb fingers; when the windows mist up as a soup simmers gently; when Sunday lunches stretch lazily into the few sunlit hours of the afternoon, with little cups of piping-hot espresso left on the table among breadcrumbs and the last slice of cake.

And yet nothing quite compares to the freedom of stepping into the vegetable garden, picking a few tomatoes, a cucumber and a couple of eggplants, and improvising dinner.

This is what I love most about summer: its free-spirited nature, with few rules to follow. Meals take shape around whatever the garden offers — or the market, or the fresh produce section of a supermarket — and whatever I happen to find in the fridge, where I always keep a few things ready that only improve as they sit: roasted peppers, grilled eggplants, feta marinated with herbs and spices and, lately, marinated tofu too.

These are ingredients already halfway to becoming dinner. Add some bread, or brown rice, a slice of pizza rossa, a salad, a handful of fresh herbs, and the meal almost comes together by itself.

When I do have to cook, I like to do it with a purpose, thinking ahead to the next few days.

I set aside a couple of hours, preferably on the coolest day of the week, towards the end of the afternoon, in the dim light of the kitchen. I turn on the oven and make use of every shelf: peppers and cabbage roast side by side, while a soup I will later eat cold simmers gently on the stove and, on the front burner, I brave the heat of a cast-iron griddle pan as I cook thinly sliced eggplants.

After a couple of hours, I am ready for a shower. Then I open every window, let in what little breeze has finally begun to stir, and enjoy the satisfaction of a fridge filled with vegetables already prepared, ready to become salads, cold pasta dishes, complete meals or side dishes over the following days, with hardly any more cooking required.

The three recipes I am sharing today, available to paid subscribers, are the ones that have been carrying me through this July, and that I have made again and again during these days of relentless heat: a fresh and versatile barley panzanella, easy to adapt to whatever you have in the fridge; a zucchini and basil soup, which can be made ahead and served warm or cold on the hottest days; and roasted hispi cabbage, crisp around the edges and tender at the centre, a side dish I often make during our summer cooking classes.

They are three simple recipes designed around the idea of cooking once and eating well for several days.

Subscribe to keep reading and unlock all the recipes, along with the complete Letters from Tuscany archive.

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What about you? Is there something you always keep in the fridge during the summer? One of those dishes you make once and then eat for days? Tell me about it in the comments: I am always looking for new ideas to help me through the heat.

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Before I say goodbye, here are a few things to read, listen to and cook, from the newsletter archive and beyond.

• Speaking of not cooking, here is the gazpacho recipe by Julia Moskin from NYT Cooking that I make every summer. Apart from good, ripe tomatoes, the essential ingredient is olive oil. Lots of it. The recipe says it serves 8 to 12, but the six of us polished it off without any trouble today.

• And speaking of cabbage in summer, just this morning I came across the latest newsletter from , Managing Editor of Good Food, devoted to cabbage—especially the summer variety known in the UK as hispi, which is simply a slightly elongated, pointed cabbage. “Cabbage is an all-year-round star veg. It’s easy on the wallet, goes a surprisingly long way, and can be used in a multitude of recipes.” Packed with links!

• A Year in a Tuscan Cooking School: July. July is a month of celebrations, birthdays, colours, fresh salads, plenty of vegetables, seasonal fruit and wild herbs gathered from the fields.

• If frying does not put you off, try the Calabrian peperonata that my friend Maria Rosa, from the bakery in Colle, taught me to make. It is a summer dish of fried peppers, potatoes and aubergines. Like the best things in life, it only gets better with time.

• Roasted eggplant salad. I’ve been making this roasted eggplant salad on repeat during our summer cooking classes. It might even win over the eggplant skeptics, those put off by their texture or flavour, which might turn too greasy, bitter, tough, you name it.

• Another summer favourite is macedonia, an Italian fruit salad I often make during cooking classes and prepare for summer gatherings with friends. You might want to read ’s newsletter about macedonia, and please make it for your next summer dinner party!

• I was a guest on the latest episode of ’s podcast, The Dinner Plan. We talked about our latest book, Vegetables the Italian Way, and what I cook in summer, between cooking classes and family dinners; how I plan my grocery shopping; and just how much I love my pressure cooker! She shares the recipes for Parmigiana Bianca di Zucchine (White Zucchini Parmigiana) and Rigatoni al Sugo di Verdure Estive (Rigatoni With Summer Vegetable Sauce).

• And one last thing, if you are dreaming of Tuscany… We partnered with The Genuine Experience to design a seven-day experience in Tuscany (April 6-12, 2027): expect market mornings, hands-on cooking, Tuscan hill towns, and slow days spent between countryside, coast, and the Italian table. Learn more about our Tuscany at the Table experience here.

Much like the fennel soup I made at least once a week throughout the winter, until my friends at the market pointed out that fennel season was well and truly over, this recipe is almost disarmingly simple.

It is one of those preparations that verge on the obvious, yet always feel deeply satisfying when they reach the table. Perhaps because it can be made ahead, kept in the fridge for two or three days, and found waiting for you when the heat has taken away any desire to cook.

I like to serve it warm or even cold, finished with a spoonful of Greek yoghurt or stracciatella. This time, I used a plant-based stracciatella, the excellent one made by DreamFarm with Mediterranean almonds (do check it out if you are in Italy).

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I am almost certain you have already seen it piled on market stalls or tucked among the vegetables at the supermarket, without knowing what it was called. My farmer friends explained that this cone-shaped cabbage, sweeter and crisper than the round variety, is known in Italian as cavolo a cuore, crauto a cuore, or even cavolo cuore di bue.

If none of these names mean much to you, its English name may sound more familiar: hispi cabbage. In recent years, it has become increasingly popular in the UK, both at markets and in restaurants.

I first came across hispi cabbage in a recipe by my beloved Nigel Slater. Just as I was wondering whether I would ever manage to find it here too, there it was, in all its fresh beauty, on Valentina’s market stall.

She immediately sang its praises: “It is more tender, sweeter—you have to try it!” Since then, whenever I see one, it ends up in my straw shopping bag. Over the past few months, it has also become one of the side dishes I make most often during our cooking classes, as an alternative to the usual tomatoes. (It makes also a great salad when shredded and mixed with grated carrots).

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It is almost a paradox for a Tuscan household to run out of stale bread. And yet, between the generous bowls of panzanella that are always so popular during our cooking classes and the almost restaurant-sized quantities of breadcrumbs we use to stuff vegetables and coat squash blossoms, there are days when the cotton bag hanging behind the kitchen door is empty.

Sometimes I buy a loaf of Tuscan unsalted bread especially for this purpose, slice it and leave it to dry in the sun. At other times, I open the pantry and look for a substitute.

These days, I am trying to use up all the open packets of seeds, pulses and grains before the summer heat turns them into a breeding ground for pantry moths. This is how this barley panzanella came about: a fresh salad with tomatoes, cucumbers, onion and plenty of basil, which keeps the spirit of panzanella while taking a few liberties with tradition.

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Over the past ten days, my morning walks have looked very different: no soil beneath my feet, but sand. No wheat fields or bramble hedges, but the crystal blue sea of Salento on one side, and on the other low, squat white houses, oleanders, palm trees, and the splashes of colour from the fluorescent pink bougainvillea lighting up hidden gardens.

This year we chose to spend our holidays in Salento again, as in the past five years: to nurture our bond with one side of the family, one Livia is already deeply attached to; to return to a place that by now feels like home away from home; to continue our search for the best pasticciotto — and I think I may have finally found it — to see familiar faces again, and to pretend, for ten days a year, that we live there.

By the time we have our first swim in the sea, we are already back in the rhythms of that house: towels left to dry over plastic chairs, the outdoor shower in the courtyard beside the towering lemon tree, meloncelle — small, pale-green Apulian melons eaten raw like cucumbers —, meloncelle everywhere.

In the morning, I love buying vegetables from the same stall in the car park by the sea. I love hugging friends who, year after year, are still there on our beach near the house, chatting while dipping their feet in the cold spring water. I love discovering new little coves that instantly become our favourites, because they are far from the crowds and the loud music of the busier beach clubs.

We have our rituals: the pasticciotti I buy still warm in the morning and bring back from my walk, our trip to Lecce to buy ceramics from the Gigante sisters, coffee over ice with a view of the sea. And then, on our last evening, pizza on the beach with the whole family, ordered from the pizzeria at the end of the road, seasoned with sand and laughter, piping-hot chips passed from hand to hand, the sunset in front of us.

What I feel for Puglia — or, to be more precise, for Salento — is what my Tuscan-born grandmother must have felt for Basilicata, the land of my grandfather Biagio.

Even though there is no blood tie, from the very beginning I embraced Tommaso’s family, their web of kinship, their ingredients, their habits at the table, and their recipes, which little by little have become part of my own cooking repertoire, gathering along the way a deeper layer of shared stories and memories.

Every year, our holiday becomes a chance to shape our own identity as a family, and to discover a new piece of the puzzle, whether it is a dish — tubettini with mussels, or pezzetti di cavallo, a horse meat stew — sometimes an obsession — the pasticciotto, again — a beach, an aunt or cousin we had not yet met, a story from the past, or a town.

Lecce — with its white stone, where the light seems to reverberate at every hour of the day — remains my favourite city, because it has managed to preserve an identity that has not been entirely flattened by tourism, as has sadly happened to other beautiful towns in Salento. This year, though, I also left a little piece of my heart in Taranto, a city that does not sweep its problems under the rug or hide them behind a coat of white paint.

I loved the seafront, the fried mussels, and the old town, where at times you felt like an intruder, at others like a spectator of other people’s lives, stealing glimpses behind the curtains of grocery shops, courtyards, and garages. Above all, there was the coconut scent of fig leaves baking in the sun, growing out of ruined buildings and between the cracks in the walls.

On our way home, we stopped in Basilicata, in Melfi, to visit my aunt and uncle.

Driving to Melfi from Salento, you cross endless wheat fields: no trees, only field after golden field, dotted here and there with abandoned farmhouses. Then come the wind turbines — “Look, Mamma, a windmill!” Livia exclaimed — and as you begin to climb up the slopes of Mount Vulture, the landscape changes again: the volcanic soil, dark and fertile, the kind you want to sink your hands into; the chestnut woods; and, suddenly, unexpectedly, lush vegetation.

I spent only a few weeks in Melfi with my grandparents during the summers when I was a child, and after that, only brief visits. And yet twenty-four hours were enough to rekindle old connections, polish long forgotten memories, and awaken the desire to know the land of my grandfather Biagio better.

With Basilicata — or, to be precise in this case too, with the Vulture area around Melfi — it is a matter of recognition, and of rediscovering a sense of belonging. Caciocavallo cheese and calzoncelli, salted bread with its dense yellow crumb and dark, crisp crust, the slightly sparkling Gaudianello water, which I did not like as a child but now find extraordinarily thirst-quenching, baccalà and chestnuts, game and peperoni cruschi, Basilicata’s sun-dried sweet peppers, fried until crisp.

As always, food is my favourite way to come to know a place, to recognize it, and to let stories and bonds resurface.

Food contains the light and shade of a region; it can offer you a fuller view, one that goes beyond stereotypes. What I am looking for is not the slow-life postcard, the grandmothers dressed in black sitting on wooden chairs, chatting outside their front doors.

That image is still there in my eyes — and in the photographs from my childhood — but in the album of my memories I place it alongside other stories, too: those of people who had put all their hopes in the driving force of industry, and now find themselves dealing with layoffs and wage-support schemes; and those of people working in hospitality in a splendid region that still lacks adequate infrastructure, and a tourism system that could make it not more attractive — because it already is — but more accessible, easier to experience, for a broader audience.

We left with the certainty that we will soon return to Basilicata, too, because I feel the need to explore these Lucanian roots of mine more deeply: roots I feel strongly in my love for dried oregano, and for the lasagne of festive days.

And then we came home, the car loaded with memories, plans, good intentions, and excellent ingredients: almonds, capers, olives, and taralli from Salento; semolina bread, calzoncelli, peperoni cruschi, and sparkling water from Melfi.

Summer is here, and so are we.

