Chestnut Risotto

This recipe is an hymn to Autumn, sweet, creamy, and smoky, a chestnut risotto with taleggio and crisp guanciale.

Nov 15, 2021

∙ Paid

The first chestnuts arrived in a wicker basket in one of the first days of Autumn, along with crisp new apples and heady smelling quinces. My father-in-law placed the box on the kitchen table, and started unpacking that seasonal bounty. Apples for Livia, quinces for you - you told me you wanted to make jam, right? - and some chestnuts from the garden in Bivigliano for your mum.

My in-laws summer house in Bivigliano, at the gates of Mugello, is surrounded by tall chestnut trees, that are both a blessing and a curse for my father-in-law. They require constant maintenance to keep them healthy and safe in the case of strong winds and storms. As a result, they bless the house with a refreshing shade in the summer and with breathtaking foliage in Autumn, along with a soft deluge of chestnuts.

Along with mushrooms, chestnuts are probably the seasonal fruit that best represents Autumn, its woody, wild side, and its smoky flavours.

I talked extensively about the culture of chestnuts in Tuscany and the importance for the local cucina povera in this 2020 archive blog post.

Chestnut flour is one of the most fundamental ingredients of the cucina povera, the peasant cooking, of the Tuscan mountains, from Garfagnana and Lunigiana, through the Appennino Pitoiese, down to Mugello and Mount Amiata, basically the whole mountain right side of Tuscany, from North to South. In the years of famine and poverty, chestnuts have supported the local population with their high calorie content and versatility. When the chestnuts become flour, they can be turned into polenta, porridge, bread, cakes, biscuits, fresh pasta and necci, which are a type of Tuscan crepes.

Born in a different era and in the soft hills of Val d’Elsa, chestnuts have always been a treat for me, not a necessity.

They marked the arrival of the cold season, of shorter days, of Sunday afternoon walks in Siena with my parents.

When I was at the elementary school, Saturdays were for San Gimignano, as we would visit my grandfather there every week: it was family time, time spent with my cousin Margherita plotting and dreaming about summer holidays, eating pane e prosciutto cotto for dinner, or my aunt’s roast beef with stewed onions.

Sundays were for homemade cakes in the morning, puzzles, lunch with my grandparents, and an occasional outing to Siena, for some pre-festive window shopping. We would dress up, drive for half an hour, park just outside the city centre, and dive into the buzzing Siena weekend life for a walk along the Corso, the main pedestrian shopping street. There, I would immediately smell roasted chestnuts: sold in a white paper cone, they would first warm up my hands, and then satisfy my sweet tooth, while the shimmering city lights captured my eyes.

At home, the rituals were different. After dinner, my mum would first slit the chestnuts, then my dad would roast them in a large, perforated pan directly on the open fire in the fireplace. When they were nicely charred, mum would wrap the chestnuts in a clean kitchen towel, allowing some time for the steam to work its magic. She would then peel them, passing the still hot roasted chestnuts to my dad, my sister, and me. I can still taste those chestnuts, and the sense of safety, protection, and cosiness that ritual brought me.

Now, I mainly cook with chestnuts.

I use chestnuts to thicken a potato and porcini soup, I mix them with butternut squash and taleggio to make a seasonal savoury strudel, or I crumble them in a risotto, as in today’s recipe. I channel their autumness to create seasonal dishes, to add a delicate smoky flavour to sweet and savoury dishes, to ground myself to the here and now.