A conversation with culinary food historian, Karima Moyer-Nocchi
One day, Vicky and I were sat in the Pasta Grannies office discussing ‘Italian food myths’ and she suggested I get in touch with Karima Moyer-Nocchi, a noted culinary historian specialising in Italian cuisine. One thing Vicky and Karima have in common is interviewing strong-willed female nonagenarians i.e. le nonne. (Maybe we should call them nonna-genarions!?).
Karima reconstructs histories through a culinary lens and always has her beady eye on myth-busting. She has written two books Chewing the Fat – An Oral History of Italian Foodways from Fascism to Dolce Vita and The Eternal Table: A Cultural History of Food in Rome. Her upcoming book is one we’re very excited to read! It’s called An Epic History of Macaroni and Cheese from Ancient Rome to Modern America. Karima was born and educated in the United States, and since 1990 has made Italy her home teaching at the University of Siena, residing in Umbria. She’s an advocate for experiential learning and encourages “hands-on history”. You can find her on Instagram: @historicalitalianfood.
Karima and I jumped on a call, and immediately I felt like I could have chatted to her for hours. She’s so intelligent, and so curious about the history of our what’s on our plates and what it means more broadly. Here’s some of what we chatted about:
Michaella: Karima, hello! Tell me a little about experience with le nonne of Italy and how that formed your work?
Karima: My book Chewing the Fat is a culinary history that unfolds during a period many readers know little about: the twenty-year span of Italian fascism known as the ventennio. That may sound academic (or even off-putting!) but the story is told through the voices of Italian women who lived it—the women. I interviewed le nonne in their 90s, most of whom have since passed and their memories form the heart of the book. These were not famous figures, but women from across the social spectrum. Their stories move across small towns and cities, from north to south, and beyond—to Libya and Istria, territories once under Italian control.
I sat with each of them with only a loose structure in mind—and true to the title, it was a conversation across the kitchen table, starting with their childhoods and following the course of their lives as they remembered it. What emerged was not a chronology of facts, but something more revealing. Food, in these recollections, is never just food. It becomes a language of loss, longing, resilience, and intimacy.
Michaella: That’s so beautiful, and so true. So, tell me a bit more about how you got into the food history field?
Karima: I’ve always had a strong affinity for food and the way it marks us—socially, culturally, even emotionally. It shapes identity, not just personally, but in how we are seen, placed, and understood within a larger social order. In the same way, I feel deeply connected to the concept of history—not as everything that happened in the past, but as a selective and deliberate act: the record we choose to make, the stories we value enough to carry forward. History, to me, is a form of reckoning. It isn’t about the past for its own sake—it’s about illuminating the present through where we’ve been and where we might be going. Without that tension between narrative and rigor, history loses its meaning.
Michaella: So, after years of research, what made you want to write Chewing the Fat? How did this specific idea evolve?
Karima: What first led me to write Chewing the Fat was a growing awareness of how the increasing romanticisation of Italian food was distorting its history. I wanted to correct the record. It was the unsung voices of the women I interviewed that restored that history. And once I began listening to these women’s stories, I realised there was something larger and more transcendent to uncover. Through these women and my research, I began to reveal a truth that was harder and more luminous than I had expected. I didn’t want to polish the diamond and throw away the rough. Both were essential to the history. In listening to these women and allowing their stories to shape the structure of the book, I hoped to create not only a portrait of their history, but an act of remembrance.
Michaella: So, what do you think makes a food ‘traditional’ then?
Karima: In Italy, the word “tradition” carries a special kind of weight—especially when it comes to food. It evokes a sense of continuity, identity, even pride. But the reality is much more nuanced. Under European law, to certify a food as “traditional”—you only need to demonstrate 25 years of continuous use. That’s hardly “immemorial” is it? It tells us tradition isn’t just about the past; it’s about what we choose to value now.
In every town, there are dishes that have been made for generations but have never been written down, let alone certified. Others are suddenly “rescued,” dusted off, and held up as heritage. Why? Because they serve a need—whether emotional, cultural, or economic. Maybe they evoke nonna’s kitchen. Maybe they attract tourists. Maybe they offer a community a sense of distinction. That’s the thing about food traditions: they’re selective, curated. What we call “traditional” is often the part of the past that makes sense to us in the present. ‘Tradition’ isn’t necessarily about a precise list of ingredients or a fixed technique. It’s about the affective relationship that a group of people have with a dish. It’s the memories, meanings, and sense of belonging that get attached to it. So, that’s what makes it traditional—not what’s on the plate, but what it means to people.