Over the next two hot months, we have cooking classes ahead of us — fewer than usual, which may be just as well, given the temperatures — along with the immense immense and deeply emotional task of sorting through my grandmother’s house, which will soon become an apartment we will rent out to those who want to spend a few days on holiday in Val d’Elsa. We will tell you all about that further down the line. There will also be the translation of Vegetables the Italian Way into Italian — FINALLY! but there will be time to talk about that, too — and many new recipes for the newsletter.

I am still reading your answers to the little survey I shared with you — there is still time to reply here, if you would like — and so many interesting ideas and insights are already emerging. Thank you for the time you have given us.

And what about your summer? How is it going?

Leave a comment

And now, a new recipe and a few links from the archive: things to read and cook.

I always worry that the recipes I publish here might get a little lost once the newsletter lands in your inbox, but luckily, here on Substack, they live on in the archive, which you can always browse here.

• Our Southern roots

• Semolina flour, the unsung hero of Southern Italian cuisine

• Calzoncelli - Chocolate and almond cookies from Basilicata

• Onion Strudel. My aunt makes a focaccia with these onions, but I like to make a strudel with this sweet, sticky filling.

• Potato and artichoke gratin

• Sagne a lu’ fuorn’, my family’s Lucanian lasagne for Christmas lunch.

• Pittule Salentine, fried dough balls from Salento

• Artichoke bread pudding from Salento

• Sagne ‘ncannulate, Tommaso’s nonna’s recipe for curled tagliatelle from Salento

• Taralli, Ring-Shaped Crackers with Fennel Seeds

• Salento and Matera, our foodie guide

And to continue this journey into our Southern Italian roots, today paid subscribers will find a family recipe: my Aunt Teresa’s onion focaccia, revisited and updated.

RECIPE. La focaccia di cipolle di zia Teresa

I was born and raised in Tuscany in a tight-knit family where pane sciocco—unsalted, rustic bread—beans, and olive oil were more than just ingredients; they were part of a secular religion. My family’s cooking repertoire, however, was deeply influenced by my grandfather Biagio’s side of the family, who moved to Tuscany from Melfi, Basilicata, in the 1950s.

My Aunt Teresa remains the best home cook in the southern branch of my family—the keeper of recipes, traditions, and memories. Her festive gatherings are crowded, loud, and overflowing with food. Her cooking is recognizable for her use of humble vegetables—especially onions, peppers, tomatoes, and eggplants—, for the thick-crusted, substantial semolina bread with a dense, salted, golden-hued crumb, and for the unmistakable balsamic aroma of dried oregano. Chili peppers and generous amounts of olive oil complete the flavour profile of her cuisine.

One of her most beloved recipes—the one she brings to every family get-together or bakes as an appetizer for celebratory family meals alongside caciocavallo cheese, spicy salami, and pickled peppers—is focaccia di cipolle.

And so summer has arrived.

It did not come quietly, or stealthily, as spring does. It burst wide open in the sky, along the country roads, across the golden wheat fields, under the majestic oaks whose intertwined branches offer a little refreshing shade. It burst among the raspberry bushes that Livia raids every evening, and on the market stalls, where the countless shades of red, pink, and orange of the ripe tomatoes catch your eye as soon as you walk past them, until the spicy scent of melons draws you further on, like a siren song announcing that summer is here.

As I water the flowers I planted in the bed in front of the studio, I realise that, once again, I have made the wrong choices. Lonely stems, rather frail little flowers, suffering from the heat, the sun, and the wind that comes from the sea, the kind of wind I find myself breathing in deeply, dreaming of afternoons among waves and sea-salty air.

I make a mental note: next year, this spot needs tougher, low-maintenance shrubs, perhaps lavender and helichrysum, plants that can move in the breeze, thrive under the sun, and offer nourishment to bees, butterflies, and bumblebees.

This is what summer does to me.

On the one hand, it exhausts me. Cooking classes intensify, the heat drains me, the nights in our attic bedroom are long and sticky, and I live for those fresh mornings when I feel myself coming back to life a little, just like the flowers under the living room window, enjoying those few moments of relief from the heat. I would like to eat nothing but tomato salads and fruit.

On the other hand, I still have this childlike approach to summer: the days feel longer, more fluid, and I loosen the strict organisation and rigid structures that help us, and carry us safely, through the winter months of school and work. We go to bed later, in the evening we eat outside, putting together whatever there is, and there are fewer rules, fewer obligations, fewer shoulds and more coulds.

All this gives me the illusion of having more time on my hands, more possibilities to do all the things I keep postponing: to read the books I have piled up on my bedside table, to try the new recipes that have been waiting for far too long in my notebook, to perfect my pizza, to test a new schiacciata, to study, to refresh this newsletter, and to plan the next season calmly.

Because we all know it: September is the true beginning of the year, and I would like to arrive there ready. Ready and rested, if possible.

So this week, before giving you the recipe for the roasted pepper rolls with tuna that open Cucina Povera, and so many of the summer lunches during our cooking classes, I would love to hear your thoughts. I want to understand whether what I have in mind for Letters from Tuscany also matches what you expect from it, and whether I can help, in some way, to make the time you spend in the kitchen at least a little more pleasant.

Because if we have to cook, let it at least be pleasant: from the moment we first read a recipe and begin to imagine it, to taste it in advance through the words that have been chosen, until those same words actually lead us into the kitchen, searching for ingredients between the fridge and the pantry, taking out the cutting board, knives, and bowls, and finally bring us to the table, tasting what at the beginning was only a collection of words and expectations.

I have an ambition for this newsletter, and I’ll share it with you because summer not only makes me a little reckless when it comes to judging my energy, my time, and all the open threads I keep following. It also makes me a little bolder.

I would love Letters from Tuscany to be a weekly dose of good energy: a place where you find reliable, tested, seasonal recipes, but also an excuse to pause and read, to take a deep breath, to add a book to your to-read list, to see a tired everyday ingredient in a new light, to slow down, and perhaps feel a little better and more nourished.

I believe in the power of carefully chosen words, of beautiful books, of recipes that make us feel at home wherever we are, and of everyday life that, when looked at with attention, can still offer moments of wonder.

This is why today I am asking for your help.

Before we jump to the recipe, I have prepared a short reader survey to understand what you would like more of here: recipes, stories, cooking techniques, travel notes, a deeper connection with Italian food culture, or something I have not thought of yet.

It will take just a few minutes, and your answers will help me shape what comes next: what is useful to you, what inspires you, and what makes you want to come back here every week. I’ll share what I learn in a future letter.

Start the reader survey (thank you!)

This week the recipe is open for everyone, as a heartfelt thank you for taking the time to answer the survey!

RECIPE. Involtini di peperoni alla piemontese. Roasted Pepper Rolls Stuffed with Tuna and Capers

Adapted from Cucina Povera by Giulia Scarpaleggia (Artisan Books). Copyright © 2023.

These Piedmontese-style involtini made with seasonal vegetables and pantry staples show off a perfect balance of flavours: on one hand, the smoky sweetness of roasted bell peppers, and on the other, briny tuna, blended with capers and anchovies into a smooth, velvety filling.

These are an ideal starter to serve at a summer garden party, as you can prepare them in advance and also easily scale up the recipe to make enough to fill a large platter. Or double the recipe to make a main course for two.

Serves 4 as a starter

• 4 red bell peppers or 4 jarred roasted red peppers (see Note)

• Two 5-ounce/142 g cans tuna packed in olive oil, drained

• 2 tablespoons brined capers, rinsed

• 6 oil-packed anchovy fillets

• ¼ cup/60 ml extra-virgin olive oil

• 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

• 2 tablespoons minced fresh flat-leaf parsley

• Flaky sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

If using fresh peppers, preheat the oven to 450°F/230°C. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Arrange the bell peppers on the lined baking sheet and transfer the pan to the oven. Roast the peppers, turning them frequently, until the skin is charred all over, about 40 minutes. If you want to further blacken the skin, pop them under the broiler for 5 more minutes.

Remove the peppers from the oven and, using tongs, carefully transfer them to a bowl. Be careful because they might contain steaming-hot liquid. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let the peppers cool down completely. The steam trapped in the bowl will make it easy to peel the peppers.

When the peppers are completely cool, peel the peppers, remove the cores and seeds, and cut each pepper into 4 wide strips. Transfer to a bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and store in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.

Prepare the pepper rolls: In a food processor, combine the tuna, capers, anchovies, and 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and process until smooth.

If using jarred roasted peppers, drain well and cut each one into 4 wide strips.

Arrange the pepper strips on a work surface. Spoon some of the filling across the bottom of each strip and press it down gently, then roll up the pepper and place on a serving plate. Drizzle with the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil and the vinegar, sprinkle with the parsley, and season with salt and black pepper.

Serve the involtini at room temperature. Any leftovers can be stored in the fridge for 2 days.

Note: If you don’t have time to make roasted peppers, check your pantry for a jar of good-quality roasted red peppers in oil. You’ll have a tasty starter made with cupboard staples in no time.

Kitchen windows crowded with jars, bowls, and their most-used spices. Bookshelves on the opposite wall crammed with books. An armchair—is that their favourite spot for reading, or where they watch TV at night? Framed pictures on the walls, a fondness for fresh flowers, toys scattered on a rug. These are all clues that make me wonder what it would be like to live there.

It is the same with pantries.

When I visit a friend, or when I’m invited into a new home for the first time, I’m always delighted when I can steal a furtive glance at the pantry. You can tell so much from other people’s pantries: their favourite jam to spread on toast, whether they are more of a pasta or rice person, how many spices they use in their everyday cooking, whether they are enthusiastic preserve makers, or whether they prefer organic, traditional, or fancy store-bought jams and compotes.

You can tell a lot about their cooking style, their approach to food, and often, to life.

For a couple of years, I wrote a column here on Letters from Tuscany, where I interviewed friends and colleagues about their pantries, asking nosy questions and catching a glimpse of their cooking habits through their favourite pantry staples.

Now, at last, I’m bringing this series back as part of the podcast, sharing live interviews with food writers, cookbook authors, and home cooks, with a focus on pantries as a privileged way into people’s lives, cooking styles, and favourite recipes.

The first guest is , a longtime friend of Letters from Tuscany. She is the award-winning author of A Year at Catbird Cottage, a food stylist, recipe developer, chef, and food photographer, and the owner of Catbird Cottage in the Hudson Valley, New York. You can find her here on Substack at .

Before we delve into today’s interview, here are a few pieces from the newsletter archive that tell the story of my love for the pantry:

• My Love Letter to the Pantry. To the pantry, that makes me feel safe, protected, loved, taken care of.

• [Pantry] Onion strudel. This is a recipe to show you that you can make savoury pies, tarts and strudels without buying ready-made puff pastry, just by using what you have in your pantry.

• [Pantry] Pasta alla puttanesca. A hymn to pantry staples, a punchy pasta dish you can whip up in less than 20 minutes, while you’re cooking your pasta.

• Pulses, the pantry protagonists. Pulses are basic pantry staple ingredients, protagonists of traditional recipes, part of my family gastronomical traditions, and, more than other foods in the world, they can be delicious.

• What I always keep in my pantry for cooking classes. The essential ingredients that make every cooking class possible + my mum’s Tuscan herb salt recipe.

Do you like this new podcast series dedicated to other people’s pantries? I’d love to know who you would like me to invite next, and what your own pantry says about the way you cook, eat, and live.

Leave a comment

Q&A with Melina Hammer

What follows is an edited version of our conversation, adapted from the original transcript to make it clearer, smoother, and more enjoyable to read. Let me know if you enjoy this format.

Giulia
Hello everyone, and welcome, Melina. I’m so happy to have you here today for the first episode of this new series dedicated to other people’s pantries, here on Cooking with an Italian Accent. Welcome!

Melina
Thank you. It is so wonderful to be here.

Giulia
I’d love to start with a little introduction. Could you briefly introduce yourself and, first of all, tell us where you are in the world right now?

Melina
Of course. My name is Melina Hammer, and I’m based in the Hudson Valley.

Here in the Hudson Valley, I host guests from near and far at my home, Catbird Cottage. I’m a chef, essentially, and I draw from my many years as a food stylist and photographer, as a cookbook author, and as a recipe developer for my newsletter. All of these roles come together to create beauty and memorable experiences for the people who come here to celebrate special occasions with us.

