I’ve been visiting my family’s village of Sommocolonia in Tuscany since I was born. As a child I remember those car-sick drives up the winding mountain road, with my head stuck out of the window for air. (And thankfully, when the views are that beautiful, checking out the horizon doesn’t feel like too much of a punishment). My great-grandfathers on my mum’s side were born here, and my nonna and nonno even came for their honeymoon; in the days before there was a road for cars.
It’s not really a place for tourists, though plenty of families like ours come back each summer. Every house has a story that traces its roots to the village, and over a few aperitivi we always joke that we’re probably all loosely related. Now, of course, we live scattered between London, Newcastle, Bristol, America, and beyond; but Sommocolonia pulls us back year after year.
The village isn’t just summer holidaymakers and Italo-Brits. There’s a community who live here all year round and keep things ticking along while we’re gone. Our neighbours, Anna and Bruno; affectionately known as the biondis (the blondes); live a short shuffle down a steep cobbled street. They check on our house after winter storms, but they’re much more than caretakers. They’re friends, and really, they are this village. Their daughter and granddaughter live in bigger cities now, so through the cold months it’s just the two of them and their cat Giulietta. Come summer, they open their home, their gardens, and their kitchen to the bustle of returning families.
Of course, not all of us returning villagers speak very good Italian. We muddle along with a mixture of phrases, hand gestures, and goodwill. One neighbour solved the problem in his own way; unable to explain just how much he adored mushrooms, he simply turned up one day in a loud, porcini-patterned shirt. No translation needed; the whole table knew exactly what he meant.
Early September is rife for porcini here; rains alternating with bursts of sunshine mean the mountains are full of them, like little brown-capped umbrellas sheltering the grass. Every morning at 8 a.m. Bruno leaves in his Ape to run errands, chop wood, or disappear into hidden lanes in search of mushrooms. He doesn’t share his secret spots, naturally but he knows exactly where they are. One Tuesday he came home with a basketful, and before long half the village had been texted: “It’s porcini tonight.”
That evening we ate them with polenta, chopped using Bruno’s special “bendy stick.” I asked if it had a proper name. He just smiled; “It’s called the stick.” For the meat-eaters, Anna also prepared coniglio (rabbit), slow-cooked with tomatoes and fresh mountain nepetella; a fragrant herb that tastes like mint, oregano, and basil all at once. Aromatic, rustic, and unforgettable.
Meals like this aren’t just about food; they’re about the season, the people, and the memories created with every bite. And I’ll be sharing Anna’s recipes on our recipe hub soon.
Tell me; do you have foods you forage or gather in autumn? What’s your seasonal favourite?