Michaella: And how do you see this at play in Italy specifically?
Karima: In Italy, this plays out in fascinating ways. Think about how regional foods are fiercely protected—Parmigiano Reggiano, culatello, panettone—and yet they’re also shaped by migration, trade, climate change, and innovation. We like to imagine that tradition is something fixed, handed down unchanged. But in truth, traditional food has always adapted. It reflects not only terroir, but economy, necessity, and imagination.
There’s also the question of who gets included in the story. In a country like Italy, with its long and layered histories of conquest, trade, and immigration, it’s worth asking: whose traditions are we talking about? Who gets remembered, and who gets left out? Food tradition can be a source of pride, yes, but it can also quietly draw lines—between insiders and outsiders, between what’s authentic and what’s not.
So to me, calling a food “traditional” is never just a description—it’s a kind of storytelling. It’s a way of putting a flag in the ground and saying, this is ours. Sometimes that story is centuries old. Other times, it was written 25 years ago. But either way, it’s meaningful—because it ties us to a place, to a past (real or imagined), and to one another.
Michaella: So interesting! Another word we throw about in the food space, especially with Italian cuisine is ‘authentic’. How do you see or interpret this word and the concepts associated with it?
It’s a word which is more complicated than it looks. It’s not just about whether a dish is “original” or “pure.” It’s really about who gets to say what’s legitimate—who has the authority to decide what counts as authentic, and what doesn’t. That makes it a question of power as much as of taste.
And here’s the paradox: we often treat authenticity as something fixed, as if a dish reached its “true” form at some moment in the past. But in reality, the foods we call authentic are the result of many cooks over time, often from different backgrounds, social classes, and regions. So, if authenticity is earned through longevity, then it’s also the result of evolution. And if it evolves, then when exactly did it become “authentic”? That’s the slippery part. So rather than seeing authenticity as a sealed-off, perfect version of a dish, we have to understand it as something continuously shaped—a story with many authors. It includes contradictions, debates, even disagreements. And it should leave space for future evolution too.
Michaella: And I believe you have a new book coming out? About the classic mac’n’cheese? Can you tell us a little bit more about it?
The book is called The Epic History of Macaroni and Cheese: From Ancient Rome to Modern America. It publishes in February 2026. It traces the long, unexpected journey of this beloved dish across centuries and cultures—from ancient Roman banquets to Southern plantation kitchens, to processed food aisles.
What interests me is how macaroni and cheese has constantly adapted to reflect the needs and values of different eras. It’s been elite cuisine, survival food, and mass-market comfort—carrying deep stories about class, race, gender, and labor. I highlight the people who made those transformations possible: enslaved cooks, immigrant chefs, homemakers, and factory workers. It invites readers to taste history, not just read about it.
Michaella: It sounds amazing! We can’t wait to read it. And so, to close, tell us. Do you have a Pasta Grannies recipe or your own special favourite pasta recipe? What is it? And why?
Many years ago, when Vicky Bennison was still in the early days of her YouTube venture with Pasta Grannies, she reached out to me after reading Chewing the Fat. Both of us were, was dedicated to bringing these older Italian women to the fore—me as a writer, historian, and researcher, and Vicky by valorising through her videos, two of Italy’s greatest natural resources: la nonna, and pasta history. Hers was a brilliant and novel idea—one that has since been imitated, but never with the same clarity, warmth, and delight that Vicky brings.
We became good friends and have supported each other’s work ever since. I still remember visiting her at her home in London and being shown the very first galleys of what would become her debut cookbook. I was so thrilled for her—and the book is stunning. One of my favourite recipes is Rosetta’s Pasta with Sardines (p. 137). I’ve always loved pasta with fish, and this dish, with its combination of fennel greens and fried fresh sardines is a marvel of Sicilian cuisine. In fact, when I served on the panel for The New York Times 25 Best Italian Pasta Dishes, I had to nominate it; it deserves to be more widely known!