Giulia
That’s fabulous. I’ll be sure to add all the links to your newsletter and to everything you do in the episode show notes, so that everyone can find you. Let’s start talking about your pantry. What does your pantry mean to you?

Melina
At its foundation, my pantry—and, growing up, pantries in general, especially my mother’s pantry—has always felt like a place of security. It is a place of abundance. And from that sense of security, from those collections of various ingredients, comes possibility and adventure. Whether it is the security of knowing that I always have something to eat, or the possibility of producing something interesting and unusual, perhaps inspired by some far-flung place, at a moment’s notice.

Giulia
Yes, this is exactly what a pantry feels like to me. I remember growing up and walking into my mum’s kitchen, and feeling that sense of security because I could see, right in front of me, all the jars of tomato preserves she had made during the summer, the ones we would use once a week for pizza. And then there were other preserves, and the flour, and the sugar. So there was this sense of security, of knowing that someone was taking care of me. In that case, it was my mum.

And it’s the same feeling I have now. I can take care of my family. I can make pizza on a Friday night with the tomatoes I have in the pantry. So yes, it is exactly the same feeling.

Melina
Doesn’t it feel great?

Giulia
Yes. Even just a little corner in my kitchen—my pantry is not big, but that small corner where I keep the jams I make during the year, and the tomatoes—it feels wonderful. It really does.

Speaking about your pantry, you are in the Hudson Valley. How is that reflected in your pantry?

Melina
There are so many wonderful growers in our region, and I feel really lucky to be able to draw from such a wealth of ingredients.

But largely, they are fresh ingredients. There is one grower who produces locally grown grain and mills it, so I use flour from them.

And then there are Hudson Valley honeys and jams, for instance. I don’t necessarily need them, but I still find myself bringing them into my pantry because they are beautiful, I’ve tasted them, and they are delicious. So they become part of my collection.

It’s also fun to go into shops that carry local provisions and be completely taken by something, whether because the packaging is beautiful, or because I decide I need another kind of pickle, or something like that. And knowing that someone local is producing it makes it even more wonderful.

Giulia
Yes, it’s the same for me. It’s like keeping little memories of where you are, and at the same time offering a bit of support to local producers. Because, just like you, I make my own jam, but how lovely it is to have a jam that is locally produced, and to be able to support a small producer.

Are there other parts of the world that are specifically represented in your pantry?

Melina
Oh, yes. Just as you mentioned, there is this idea of a memento, a piece of an experience that you take with you.

I have ingredients from Japan and Nigeria. There are ingredients that conjure Vietnam, Canada, Afghanistan, Palestine, France, India. It feels as if you are immediately connected to these cultures through the ingredients they use.

Sometimes the uniqueness of a scent or a flavour is really apparent. And sometimes it is simply a hard-to-find ingredient that you happen to come across while travelling, or in a particular international store. Being able to bring those ingredients home always feels like a certain kind of victory, almost as if you had won the lottery.

Giulia
Sometimes it’s the memory of a travel. Sometimes it’s more like an excuse to travel somewhere you’ve never been, thanks to a spice, or to a unique aroma.

Melina
Absolutely. I love how you put that. Yes.

Giulia
And how does your pantry shape the way you cook at home, but also the way you cook for your work as a writer and photographer?

Melina
Well, for the at-home part, I am so often working on many projects at the same time. So pulling from the pantry means that I can have some kind of rice, or quinoa, or farro, or beans available without question, as long as I have that built-in clock to forecast needing it.

And then there is a whole host of other ingredients. So it is simpler eating, but it is very much informed by going to the pantry, seeing what is available, understanding what I have time for, and then just getting that going.

As far as my work goes, there are seasonal stories that really pull strongly from pantry ingredients. And then there are stories in the later months, as in spring and summer, those days when we do not cook as much, but there are still ingredients that are the backbone of how I want to build flavours.

Collections of vinegars, for instance, and those brightening, wonderful vinaigrettes and sauces that can make uncooked ingredients shine and sing, all kinds of things.

Sometimes the pantry will also be the bracketing mechanism for a theme that I want to present.

And there are always pantry ingredients that play a role. I feel like it is a helpful thing for readers broadly, and for my audience as well, to understand that if you have these layers as foundations, then you can always eat well, whether it is exciting cooking for guests or special occasions, or simply figuring out what you are going to have for lunch.

Giulia
So, you mentioned that you host dinners and gatherings. Do you prepare your pantry for that? Or do you shop for your pantry with that in mind?

Melina
I shop for my pantry. And as I do that shopping, I’m always thinking, well, this enormous jar of olives or pickles might be needed for a supper club or a dinner party.

And because it’s canned, it can just sit there and stare at me, and remind me of itself, without needing to be used right away.

There are all kinds of other ingredients that fulfill the same purpose. Sometimes I’m shopping not for a specific reason. I mean, certain things certainly are for a reason, but other things I bring home just because I fall in love with them, and I know they will have some future utility.

And quite often, those ingredients that don’t have an immediate purpose will find their way into some menu item. It’s really exciting to see when that purpose does get fulfilled, and then to see the joy on people’s faces as the ingredient is incorporated and they get to experience it.

Giulia
Speaking of ingredients, what are, let’s say, five ingredients you always have in your pantry, no matter the season? And why do you keep these five ingredients?

Melina
Well, beans, for sure. Beans as humble food, beans as extravagant, amazing things. I mean, everything can be made with a bean.

Jams. Lots of jams that I make. There are certain wild berries that I make an effort to turn into jam each season. So that is always a foundation. And I often gift those jams. Sometimes I don’t even eat them myself, which can feel a little sad, because I love them so much and they are delicious. But as a gift, they are even better.

Canned tomatoes from my garden and from a couple of farmers, so that I can make any number of stews and braises over the winter season. And bottling summer—there is nothing like it.

Then chocolate, because chocolate is something we always have as a mainstay, whether it is bar chocolate for snacking or chocolate for any of the recipes I develop for both the newsletter and for guests.

And then tinned fish, because it is such an excellent way to immediately have protein, flavour, nuance, and depth.

There is such an incredible variety available these days. I use “fish” broadly here: sometimes it is scallops, or mussels, or oysters. And then there is a whole host of different fish. It is an absolute staple for me.

Giulia
So, with these ingredients in mind, what do you cook from your pantry when you don’t feel like cooking, but you still want to eat something good?

Melina
Yes, which happens more frequently than one might think.

Giulia
Almost every day.

Melina
I know. I’m always thinking, I have to cook again? I have to eat again? I just finished cooking.

It is so wild to experience that reality. And sometimes I say to my husband, really, you are going to have to take this on so that I can just step away for a little bit. It does happen more than it used to, but it still needs to happen more.

So I’ve been thinking about that. And quite honestly, lentils. I just love how quickly lentils can be cooked, and they don’t require being soaked in advance.

And as I mentioned earlier, quinoa or brown rice, sometimes pasta. But pasta, I feel, as an ageing body, is more indulgent. So I want to reserve that for times when I’m really going to have an experience.

So often it is brown rice or quinoa, sometimes barley or farro. And I make them special by adding either a cooked, custardy egg, or a few anchovy fillets, or herbs and vegetables, or a layering of all of those things. And thankfully, it always comes together, and it always ends up dynamic.

It is never super basic because, as a practice, and as part of my career, I always have these wonderful jars of things of various kinds that I can just pull from.

Giulia
Yes, this makes me think of something that we could call a kind of student salad, which is something I often make when I don’t know what to cook.

It is canned tuna, which is something I always keep in my pantry because I love it, and beans. So you might have a jar of good beans, already cooked.

You mix them together, and then if you have some fresh tomatoes, that’s great. Or onions, a little anchovy fillet, just to give extra flavour. And then, of course, your best extra virgin olive oil. Next to this, you just need a slice of bread.

It is so simple, but so full of flavour, so glorious. And of course, the quality of the ingredients you start with really makes the quality of your final dish.

But if you have good-quality tuna, beans, and olive oil, you have everything you need.

Melina
That sounds like heaven.

Giulia
So, this is a similar question, but can you remember a moment when your pantry saved you? When you had nothing planned, but you still managed to cook something that felt meaningful and very good, maybe for you, maybe for your guests?

Melina
Gosh. Well, for my guests, I am someone who really likes to plan in advance. With the incredible number of layers involved in producing either the curated dinners for guests, which are really a very, very personalized experience, or the supper clubs, planning allows me to set myself up for success.

Those things are very well thought out and executed.

But things in our own lives are often quite different, because I will just be working and working until it is time for us to eat.

And I do think in advance for that, because I am a planner. But there are often times, especially in springtime, when it feels most intensive, because I am doing all the preparations in the landscape, as well as fueling the normal day-to-day.

So I’ll be outdoors and suddenly realize, oh my God, I have to figure out what lunch is going to be.

Recently, actually, I pulled from the pantry to produce a pot of brown rice. I had thawed some stock from my freezer, so it was very aromatic. There was furikake, this Japanese condiment, a kind of seasoning to sprinkle over food, which I scattered all over it.

I also had a little colatura and added that to enrich the flavour. Then a bunch of herbs, and right now I have some lettuces, punchy mustard greens, and arugula, so I tossed that all together.

And again, a little bit of tinned mackerel made the whole thing feel special, while still being completely spontaneous.

Giulia
You mentioned the freezer. We tend to forget that the freezer can be part of what we call the pantry, and probably should be part of it, because this is where we can stash leftovers that become a new meal, or all those basic preparations that help you speed up dinner on a weeknight.

Today, for example, I had some leftovers from the freezer, and mixed them with a great salad and a piadina that I had left over from yesterday. Together, they made a great dish.

Melina
I agree with you. I think that when we think of the pantry, there are certain things, certain foods, that cannot be canned, and therefore they go straight to the freezer.

I have jars of this garlic mustard pesto that I make every year, actually right around this time, because this plant is extremely invasive. It comes to maturity faster than the native landscape does, and right now is its moment.

It is sort of like a cross between broccoli rabe and mustard greens, and it makes a pesto that actually becomes very mellow, if you can believe it. It is sort of weird, but it is not cooked, and it is just wonderful. And now I have jars and jars of it in the freezer.

Tomato confit, too. Because of the oil, I don’t can it. Storing it in the freezer is what it needs. And all kinds of other ingredients as well. But yes, it is like a second pantry, isn’t it?

Giulia
And it is there for you. We don’t have to forget the poor freezer.

So, you mentioned jam, tomato confit, and pesto. Is there something else you like to make and keep in your pantry, something that can make your everyday cooking easier, or a little bit more special?

Melina
Yes. There are these ingredients that actually live in the refrigerator, but they are pantry staples because they are fermented.

I have, for instance, a jar of sauerkraut that I made that is easily a year old, and it is so delicious. It is funky, crunchy, and salty.

Every year, there is green garlic from the garden, and I will pull some and chop it up to ferment. It is such a simple process. Basically, with a little bit of salt, you squeeze the chopped garlic until it gets juicy.

Then you can season it further. I might add red chilli pepper, then submerge it, and then it is good for, you know, indefinitely.

This adds a salty, funky layer to food that is also garlicky, and it is indispensable because it creates this richer background depth in all kinds of dishes.

So the sauerkraut idea, pickles, this fermented green garlic — these layers are important to me. And because they are fermented, they don’t sit at room temperature, but they are pantry staples because they are there for very long periods of time.

Giulia
And is there something in your pantry that feels Italian to you? Even if it is not traditionally from Italy, but something that reminds you of Italy, and of the way we eat and the way we consider food?

Melina
Well, I definitely purchase dried Italian pasta.

I have La Fabbrica della Pasta, and I often get their orecchiette, and also Giuseppe Cocco, a few different kinds of pasta from that maker.

I love the texture, and I feel like those makers produce a different and really beautiful version of pasta. If I’m not going to make pasta myself, it is a really wonderful alternative.

And I think canned tomatoes and tomato sauce always feel Italian to me. I always keep those on hand in the pantry.

I have yet to make tomato paste, but that is also an ingredient I keep in the pantry. These are like a trio of indispensable ingredients for lots of different preparations, both in warmer weather and for those hearty, cold-season dishes.

Giulia
Yes, I love that you mentioned dried pasta, because often when I talk with people who are not from Italy, they think that we make fresh pasta every day. That when we eat pasta, it is fresh pasta.

