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From the book "The stories of the Italian chef". Roasted peppers. A painting of my childhood in the kitchen When her mother came home after shopping in the village she always placed a large wicker basket full of colorful fruit and vegetables on the wooden kitchen table. As in a painting of the famous Still Life by Caravaggio, he arranged the good and colorful fruits from our neighbor's garden along the entire piece of furniture, until they would have occupied all the available space. On the one hand, large round aubergines, lightly streaked courgettes, bright cherry tomatoes with still the...

I still remember the scent of meat sauce that my mother started preparing from the early hours of the morning and that reached my far bedroom. It was a Sunday like any other. With sleepy eyes, I slipped on my sleepers and headed for the kitchen. There my mother was near the lit stove with many pots of different shapes on it. All filled with something good. I already imagined what awaited me. A nice slice of homemade bread baked in an old oven and several spoonfuls of tomato sauce that was simmering since seven in the morning, spread slowly....

Looking out the window and seeing an infinite expanse of green, lined up in perfect almost infinite geometries, is an indescribable spectacle for those who love nature like me. It was exactly what I saw every morning throughout the summer until autumn from the window of my grandparents' house when I happily spent my holidays there. That time, I don't remember if I was six or seven, it was particularly special. It was the first time I was spending the holidays alone with my grandparents because my parents were busy with work. I could barely describe my happiness. I was...

When the sun began to be high again in the typical mild springs of my land, I still remember my grandfather's finger pointing at those newly blooming buds. “They look like gems”, he would exclaim each time, with his strong Neapolitan accent, proud of the work he had done. Often, after school, I would join him in the countryside and after having collected together the artichokes from his noble garden, as he called it, we would return to the cottage hand in hand. Gathered around the table, he always advised me to remove the outer leaves, harder and more leathery,...

In the underground cellar where the grandparents kept our preserves and the wines produced by the house in the cool and for a long time, surrounded by cemented brick walls from which dried sausages, cheeses and garlic heads hung, an enormous pantry housed a horizontal expanse on several shelves and vertical of glass jars, called "boccacci", containing peeled tomatoes. The moment of the visit to the winery was the most awaited one of the entire summer spent in the countryside. When the grandfather asked me and my cousins to accompany him into the mysterious, strictly locked basement, we felt privileged....