And it is not. I mean, fresh pasta is for special occasions, and not even for all special occasions.

Dried pasta is much more common. It is something we eat on a weeknight, or for a quick meal. I eat much more dried pasta than fresh pasta, and actually, I love it.

Melina
Yes, I mean, how much time is there in a day?

Giulia
Exactly. And there are sauces that are really supposed to go with dried pasta, not with fresh pasta. If you think about carbonara, for example, or amatriciana, I love them with dried pasta. They really make a quick meal, and you need dried pasta for that.

I also love wholemeal dried pasta. This is something I keep in my pantry as well. I keep pasta made with lentil flour, rice flour, or sometimes lentil, rice, and chickpea flour, just to have a little variation. But still, dried pasta is one of the most important ingredients in my pantry, along with tomato paste, which is something I love.

That was my grandmother’s secret in cooking.

Actually, I once tried to make it myself. I started with 10 kilos of tomatoes, a whole crate of tomatoes, and I ended up with nine tiny jars.

It was the best tomato paste I had ever had, but it took me forever. I even had to keep the oven going, because that summer was not hot enough to dry the tomato paste in the sun.

So I kept the tomato paste in the oven, at the lowest temperature, for 10 hours. If I had eventually added up all the costs, that would have been the most expensive tomato paste I had ever had.

The most delicious, yes, but also the most expensive. So now I just buy it.

Melina
When I make something that is labour-intensive like that, and I can think of membrillo, quince membrillo, and ramp salt that I make in spring, those become so precious and coveted that I actually end up not using those ingredients for myself.

I will only use them for guests or give them as gifts, because obviously they are incredible and special. But I will not dare to use them casually. I don’t want to run out of them. So I won’t use them personally.

Giulia
So, I’ve seen your pantry. I’ve seen photos of your beautiful pantry, and I’m going to share these photos in the newsletter with this podcast episode.

But if someone looked at your pantry without knowing you, what would be the first thing they could understand about your life?

Melina
Well, maybe, to put it generously, that I’m a collector.

I think someone would say, wow, she has a really good array of many ingredients.

And I have really cultivated that. As a recipe developer, there is a need for many of these things, in order to prepare something that is gluten-free, for instance, or to be able to host people who are vegan, or to have all kinds of lifestyles at the ready.

Learning to have a way with those ingredients has meant that I’ve had to invest in them, experiment with them, and develop recipes with them. And then I get to incorporate them into my own repertoire, because some things I really love.

So it becomes, oh, I’m going to use those oats in this kind of new preparation, or I’m just going to go back to that recipe over and over again because I love it so much.

But yes, it has meant that the breadth and depth of my pantry have expanded over the years. Sometimes I feel like I don’t get to the very back of the pantry, which means that one of these days I have to make a project just to do that.

And remember, oh, right, when we first moved here… because there are a few things at the very, very back that probably need to be examined.

Giulia
Yes, this is something I do during the low season of cooking classes. So let’s say from December to March, this is when I really want to reach the back of my pantry.

Often, I find surprises there. This is when I can really say, okay, I’m not going to buy any more pasta, any more beans, any more canned tuna or mackerel.

Melina
That’s smart.

Giulia
I want to see the end of my pantry. I don’t always succeed, but I discover many things that I tend to forget at the back of the pantry.

And it’s nice to be surprised by your pantry.

Melina
That’s really smart. I’ve been doing that with the freezer this past winter.

It has been an excellent exercise because I have suffered the experience of stocking things and then not really reconnecting with certain pieces of that abundance.

So this winter, I pulled and pulled from the freezer, and it was really joyous because it meant that I wasn’t cooking as much. The previous me had set the present me up for success.

I was able to use those ingredients, eat well, and not have to work so hard to do so. Not as hard, at least.

Giulia
Exactly. So I have one last question. If I opened your pantry today, what would surprise me the most?

Melina
Gosh. I probably have eight different kinds of honey, but I don’t know if that’s surprising.

I have honey from Nigeria. I have honey from Canada. I have three kinds of honeycomb. So, maybe that’s normal.

Giulia
I have honey, but not eight kinds! So how do you use all these different kinds of honey?

Melina
Well, there is some honey that I won’t use up because it is so special. I don’t want to say goodbye to it.

So there is that honey in the back of the pantry, almost saying, remember us?

But honeycomb, for instance, I love using a little block of it alongside various other preserves that I’ve made, to share with guests. It’s a way to showcase the moment and the region, especially when people visit us in winter, when there is less bounty in the actual garden.

So I can share the garlic mustard pesto, or the wild blueberry jam, and crackers with field garlic inside the dough. And then alongside that, this beautiful honey and a cheese. Those pair really, really well together.

I also love using honey on yogurt, with nuts and fruit, whether they are berries or other fruits. All of a sudden, it feels a bit decadent. It feels luxurious. And it also imparts flavours that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.

And my husband is a fan of honey by the spoonful, so sometimes that is also how it goes.

Giulia
Your pantry really reflects your attention to everything that is very seasonal and growing right now.

Your way of cooking, but also your way of developing recipes and sharing your photos, is really where the pantry meets seasonality.

I think they work very well together. You manage to incorporate seasonality into the pantry in an incredible way, and you can see this from your recipes and from everything you share online. It’s really beautiful.

Melina
That means a lot coming from you.

Giulia
Thank you so much. Thank you for chatting with me today. And remind everyone once more where they can find you online.

Melina
Well, it was a pleasure talking with you. You can find me, Melina Hammer, on Instagram, Stories from Catbird Cottage on Substack, my website, melinahammer.com, and my beautiful award-winning book, A Year at Catbird Cottage. Thank you so much.

Giulia
Thank you. It has really been a pleasure talking with you.

Melina
Same.

There was a time—when I started my blog, when I was still living with my parents in my beloved mansard bedroom over the kitchen, when I was single and had plenty of free time to invest in leisure activities—when I would pick weekend baking projects.

I would leaf through my cookbooks, magazines and favourite blogs to choose my adventure for the day. A dark chocolate meringue tart from Donna Hay, a red velvet cake dusted with shredded coconut, or even a tiramisu where I made everything from scratch, including baking the ladyfingers and making mascarpone cheese out of fresh cream with the help of a few drops of vinegar.

It was the time of the Daring Bakers Challenges, were you around on the internet back then? It was fun—and as the name suggests—daring and challenging. The organizers of the monthly online event would choose complex projects, preferably with several steps, each teaching something: a technique, a traditional recipe, an interesting pairing. Thanks to this project, I made chocolate pavlovas, a baked alaska with pistachio ice cream and brown butter pound cake that my uncle is still raving about after 16 years, a piece montée, and even a Biscuit Joconde Imprime to wrap around an Entremets dessert.

I learnt a great deal of techniques joining the online challenges, not least the ability to read a recipe and follow it step by step.

Those times are gone now, though.

Fast forward 16 years, and here I am, living the life I have always wanted, married to the love of my life, Tommaso, with an almost six year old daughter, a dog, and a family business that keeps us very busy, especially during the high season of cooking classes (which is precisely now).

What I am really missing now, though, is not just the time, but the mental space to tackle one of these projects. More than once, full of enthusiasm and high hopes, I have embarked on a baking adventure, only to discover hours later that I had misjudged the time, the focus, and the fridge space it required.

There will be a time when I will be able to fully dedicate myself to this kind of project again, but it is not now.

Cooking is different. My style of cooking, at least. It is based on improvisation, on problem solving skills, on seasonal pairings and on classic, reliable recipes I can riff on when in need. This is what I try to teach during our cooking classes, too.

I’m still a scale-loving kind of person, as I measure all my ingredients even when I cook, but I appreciate the improvisation, the let me see what happens if I substitute eggplants with butternut squash here approach.

Even though I do not have the time and mental space for the most daring baking projects, I still love baking a cake during the weekend.

What I love most is finding recipes where baking feels closer to cooking, where you can rely on the same intuitive approach. Luckily, many of the classic Tuscan cakes I grew up with, and that I still love today, belong to this tradition. These are often the cakes I I make more often during my cooking classes.

When my students introduce themselves saying I’m not much of a baker, or even I’m scared of baking, this is really not my thing, I challenge them with one of these recipes, a set of instructions that resemble a rough plot outline more than a proper, daunting baking recipe. At the end of the class they are always genuinely surprised, happy to add a simple seasonal cake to their baking repertoire, a cake they feel confident about.

If you are like me, these are some baking projects you might actually enjoy and have the time/mental energy to make. These cakes do not ask for a whole afternoon, a perfectly clear mind, or a fridge emptied in advance.

Most of them are torte da credenza.

These are cakes that were meant to be kept on the dining room sideboard, closed into the glass display cabinet where our grandmas would store china, crystal, linens, and serving dishes.

Kept at room temperature, outside the fridge—or, more accurately, from a time before every household had a fridge—torte da credenza are made with simple pantry staples: flour, sugar, eggs, olive oil, or butter. They usually have no filling, no pastry cream, no whipped cream, though they can include jam, fruit, nuts, chocolate, or spices. Think about apple cakes, ciambellone, pound cakes, jam tarts, nut biscotti, sponge cakes, carrot cakes…

White peach olive oil cake

Take this white peach olive oil cake I just baked during a cooking class. It is the summer variation of my apple olive oil cake, tender and bursting with fruit, with a gentle hint of lemon and vanilla.

You can make it in one bowl—two, if you count the bowl where you slice the peaches—with the help of an electric mixer.

To make it feel a little more special and elegant with almost no effort, add a teaspoon of finely minced rosemary—I love the combination of rosemary and peaches—or a pinch of lavender.

This cake also works well with other firm seasonal fruit, such as nectarines, apricots, and pears. For a chocolate olive oil pear cake, replace two tablespoons of flour with the same amount of cocoa powder, and add a handful of chocolate chips to the batter.

Scroll to the bottom to get the recipe behind the paywall. I also included the video on how I line my cake pan with parchment paper. Several people during our cooking classes define the moment when they see it life-changing!

Here a few examples of cakes, cookies, and simple desserts you can approach almost as you would approach dinner.

• Extra-virgin olive oil pound cake with roasted strawberries. This is probably the cake I make more often, the most appreciated during our cooking classes, but also the one I rely on when I don’t have a clear idea on what to bake. It calls for very simple ingredients, from your pantry, and it can be crowned with seasonal fruit.

• Lemon ricotta cake with pears. This is my reliable recipe for lemon ricotta cake. To make it more seasonal, I added a ripe pear, thinly sliced. Omit it, or substitute it with an apple if this is what you have now on your kitchen counter.

• Banana bread with extra virgin olive oil, chocolate, and walnuts. Even though banana bread will forever carry a hint of 2020 about it, I have been in love with it since May 2012, when I first made this recipe from Molly Wizenberg’s book. It was her words that convinced me. Of this banana bread, she writes that “it’s the kind of thing that begs to be cut into big, melty slices while the loaf is still hot”, and really, that says it all. And so I did.

• Buckwheat cake from Alto Adige. Buckwheat was introduced into Italy in the late 14th and early 15th centuries. It grows well in cold mountain regions, so it soon became a staple for the Alpine area. It is used to make polenta, pizzoccheri, focaccia, and this incredible cake, naturally gluten-free, rich with butter and a grated apple.

• Chocolate and clementine olive oil cake. Little by little, I grew fond of this one. We’ve shared birthday parties, quiet afternoons with a cup of strong black coffee, and lazy breakfasts when the day feels reluctant to begin. I love it from the first perfect slice to the last scattering of chocolatey crumbs left on the plate. It’s an uncomplicated cake, as comforting as a friend’s hug or a warm cup of tea. The crumb is soft, almost moist, with a thin, crisp top.

• Yoghurt pound cake for breakfast. We’ve been baking this pound cake since Tommaso started making his own yoghurt to use the surplus. We keep a little post-it on the fridge, with the ingredient list scribbles down so that whenever we feel like baking, we have all we need. It must be quite a good cake, if it won its space on our fridge, among polaroids, postcards and the magnets we collected during our past travels.

• Apple olive oil cake. This is the cake I make most often throughout the year, as it is Livia’s favourite. Once you bake it, you’ll understand why.

• Pear and almond cake. It has everything I love in a cake: it is bursting with fruit, – I chose summer baby pears -, it has a rustic texture given by almond flour and almond flakes, and a subtle lemon scent. And according to Niki Segnit, in her The flavour thesaurus, pear and almond are a natural couple: classy and restrained.

• Chestnut flour and chocolate biscotti. Turn the traditional Tuscan almond biscotti into a Fall treat. Substitute part of the all-purpose flour with chestnut flour, add the zest of an orange, and a generous amount of dark chocolate chips. Serve them at the end of a meal with a tiny glass of vinsanto, the Tuscan dessert wine, or an espresso, or enjoy them in the morning to begin the day with a boost of energy.

And then, because not every simple dessert needs to be baked…

• Tiramisù allo zabaione. This is a quicker version of a classic tiramisu, made with vinsanto sabayon and mascarpone. I like to enhance contrasts when I make tiramisù: the creamy, silky, sweet mascarpone and sabayon cream is balanced by the unsweetened coffee, and the crunch of dark chocolate. It makes every spoonful interesting and surprising.

I’d love to know about your own relationship with baking, and whether you have desserts like these: simple ones, for those times when you don’t have much time, focus, or mental space. I’ll be reading your thoughts in the comments, or by email if you’d rather reply to this letter directly.

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RECIPE. White peach olive oil cake

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What happens when you feel you have nothing left to say? When inspiration fades until it almost disappears?

I have been writing this newsletter almost every week for the past five and a half years. I have kept a blog (do you know I have a blog, don’t you?) for more than seventeen years, and so far I have written seven cookbooks, the latest of which, Vegetables the Italian Way, came out just a month ago. In these past few weeks, I have felt the weight of a cooking class season that has just begun, which I have been trying to fit around other projects, work deadlines, seasonal bugs, the promotion of a newly published book, family commitments, and big steps for us as a couple and as a family.

Over the past few months, I have felt a deep tiredness, and it has also shown up as a lack of that creative drive that usually guides my work.

Then, just the other day, I came across a thought by here on Substack. I recognized myself immediately in those words

When inspiration is missing, I return to gestures, to books, to the soil, to walks, to beloved recipes. And from there, something begins again.

My strategy is to step back for a while, and then return to that place, in front of that blank page. Because in the end, what makes the difference is showing up, day after day.

Here is what works for me when I need to breathe new life into inspiration.

Reading a book that inspired me in the past

This almost always works. I walk over to the bookshelf, let my eyes wander over the cookbooks, the memoirs, the essays, and the books by my favourite food writers, and then I pick up the one that calls to me. There is always one that seems to lean out from the shelf. The choice is often instinctive, almost visceral.

Every time, it feels like reopening a conversation that had been left unfinished. Some books have this ability to reach out to you across time and space, and even if they were written more than fifty years ago, they still carry an urgency that makes them feel entirely alive.

I love rediscovering the sentences I had underlined, the notes in the margins, the exclamation marks placed next to thoughts I had only vaguely formed in my mind, but that the author had managed to put into words, making them finally clear to me.

Sometimes, an intimacy begins to form in that conversation, making you feel close not only to the author, but also to the version of yourself who read that book years before. Rereading these books is one of life’s small pleasures.

Studying

When inspiration is truly missing, when I feel uncertain and it seems I need to find a new path — in this work, you constantly have to recalibrate your course — I go back to the basics.

Studying means trying to fill all those gaps I feel I still have, perhaps because I more or less invented a job for myself that did not exist when I was at university, bringing together a handful of skills and a great deal of curiosity.

At first, I thought it was impostor syndrome — never feeling ready or prepared enough — but now I realize it is more about going back to the source of the passion that brought me here, in the very books that taught me a craft: how to write, how to cook, or how to take better photographs.

I often return to Will Write for Food by Dianne Jacob, my first textbook as a food writer; Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott; On Writing by Stephen King; and On Writing Well by William Zinsser, a book from 1976 (!!!) that still has so much to say.

Then there are days when I simply want to understand creativity a little better — I firmly believe that writing about food is both a craft and a creative practice — and so I return to Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. By the way, I cannot wait for Emma Gannon’s new book, A Creative Compass: Finding Your Way to a Creative Life, to come out. It will be my holiday reading.

Getting my hands dirty

Anything counts, whether it is painting with watercolours or gardening: transplanting the dahlias and zinnias that have finally sprouted into the flower beds, or pulling weeds.

At the end of the day, as I water the flowers in the garden at dusk, the laundry hanging on the terrace and the little garden lights around the house casting a warm glow, I look at my fingernails, blackened with soil, and smile. For an hour, I have quieted the intrusive, repetitive thoughts, and given the still-tender ideas a chance to rise to the surface.

Many of them will have vanished by the time I get back inside, but a few will remain, and find their place in my notebook. Who knows, perhaps one of them will become a new newsletter.

Walking

Especially in the late afternoon, listening to a podcast, to music, or simply to the sounds of nature. At that hour, you begin to hear an excited rustling in the hedges along the road and in the undergrowth. At last, the countryside is cool enough, quiet enough: roe deer, hares, and pheasants can come out in search of food.

If I walk quietly, our eyes often meet from a distance, in one long suspended moment when I hold my breath, and I can feel all the beauty and power of wild, untamed nature.

Feeling infinitely small, part of a larger world that carries on peacefully without me and without all my self-sabotaging thoughts, often helps me reconnect with that creative part of myself that tends to lie dormant when I am too connected.

Cooking just for pleasure

It is precisely when I am most tired, when cooking classes follow one after another — and this year, with an international situation that is far from reassuring for tourism, I truly am not complaining — and our dinners consist mostly of leftovers, that I miss cooking just for pleasure the most: without an obligation, without an end goal. More often than not, what I miss is not so much the time, but the mental space.

Even though I spend a good part of my working days cooking, I still treasure those moments when I can close myself in the kitchen, open the fridge, see what is there, and try to concoct something from what I have. Or, even better, open a cookbook and follow, step by step, a recipe by an author I admire, someone I know will not let me down.

Just like with ’s alchermes tozzetti, which a few weeks ago reminded me that baking cookies means creating something to enjoy over several days: a delayed, prolonged pleasure, something fun, at times even frivolous. Certainly a pleasure, not a duty.

One thing that often helps me rekindle my inspiration is returning to an old recipe I once loved, one whose flavour I still remember, along with the way I felt the first time I made it. Then I make it again, changing something along the way, so that the new version can reflect both how my cooking has evolved over the years, and how I have changed, too. I did this with a carrot cake when Livia was born, for example.

Just like picking up a book I read years ago, returning to an old recipe feels like reopening a conversation with a past version of myself, and drawing again from something that had once sparked my imagination.

And what about you? What do you do when inspiration seems to have gone quiet? Do you return to a book, a walk, a recipe you once loved, or something simple you can do with your hands? Tell me in the comments—I’d love for this letter to continue with your voices, too.

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And so, in these days, between one cooking class and the next, between strep throat and yet another appointment with the notary, I pulled a few books from the shelves that I had not opened in a while, including The Gastronomical Me by M.F.K. Fisher, perhaps influenced by the fact that it is ’s book club pick for this month. I went out walking at the end of the day listening to Janis Joplin and Joni Mitchell. I pulled weeds, transplanted flowers, and in the end sat down to write, jotting down everything that had led me back to my desk.

Incidentally, this Saturday, May 30, marks the beginning of the ninth edition of 1000 Words of Summer, a project by that invites a wide community of writers to write 1,000 words a day, together, for two weeks. I am a little scared — will I be able to make space for it? — and at the same time so eager to begin, curious to see where it will take me.

These past few days, as I have been trying to replenish my creative well, have also given me something tangible. Edible, even.

With a few dark, very ripe bananas that needed to be used as soon as possible, last weekend I dusted off Molly Wizenberg’s banana bread recipe, from her first book, A Homemade Life (2009), which remains, to this day, one of my favourite food memoirs.

RECIPE — Banana bread with extra virgin olive oil, chocolate, and walnuts

I returned to this recipe last Sunday, when we had friends over for lunch. I wanted to bake something very simple, the kind of cake that, if there were any leftovers, could easily become breakfast for the week.

Even though banana bread will forever carry a hint of 2020 about it, I have been in love with it since May 2012, when I first made this recipe from Molly Wizenberg’s book. It was her words that convinced me. She really does have a rare gift with words: she once made me feel the urgent need to cook a braised pork shoulder, or a pitcher of boozy eggnog, while I was reading her book on a sun-drenched beach in Salento in August.

Of this banana bread, she writes that “it’s the kind of thing that begs to be cut into big, melty slices while the loaf is still hot”, and really, that says it all. And so I did.

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This year, May arrived quietly, after weeks in which we tried to keep everything in a precarious balance: cooking classes, the promotion of Vegetables the Italian Way, a few other lovely work projects that involved a lot of pulses and a trip near Verona, and, of course, our family life. I did not always succeed in keeping the balance. Often, at the end of the day, I found myself staring rather dejectedly at the list of things still left to do, the mess around me and inside me certainly not helping. But there was one thing that, as it does every year, kept me grounded to the here and now: elderflower.

May is the month of elderflowers, when their blossoms call to me from the edges of country roads, from the ditches, and even from the motorway slip road. Have you ever noticed how much elderflower and acacia grow right along the busiest roads? They stand there, reminding you that yes, you may be rushing somewhere, but they are blooming right here and right now, their season so fleeting that you really should make the most of it. Everything else can wait.

So one afternoon, after yet another thunderstorm, I made up my mind: today we’re all going elderflower picking. Livia, are you ready for an adventure? Elderflowers should really be picked early in the morning, when they are still heavy with pollen, and above all when they are dry. But I had a strong feeling that it was now or never, along with an urge I no longer wanted to hold back: to begin my yearly ritual of making elderflower rice vinegar, my favourite dressing for every summer salad.

And so, once Livia was back from kindergarten, we all piled into the car—Teo included—because I had decided that our adventure would take place a few kilometres from home, along the Elsa river. It is an easy walk, through fallow fields and small oak woods, not far from the Via Francigena, the ancient pilgrimage route that leads from Canterbury down to Rome and crosses Tuscany, passing by my town.

We walked down the middle of the dirt road, surrounded by oaks and dog rose bushes still dripping from the recent rain. Sometimes the puddles would take up the whole path, but Livia, educated by years of Peppa Pig, marched proudly straight through them in her flowered wellies.

And then there they were: the elderflower bushes, so tall that in places they covered the path, wrapping it in a tangled vault of branches and leaves. Even though they were still dripping wet, even though they were perhaps not as intensely fragrant as the ones picked in the early morning, those elderflowers were ready to become vinegar.

The next day, we woke to a glorious sunny morning—by now, May has accustomed us to this dance between thunderstorms and clear skies. I remembered that, a few days earlier, I had noticed an elderflower bush not far from home, along a little road I rarely take. Perhaps we could pick a few more flowers for syrup… and so there we were, Livia and I, ready for another small adventure, this time just a few minutes from home. We shared the flowers with bees and bumblebees, filled a basket, and as soon as we walked back home, we set to work making syrup. This time, I did not want to waste even a smidgen of that precious aroma.

In the end, after crushing the elderflowers with lemon zest, after pressing them into the syrup and breathing in their scent, Livia said to me: thank you, mamma, for teaching me how to make this syrup.

Once again this year, elderflower worked its small, almost imperceptible magic.

May is also the month of roses.

My mum has a soft spot for roses, so much so that, over the years, they have colonised our garden. And this very British weather that has marked May in recent years makes them lush and generous, giving us a magnificent bloom.

Almost all the roses we have at home are scentless, except for two bushes. They grow right at the entrance to our home, near the gate, the surviving descendants of the old roses my mum brought home from San Gimignano when she moved here as a newlywed, more than 45 years ago. Those roses are now more or less my age.

Last year, I gathered those intensely fragrant, fleshy petals and infused them in apple cider vinegar. The result was a bright pink vinegar, heady with the scent of roses. So this year, since I was already making vinegar, I decided to repeat the experiment.

I realise that being born and raised in the countryside, and now having chosen to work and raise our family in the very same house where I grew up, has shaped me in ways I still cannot fully understand.

I have always been fascinated by everything that comes to us freely from nature, because before there was a vegetable garden or an orchard, there were wild herbs, hedgerows of blackberries teeming with life and heavy with berries as dark as ink at the end of summer, pine nuts to gather in the pinewoods, and the mushrooms my grandmother would bring home in her wicker basket.

Growing up, there were not many theatres, museums, events, or playgrounds, but I had the chance to feel free in a space I could imagine and inhabit. I could smell poetry in the mint crushed underfoot during a walk on a late summer afternoon, and learn that time is fleeting in the brief life of a poppy, with its crumpled petals, a bright red accent among slender stems.

Later, I found in books that same poetry I had sensed but not yet understood: first in the muddy hems of Jane Austen’s gowns, and then in the books of Elizabeth David, Jane Grigson, and Nigel Slater.

And so now, I rediscover an inner clock that has begun to tick again, a call that tells me it is elderflower time: a fleeting season that waits for no one.

All of this has instilled in me a deep respect for nature and its rhythms: you cannot force them, and you certainly cannot hold them back. You can only adapt. But it has also taught me that there are ways to preserve the scents and colours of a glorious month like May: for me, they are syrups and vinegars; for others, they might be tinctures and infused oils. They are all small alchemical rituals that carry the goodness of one season into the next.

When, in July and August, the lush green of May is only a memory, I will have in my pantry an elderflower vinegar for cucumbers, a rose vinegar for tomato salads, and a syrup to dilute in water with mint and lemon, to refresh the sultriest afternoons.

P.S. If you are passionate about vinegar, do not miss this video in which talks about his love for vinegar, its role in cooking, and the many varieties he keeps in his pantry. Since landing on Substack, he has once again proved himself to be the very best at creating a sense of community and genuine excitement around food.

P.P.S. is instead sharing her musings on elderflowers and her recipes for elderflower fritters, elderflower cordial and elderflower wine in her latest newsletter.

Infusing vinegars is fun and easy. It gives your imagination plenty of freedom, and there is very little that can go wrong — after all, it is already vinegar, what else could it become? Once they are ready, they are powerful tools in the kitchen: an effective way to bring unexpected aromas to a recipe, and to brighten any dish with a touch of acidity.

If you, too, have an elderflower bush near home, a fragrant rose in the garden, or simply the desire to bring a little of May into your pantry, today for my treasured paid-subscribers you will find three simple, precious recipes: elderflower rice vinegar, rose-infused apple cider vinegar, and elderflower syrup, along with my favourite ways to use them throughout the summer.

Read more

But what about a seasonal bouquet of zucchini blossoms? Or artichokes? Or even asparagus? They are not only beautiful, charming, bright, and full of seasonal colour, but they can also become the starting point for a fabulous meal.

So I took the chance to send you a last-minute newsletter with the recording of our live cooking session with , when we did a recipe swap. I cooked her Miso-Maple Glazed Asparagus from her book, Mind, Body, Spirit, Food: Adaptable Recipes and Grounding Meditations for Preparing Meals with Joy and Intention, and she made the Asparagus Salad with Anchovy Dressing from Vegetables the Italian Way. Both recipes celebrate the fleeting asparagus season through simple cooking techniques and punchy pantry staples.

I also created an exclusive 40% discount to celebrate Mother’s Day, valid only today and tomorrow.

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You can use it for yourself, or to gift a one-year subscription to your mum, or to your favourite mothers out there: the women who feed us, inspire us, cheer us on, and make our lives warmer, one meal, one phone call, one gesture of care at a time.

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More recipes with asparagus

If asparagus are still at the market where you live, here are a few more recipes from the archive to make the most of their short, generous season.

• Asparagus and ricotta tortelli. Fresh and zesty, this is a spring pasta dish I prepare often during asparagus season.

• Potato and asparagus tortelli. RRicotta adds softness and body to the filling of tortelli, but potatoes can do the same, inspired by the traditional potato tortelli from Mugello.

• Asparagus and ricotta crespelle. Spring is the season of fresh ricotta, abundant eggs, and slender asparagus. Combine them in crespelle, an elegant, traditional dish perfect as a main course.

RECIPE. Asparagi con la salsa delle puntarelle. Asparagus salad with anchovy dressing

Excerpted from Vegetables the Italian Way: Turning Simple and Fresh into Extraordinary. © 2026 Giulia Scarpaleggia. Reproduced with permission of Artisan Books. All rights reserved.

Fresh, slender asparagus at the peak of its season is best eaten raw, or thinly sliced and tossed with a punchy vinaigrette. Use this dressing inspired by one of Rome’s most iconic dishes: puntarelle salad. Made from an emulsion of garlic, olive oil, anchovies, lemon juice, and vinegar, the pungent dressing pairs perfectly with the thinly shaved asparagus. It’s the kind of dish that begs for crusty bread to mop up every last drop.

Serves 4 to 6 as an appetizer

• 1 pound/450 g asparagus

• 1⁄2 cup/120 ml extra-virgin olive oil

• 1⁄4 cup/60 ml apple cider vinegar

• 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

• 8 oil-packed anchovy fillets, chopped

• 2 garlic cloves, smashed and peeled

• Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Snap off the hard woody ends of the asparagus. Rinse the spears, then slice them on the bias 1⁄8 inch/3 mm thick. Save the tips and slice them lengthwise. Collect all the pieces in a bowl.

In the cup of an immersion blender (or in a stand blender), combine the olive oil, vinegar, lemon juice, 4 of the anchovies, and the garlic. Blend until you get a creamy, thick dressing. Adjust the seasoning with salt, if needed, and add several grinds of pepper.

Pour the dressing over the asparagus in the bowl, toss, add the remaining anchovies, and serve immediately.

Note: If you have leftover dressing, refrigerate it in a jar to use for salads, tossed with roasted vegetables, or as a dip for carrot and cucumber sticks.

RECIPE. Miso Maple Glazed Vegetables

Excerpted from Mind, Body Spirit, Food © by Nicki Sizemore used with permission from Storey Publishing.

There’s a sweet spot between life’s highs and lows—a leveling that helps us gain perspective. From this place of balance we gain wisdom and acceptance, understanding that everything that goes up must come back down, and that the low moments of life are just as important as the high ones in helping us evolve and grow.

When we seek balance in the kitchen, we bring more nuance and dimension to our dishes. Sweet balances salty; spicy tempers richness; acid uplifts earthy. For this recipe, play with balance, seeking the sweet spot.

Maple syrup tempers the salty, umami-rich flavor of miso paste in a simple glaze that thickly coats sautéed asparagus, carrots, or turnips.

MISO MAPLE GLAZE

• 1½ tablespoons white miso paste

• 1 tablespoon maple syrup

• ¼–½ teaspoon chile flakes, such as Aleppo pepper, gochugaru, or red pepper flakes

FOR COOKING

• 1 or 2 tablespoons neutral vegetable oil

• Salt

• 1 tablespoon unsalted butter or vegan butter

VEGETABLE VERSIONS

1 pound medium asparagus (not too thick and not too thin—aim for thick pencils), bottom woody ends discarded

or

1 pound carrots, cut on the diagonal into ¼-inch slices

or

1 pound turnips, peeled and cut into ½-inch wedges (if you’re using hakurei turnips, you don’t need to peel them)

FOR SERVING

• ½ lime

• 2 tablespoons thinly sliced scallions (just eyeball it)

MAKE THE GLAZE

In a small bowl, mash together the miso paste, maple syrup, and chile flakes to taste until the mixture is smooth—a small rubber spatula works well for this.

CHOOSE YOUR VERSION

ASPARAGUS. Heat 1 tablespoon of the oil in a 12-inch skillet over medium-high heat until shimmering. Swirl the pan to coat.

CARROTS OR TURNIPS. Heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in a 12-inch skillet over

medium-high heat until shimmering. Swirl the pan to coat.

COOK THE VEGETABLES

Add the vegetables to the skillet and season lightly with salt. Toss to coat in the oil. Let cook, stirring occasionally, until well browned and crisp-tender, 4 to 5 minutes for the asparagus or 6 to 10 minutes for the carrots or turnips. Don’t be afraid to let them get quite browned around the edges; those dark bits are going to taste rich and delicious.

Add the butter and the miso mixture, then remove the pan from the heat. Toss the vegetables until they’re evenly coated.

SERVE

Transfer the vegetables to a serving platter or bowl, drizzling any sauce from the pan over the top. Squeeze the juice from the half a lime over the vegetables and season with a bit more salt, if desired. Garnish with the sliced scallions. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Cooking Notes

• Hakurei turnips (sometimes called Japanese turnips) are baby white turnips with tender edible skins—unlike regular large turnips, they don’t need to be peeled. They work well in this recipe, although regular turnips work, too.

• The miso-glazed vegetables are even better at room temperature, after they’ve had a chance to soak up more flavor.

“Yes!” she replied immediately, leaving her dolls, pencils, books, and whatever else she had been doing scattered across her bedroom carpet. She climbed onto a chair and stared at me with a resolute look, declaring, I know what we need: flour, eggs, sugar and raisins. Oh, can I eat a raisin?

Later, as we were storing our pinkish tozzetti—glazed with shimmering sugar and studded with raisins and almonds—in a jar, Livia said: Mum, why don’t we bake more cookies? Can I have one now?

So I promised her we would definitely bake more cookies from Domenica’s book, and that she would get to choose which one simply by leafing through it.

I found this simple idea cosy and comforting, a way of creating memories, of spending time together in a thin cloud of flour, splashes of egg, and the aroma of spices. Knowing Livia and her love for chocolate, she will surely choose baci di Alassio, chocolate-hazelnut kisses from Liguria, amaretti abruzzesi, rustic chocolate-almond cookies, and brutti ma buoni, classic cookies from Piedmont with contrasting textures: crispy meringue, crunchy toasted nuts, and a soft centre.

But there are also recipes I want to make on my own, carving out a couple of hours from our usually busy schedule to learn something new, or simply to relax, fill the kitchen with the toasty aroma of cookies, and stock a jar to leave on the counter for sudden cravings. I want to make her Southern mostaccioli—almond and grape must cookies—which have been on my list for ages, and krumiri, crunchy butter cookies from Casale Monferrato that we often buy from supermarket, so it’s time to make my own.

Baking cookies is not something you have to do.

It’s not like cooking, when you cook to feed your family or to host a gathering of friends. It’s not even like baking a cake, which in my family is usually for the weekly breakfast or to celebrate a special occasion. Baking cookies is creating something you will enjoy over several days, a prolonged and postponed pleasure, something fun, even frivolous at times. Definitely a pleasure, not a chore.

And yet, for exactly this reason, I feel I need it now more than ever, when everything seems to have a purpose, a goal, filtered through this constant drive for productivity: cook these recipes for our weekly meals, make these for a cooking class, test these for a future newsletter.

Some things we bake are just for the joy of it. Cookies on a Tuesday afternoon, with no reason other than wanting something sweet.

I need more lighthearted cookies in my life, and I am sure I will find plenty of inspiration in Domenica’s cookbook.

I keep going back to it at night, flipping through pages, dreaming about what I’m going to bake next.

Because, honestly, Domenica’s cookbook, Italian Cookies: Authentic Recipes and Sweet Stories by Region, is a treasure trove of fantastic, authentic recipes from all over Italy, recipes I can’t wait to bake and experiment with, as a very peculiar way of having a delicious tour through the Italian regions, discovering habits, traditions, and stories.

Domenica’s journalism background shines through in the many stories she collected, in an approach that brought her to visit smallish towns and family run bakeries, in a comprehensive list of cookies from all over Italy, each rooted in a tradition, a local ingredient, or the quirky invention of a baker.

After three weeks, today I’m finally sharing the live cook along we had with Domenica to celebrate the launch of our cookbooks, which shared publication day. You can find the recipe for my roasted-pepper pasta salad in her newsletter, and her recipe for alchermes tozzetti below.

[Our latest cookbook, Vegetables the Italian Way, came out 20 days ago, and your feedback has been generous, enthusiastic, and genuine. If you have time and feel like doing it, we’d really appreciate it if you could leave a review on Amazon, even if you bought your book from an independent bookshop—good choice!]

If you, like me, need a little more lightness in your days, here are a few cookies to start with.

I realise I bake plenty of cookies at Christmas—all the Sienese treats like ricciarelli and cavallucci—then they almost disappear for months, apart from the occasional nut biscotti I make during cooking classes. This has to change!

For now, a little inspiration from what you can already find in the newsletter archive, then you’ll find Domenica’s recipe for tozzetti.

• Biscotti di Farina Gialla con Fiori di Sambuco. Polenta Cookies with Dried Elderflowers. I have a soft spot for Pellegrino Artusi’s paste di farina gialla, polenta cookies. In his recipe, they are made entirely with polenta and have a bright yellow hue and buttery flavour that pairs perfectly with a cup of tea. I usually add a touch of all-purpose flour to give them a melt-in-the-mouth texture.

• Occhi di bue. Occhi di bue, literally ox eyes, are the largest shortcrust cookies, a reassuring constant in any pastry shop, café, or bakery counter in Italy. They are perfect in their generous round shape, winking from the counter with their heart of jam or chocolate.

• Chestnut flour and chocolate biscotti. Turn the traditional Tuscan almond biscotti into a Fall treat. Substitute part of the all-purpose flour with chestnut flour, add the zest of an orange, and a generous amount of dark chocolate chips.

• Coffee ricciarelli. Instead of using instant coffee, we opted for coffee beans ground into a fine powder, much like cornstarch, the same grind used for Turkish coffee. But try them with other seasonal versions: lemon zest and elderflowers to welcome the blooming season, or freeze-dried raspberries, sprinkled in for a bit of color and zing.

What about you? Do you bake cookies outside of Christmas?

Leave a comment

Domenica’s TOZZETTI ALL’ ALCHERMES
“Stubby” Cookies with Alchermes Liqueur

from Italian Cookies, by Domenica Marchetti

Bevagna is a medieval town not far from Assisi. It is small and strikingly beautiful, with a twelfth-century church, good restaurants, and a not-to-miss bakery called La Bottega del Forno, which has been operating since 1967. It was recommended to me by my friend Elizabeth Minchilli, who leads tours in the area and often buys packets of the bakery’s cookies for her guests. Owner and baker Dorita Polticchia, daughter of the bakery’s founder, turns out more than a dozen kinds of traditional Umbrian cookies, waking every morning at 4:30 a.m. and baking straight through till noon. Her assortment of rustic sweets, some round, some oblong, others sandwiched with jam and nuts, are enticingly displayed in woven reed baskets in the bakery’s shop and café.

Among Dorita’s creations are these pretty pink tozzetti, which roughly translates to “stubby ones.” Think of these cookies as the Umbrian version of Tuscany’s famous cantucci, the twice-baked crunchy, nut-studded slices that are meant to be dunked in wine or coffee (see page 98). The pink color in this particular version of tozzetti comes from the addition of Alchermes, a scarlet-hued liqueur infused with cinnamon, cloves, and other spices. The liqueur’s origins are Florentine, and it is popular in both Tuscan and Umbrian baking. After tasting these at Dorita’s shop, I came home armed with a bottle of Alchermes, ready to work on my own version. The liqueur is not easy to find, so feel free to substitute a little red wine or another sweet liqueur, such as amaretto, and, if you like, a few drops of red food coloring.

MAKES 48 SMALL COOKIES

• 1/2 cup (70 g) golden raisins

• 1/2 cup (120 ml) warm water

• 2 cups (240 g) unbleached all-purpose flour, plus more for the work surface

• 1 cup (200 g) granulated sugar, plus more for sprinkling

• 1/2 teaspoon baking powder

• 1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt

• 1/2 cup (75 g) whole raw almonds

• 1 large egg plus 1 egg white

• 4 tablespoons Alchermes liqueur, or red wine plus a few drops of red food coloring

• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350° F (180° C). Line an 11 x 17-inch (28 x 43-cm) rimmed baking sheet with parchment. Place the golden raisins in a small bowl and cover them with the water. Let them steep while you assemble the rest of the ingredients.

Place the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in the work bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Mix on low speed to combine the ingredients. Pour in the almonds and mix briefly to incorporate them.

In a separate small bowl, lightly beat the whole egg and add it to the flour mixture, along with the Alchermes and vanilla extract. Mix on low until the dough starts to come together. Drain the raisins and mix on low. If the dough is dry and crumbly, dribble in about 1 tablespoon of the extra egg white, reserving a little for brushing on top after the dough is shaped. The consistency of the dough should be sticky, and it should come together as a soft ball.

Transfer the dough to a floured work surface and sprinkle a little flour on top. Flour your hands lightly and pat the dough into an oval or rectangle. Divide it into four equal pieces. Roll and pat each piece out into a long, skinny log about 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 inches (3 to 4 cm) in diameter and 12 inches (30 cm) long. Position the logs lengthwise on the prepared baking sheet, leaving a couple of inches of space between them. Press down gently on the logs to flatten them out a bit.

Beat the remaining egg white lightly and brush it over the tops of the logs. Sprinkle 1/2 tablespoon of sugar along the tops of each log and slide the baking sheet into the oven. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until barely browned and just set; the logs should be springy to the touch and there should be cracks on the surface. Transfer the baking sheet to a wire rack. Let the logs cool for 10 minutes; then gently pry them off the parchment and set them on the wire rack for 20 minutes.

Lower the oven temperature to 300° F (150° C). Place the cooled logs, one at a time, on a cutting board. Using a santoku knife or a serrated bread knife, cut them on the diagonal into 1-inch- (2 1/2-cm-) thick slices. Arrange the slices on the baking sheet and bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until they are no longer moist in the middle. They might feel a bit soft, but they will become hard and crunchy as they cool. Transfer the baking sheet to the wire rack and let the tozzetti cool completely. The tozzetti will keep for up to 2 weeks in an airtight container at room temperature.

Baker’s Note: If you prefer a more tender cookie, omit the second bake. Let the logs cool, then slice them on the diagonal into 1-inch- (2 1/2-cm-) thick slices. They will keep for about 5 days in an airtight container.

If you bought a bottle of alchermes to make tozzetti, here’s what else you can make with it:

• Zuppa inglese. If you make zuppa inglese in a transparent bowl, something I really love to do, you will see a colorful stack of layers: yellow vanilla custard; a darker chocolate custard; pinkish savoiardi (ladyfingers) dunked in alchermes.

• Zuccotto. A sponge cake dome, brushed with alchermes, and filled with creamy ricotta.

• A show-stopping zuccotto with a Sicilian filling. Same zuccotto, but with a biancomangiare (almond milk pudding) filling.

• The Italian birthday cake. This has been my birthday cake for decades, and probably also a fixture of birthday parties for all the Italian kids my age. It is a classic sponge cake, sliced into three layers, soaked in alchermes, and filled with vanilla pastry cream and chocolate pastry cream.

I’m happy in that calm, steady way that fills your heart with contentment when you look back at the path that brought you here. Our latest cookbook, Vegetables the Italian Way, came out 15 days ago, and your feedback has been generous, enthusiastic, and genuine. I feel like you really understand the reasons why we wanted to bring this book to life, and have appreciated the recipes and the stories behind them. It is everything an author wishes for during those long months (or even years) of work that take you from the first glimpse of an idea to the printed book sitting snugly on your bookshelf, or, even better, open on your kitchen table.

Get your copy here

On this subject, if you have time and feel like doing it, we’d really appreciate it if you could leave a review on Amazon, even if you bought your book from an independent bookshop (good choice!). This really helps us reach more people, and eventually it might allow us to write more cookbooks (something I would absolutely love, as I already have a couple of ideas queuing up, waiting for their turn to be put into words on paper).

But at the same time, I’m overwhelmed.

The cooking class season is in full swing, I’m working on new menus weekly, joyously picking what looks fresh and inviting at the market. We’re learning again to deal with leftovers, so at the moment our dinners consist mainly of (delicious) reheated food. Not that I am complaining, but my creativity is so often poured into the classes that there’s little left when it comes to cooking for us, or for the newsletter.

We’re also supporting the launch of the book, and even though we’re not touring the country promoting it through in-person events (one day we will do that, promise!), it is still taking up time and energy to organise online events, be present, and show up with the right energy.

So it happened that I got the time zones wrong, and on Sunday I was wondering why there weren’t many people during the cook-along… My fault, and again, I am so sorry! So here I am with the recorded video that you can rewatch if you tried to join the cook-along when I was already washing the dishes! Life happens…

I’ll be a bit inconsistent with the newsletter in the upcoming weeks, but I’ve lined up the recording of our live with and her recipe for alchermes tozzetti, the recording of the live with and her recipe for miso maple glazed asparagus, plus (hear! hear!) a new podcast episode with about her pantry.

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[In the meantime…]

• 🇮🇹 Order Up! A Conversation with Giulia Scarpaleggia, Cookbook Author, Cooking Instructor and Mother of a Very Opinionated Five-Year-Old. I had a lovely chat with Abby from and we touched a lot of subjects, from my love for vegetables to how I cook for my five year old Livia.

• Farm Steady shared the recipe for Ricotta & Broccoli Rabe Tart from Vegetables the Italian Way. They are also running a give-away, you can learn about it here.

• shared my recipe for Roasted Tomato Orzotto on her newsletter.

• Vegetables the Italian Way is the May selection for ’s Cooks Without Borders Cookbook Club, and I couldn’t be happier. We had a fun chat yesterday, you can watch it, or listen to it, here.

• On Monday, May 4th, I’ll be chatting with about Spring Vegetables in Italian cooking. Read more about it here and save the link and come hang out with us on Monday!

What we cooked during our cook along

Frittata trippata, Frittata stewed in tomato sauce. Cooking a frittata in tomato sauce meets two needs: on one side, it gives flavor to the eggs, celebrating the summer season and the abundance of tomato production. On the other side, the frittata soaks up the tomato sauce like a sponge, and what would have been a dish apt to provide for just a couple of people, turns into a dish to feed a large family, with some bread to mop the sauce left in the pan. Get the recipe here.

Potato frittata. Compared to a Spanish tortilla, the Italian frittata di patate is usually less thick, even though it really depends on family habits and ingredient availability. We serve this as a main course, along with a refreshing salad - lettuce and arugula simply dressed with extra virgin olive oil and lemon juice -, some sliced tomatoes, or steamed green beans. Get the recipe here.

An Italian cooking masterclass

I finally created a page where you can find the updated list of all the past cook-alongs—a special bonus for all paid subscribers—, so if you’d like to explore some of the earlier sessions, you can add even more delicious recipes to your Italian cooking repertoire.

Browse the full archive here.

Read more

Frittata is a plain, simple dish that solves many a dinner in an ordinary household, requires basic pantry ingredients, and is a little miracle on its own.

I love how the Oxford Companion to Italian Food presents frittata, like the French omelette, but without the mystique. Isn’t this a common characteristic of Italian food?

Frittata is the Italian version of an omelette, without the mystique. The base is egg together with a pre-cooked vegetables, asparagus, zucchini, mushrooms-the possibilities are enormous.

Elizabeth David, on the contrary, in her Italian Food (1954), is not very gentle with us, saying that Italian cooks make mistakes when cooking omelettes, such as insisting upon cooking them in olive oil (there she is, talking about me!) and using too much filling (me, again).

It must be admitted that very few Italian cooks have the right touch with egg dishes. They are particularly stubborn with regard to the cooking of omelettes, insist upon frying them in oil, and use far too much of the filling, whether it is ham, cheese, onion, tomatoes, or spinach, in proportion to the number of eggs, and in consequence produce a leathery egg pudding rather than an omelette.

Frittata is not a badly executed French omelette, it is another dish altogether, a resource of peasant households, a way to combine eggs and vegetables into a filling dish, a delicious, seasonal meal on its own.

This, instead, is Pellegrino Artusi on frittata, from his Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well (1891).

Is there anyone who does not know how to make an omelette? Is there anyone in this world who has not in his life made some sort of omelette? All the same, it will not be a complete waste of time to say a few words on the subject. It is not a good idea to beat the eggs excessively when making an omelette. Whirl them around in a soup bowl with a fork, and when you see the whites breaking up and blending with the yolks, stop. There are two kinds of omelettes: simple, egg-only omelettes and those made with some additional ingredient.

A simple omelette is one made “paper-thin,” Florentine style, the sort one man is said to have rolled onto his fork all at once and swallowed in a single mouthful, after which he asked for a whole ream. Nonetheless the Florentine omelette turns out very tasty when prepared in excellent Tuscan olive oil also because it is cooked on one side only, which custom is preferable for almost all omelettes. When the underside has firmed up, flip the skillet over a platter which you are holding in your hand, and send to the table.

All manner of vegetables, simply boiled or cooked in butter, may be used in omelettes, and one may add as well a pinch of grated Parmesan cheese, by itself or with parsley. Onions also go well in omelettes, but they make them harder to digest. Two of the most refined ingredients for omelettes, in my opinion, are asparagus and zucchini.

I am particularly fond of frittata for the sounds that surround its making.

The crack of a couple of eggs, the clattering of the fork in a ceramic dish, so common in my house, the sizzling of hot olive oil (and it gives away where I am located, as for me eggs call for olive oil, not butter) that receives the beaten eggs. Then, the rarefied silence that surrounds the puffed, golden frittata when you lay it onto your plate.

I am always second-guessing myself when I pen down such simple recipes here on the newsletter.

Yet, I guess many would benefit from learning a couple of simple tricks that make frittata accessible. Many of the people I meet during my cooking classes—Italian or foreign guests alike—are scared to flip a frittata, and often lean toward making an omelet—hence folding it into itself—, or scrambled eggs.

I learnt the hard way how you can easily and safely flip it without scorching yourself or accidentally throwing your dinner into the sink. I’m eager to share these tricks with those who want to read about simple food, as there’s nothing more grounding than talking about everyday, uncomplicated food.

On this matter, I loved an article featured in the first issue of ’s Tomato Tomato, Defending the 30-Minute Meal by Layla Schlack.

Dismissing the need for easy weeknight recipes, and by extension the people who come to food media for them, doesn’t make anyone care more about the sociopolitical stories about food. Dinner doesn’t simply appear on the table because we’re reading about how potatoes became a staple in so many parts of the world.

A frittata is also a great example of cucina povera.

Traditional country dishes are immediately recognizable: poor ingredients, seasonal vegetables, simple cooking, imagination, and inventiveness.

Every foraged herb or green could become an ingredient for a frittata, along with seasonal vegetables, stale bread croutons, or odd pieces of charcuterie and cheese. Frittata, a rustic, substantial omelet fried in olive oil or butter, changes through the seasons. With bitter greens, potatoes, or onions in winter, fava beans, wild asparagus, or artichoke hearts in spring, it reaches its height in the summer, with zucchini, red peppers, or when the last fried green tomatoes marry the first grapes. In the fall, the eggs bind together thick slices of pumpkin, coated in flour and fried in olive oil, or foraged mushrooms with a few leaves of fresh calamint.

Firm, juicy, ripe tomatoes are the perfect complement to fresh eggs, either in a frittata or in a pan of uova al pomodoro, eggs poached in a rich, garlicky tomato sauce (check the recipe here).

By the way, even though at the moment we’re completely focused on Vegetables the Italian Way (I’m so swept away by the love you’re giving this book—thank you!), I just wanted to let you know that Cucina Povera is currently heavily discounted on Amazon (-52% off!), if you’ve been thinking of adding it to your kitchen library.

Lately I’ve been so much into frittata that I decided to make it the theme of our April Cook Along.

A little preview of what we will cook together on Sunday.

Frittata di patate - potato frittata.

Compared to a Spanish tortilla, the Italian frittata di patate is usually less thick, even though it really depends on family habits and ingredient availability. We serve this as a main course, along with a refreshing salad - lettuce and arugula simply dressed with extra virgin olive oil and lemon juice -, some sliced tomatoes, or steamed green beans.

Get the recipe here.

Frittata trippata - Frittata stewed in tomato sauce

Cooking a frittata in tomato sauce meets two needs: on one side, it gives flavor to the eggs, celebrating the summer season and the abundance of tomato production. On the other side, the frittata soaks up the tomato sauce like a sponge, and what would have been a dish apt to provide for just a couple of people, turns into a dish to feed a large family, with some bread to mop the sauce left in the pan.

Get the recipe here.

More frittata recipes from the newsletter and the blog archive

• Frittata di carciofi, artichoke frittata. The artichokes themselves would be worth an article in a food magazine: they are crunchy and hard to resist. I kept nibbling on them before making the frittata. But then, when they met the custardy eggs, they turned into a Spring meal, and I was grateful I had managed to save enough of them.

• Frittata di zucca, squash frittata. This is one of the most unusual frittata pairings, but I cannot resist the sweet wedges of crisp squash melting into the eggs.

• Frittata di cipolle, onion frittata. Hearty, filling, sweet and delicious, the Tuscan onion frittata doubles as a main course and as a filling for a panino when you are on the go. When you sandwich the onion frittata between two slices of bread and wrap it in foil, the bread soaks up all the flavors and becomes soft and moist. That’s why, for me, a frittata panino when you are on a trip is the best gourmet meal you can wish for.

• Grilled asparagus frittata. Jenna Helwig shared the recipe for Grilled Asparagus Frittata from Vegetables the Italian Way in her newsletter. You can get the recipe here.

Let’s meet for the April Cook-along

Sunday, April 26th on Zoom (link behind the paywall)
🕘 9:00 pm CET | 8:00 pm GMT | 4:00 pm EST | 1:00 pm PST

We will be making two frittata recipes: a filling, satisfying potato frittata, laced with rosemary and onion, and a classic Tuscan frittata trippata, where ribbons of frittata are recooked in tomato sauce and baked under a shower of pecorino.

This session is exclusively for paid subscribers. Can’t make it live? Don’t worry, a recording of the class will be available to all paid subscribers afterwards.

Did you know that, as a paid subscriber, you have access to the full archive of recorded sessions? It is like having your very own course in Italian cooking, with nearly 20 hours of recipes, tips and tricks, ingredient insights, and behind-the-scenes stories — all ready and waiting for you.

Browse the full archive here.

💬 Let me know if you’ll be there in the comments, and if you haven’t yet, subscribe to unlock the full experience: the two detailed recipes, the live Cook-Along link, a printable prep sheet, and the class recording.

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Cooking a frittata in tomato sauce meets two needs: on one side, it gives flavor to the eggs, celebrating the summer season and the abundance of tomato production. On the other side, the frittata soaks up the tomato sauce like a sponge, and what would have been a dish apt to provide for just a couple of people, turns into a dish to feed a large family, with some bread to mop the sauce left in the pan.

The ingenuity of the peasant cooking goes the extra mile when the frittata is cut into strips and cooked in tomato sauce. Known as frittata trippata in Tuscany, or busecca matta in Lombardy, this dish has a close resemblance to stewed trippa, including the final shower of grated Pecorino Romano, or Grana Padano.

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It’s here, and it’s yours now.

This morning, before anyone else was awake, I patted Teo on his sleeping head and silently came downstairs. Vegetables the Italian Way was there, on the living room table that doubles as a desk, among papers, notebooks, a vase with lilacs, mugs of herbal infusions, and random watercolour sketches.

I’ve been leafing through this actual copy for a couple of months now, showing it during our cooking classes, but I still have a respectful reverence for it, as if it were still the only printed copy available in the world. I held the book and read the title on the cover as if I hadn’t written it myself. Just holding it, I felt a swelling sense of pride and expectation.

Outside, the garden is doing what it always does in April. The fava beans and peas are growing fast, climbing the canes we put there to help their growth, and tulips are giving way to buttercups. The light is different: longer, softer, that particular spring quality that makes everything look like it’s just about to happen. It didn’t escape me that this is exactly where the book begins.

The first recipe you find in Vegetables the Italian Way is indeed an asparagus salad with an anchovy dressing. Inspired by that umami rich dressing we usually pour over a plate of puntarelle, this recipe brings that winter anchovy sauce into spring, awakening your taste buds, answering your new cravings for light, bright dishes.

Last week, for example, I made the Roman-style artichokes from the Braised, Boiled & Stewed chapter: the globe artichokes are slow-cooked in white wine and olive oil until they collapse into something tender and deeply savory, then piled onto toasted bread with mozzarella and anchovies. It’s one of my favourite recipes in the book, and one I’ve cooked in front of dozens of students over the years.

But instead of using the artichokes to make a crostone, I finely minced them, warmed them in a pan with their precious braising liquid–a deep green, flavourful oil–, and tossed them with homemade pasta. Another day, I stirred them into a risotto at the end, letting them melt into the rice. Both times, the result was extraordinary, the kind of meal that makes you stop mid-bite.

None of that is in the book. And that’s exactly the point. The recipes in Vegetables the Italian Way are a starting point, not a destination.

Think of them as a grammar: once you understand why the artichokes are cooked the way they are, what the slow braising does to their texture and bitterness, you can take them anywhere. Into a pasta sauce. Into a risotto. Spread on bruschetta. Folded into an omelette the next morning.

I’m not precious about it. I’d rather you cook from this book freely, messily, confidently — adapting, improvising, making it yours — than follow every recipe to the letter and feel like you’ve done something wrong when you don’t.

This book has lived in my head for two years, its lessons taught during my cooking classes for more than a decade.

Today it moves into your kitchens. What happens next is up to you. Vegetables the Italian Way is out today. Find it wherever books are sold, or purchase your copy here:

Buy it online or at your local bookstore

If you preordered it, expect it to be delivered very soon. I can’t wait to see what you will be cooking from it and how you will make it yours.

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And now, I’d love to let three friends and colleagues speak. They were generous enough to read the book early and share their thoughts.

Thank you Hetty, Sarah, and Regula!

“Giulia Scarpaleggia’s warmth and generosity spills forth on every page of Vegetables the Italian Way. There is a beautiful rhythm to the way Giulia cooks, with simple preparations that allow the vegetables to sing, in harmony with the seasons and in concert with the time-honored traditions of cucina casalinga, Italian home cooking.”

, cookbook author and food writer

“Giulia puts her whole heart and soul into every recipe, every time; Vegetables the Italian Way is no exception. To sit at Giulia’s table is to know the best of Italian cooking–and to honor the flavor of every ingredient. Vegetables the Italian Way is like a delicious rambling through the Italian countryside, from north to south and back again, with every treasured vegetable and technique accounted for – never fussy, absolutely authentic and undisputably delicious.”

, author of Every Day is Saturday, Feast, and Instant Family Meals

“Bursting with original, wholesome Italian vegetable recipes that truly work every time, this book radiates warmth. Giulia’s heartfelt guidance makes each dish a joy to prepare, ensuring it becomes a trusted kitchen companion you’ll return to for inspiration, comfort, and delicious meals for many years to come.”

Regula Ysewijn MBE, food writer

Read more about Vegetables the Italian Way here

• Vegetables the Italian Way: cover reveal & the story behind the book

• 5 things to know about Vegetables, the Italian way

• Laura Itzkowitz shared a recipe from Vegetables the Italian Way—my creamy, rich fennel gratin—and afterwards we had a lovely chat about the book. You can listen to our conversation here.

• Cooking Vegetables the Italian Way. I was a guest in Wendy Holloway’s Flavor of Italy podcast. You can listen to the episode here.

• Kathy Slack & Giulia Scarpaleggia discuss vegetables the Italian way, at Tales from the Veg Patch by Kathy Slack - Live from a Cotswolds greenhouse and a Tuscan kitchen, we talked about putting vegetables centre stage.

• Vegetables, the Italian way. Meryl Feinstein shared two recipes from Vegetables the Italian Way—Roasted pepper pasta salad and Roasted tomato orzotto—along with a long interview.

• Vegetables with a Tuscan view. Melina Hammer shared two recipes—Zucchini Carbonara and Doubled-Cooked Artichokes and Potatoes—along with an interview focused on photography.

• An Easy, Springy Frittata. shared the recipe for Grilled Asparagus Frittata in her newsletter today!

Upcoming live events

• Friday, April 17th, 9:00 pm CEST | 8:00 pm BST | 3:00 pm EDT | 12:00 pm PDT, let’s celebrate the launch of Vegetables the Italian Way with my friends and colleagues Flavia Giordano and Enrica Monzani. Join our party live on Substack here.

• Monday, April 27th, 6:00 pm CEST | 5:00 pm BST | 12:00 pm EDT | 9:00 am PDT. Live chat and cook-along with . Join us here.

• Monday, May 4th, 6:00 pm CEST | 5:00 pm BST | 12:00 pm EDT | 9:00 am PDT. Live chat with . Link coming soon!