Flavors of My Italy

A Journey Told Through What I Ate

Italy didn’t just feed me. It followed me home.

When I think about my travels there, I don’t remember only the landmarks or the museums. I remember flavors. The kind that settle quietly into your memory and refuse to leave.

Sardinia

When I think about my travels there, I don’t remember only the landmarks or museums. I remember flavors the ones that quietly settled into my memory and refused to leave.

In Rome, it was a simple tuna pasta behind a glass counter near the station. Salty, comforting, layered with tomatoes, olives, capers, and tuna. It wasn’t glamorous. It was real. And it became mine.

In Sardinia, after long hours at the beach, it was a thin focaccia tuna melt from a mall food court panini stand. Crisp on the outside, warm and melty inside. Cheese stretching, tomatoes sweetened by heat, herbs fragrant against the salty tuna. I’ve recreated it at home many times still pressing it in a pan, no machine needed.

Olive tree in the neighborhood

In Tuscany, food expanded beyond the plate. We stayed at a small bed and breakfast surrounded by vineyards. They produced their own red wine, offering tastings and selling bottles on-site. I remember watching them harvest grapes, casually lifting them in their aprons. I copied that habit. To this day, I use my apron in the kitchen to carry herbs and ingredients—a small, practical gesture that connects me back to those vineyards.

Italian pizza surprised me too. Thin crust, lightly topped, balanced. Nothing overloaded. Just tomato, mozzarella, basil simplicity perfected. And then dessert pizzas: pastry cream topped with fresh fruit, delicate and beautiful.

Tiramisu was everywhere. In cafés, restaurants, even packaged neatly in convenience stores. Every version slightly different, every version delicious. I never skipped it. I still don’t make it often but when I do, it feels like sitting in an Italian café, lingering a little longer over coffee.

And then there was Milan.

In a pastry shop window, I saw something I had never encountered before marron glacé. A single chestnut, glazed to a glossy shine, resting like a jewel among pastries. It looked like candy, but more refined.

When I tasted it, I understood its quiet elegance. Soft, tender, rich with chestnut flavor. Sweet but not overwhelming. Earthy and luxurious at the same time. It didn’t shout for attention it simply existed beautifully.

That piece of candied chestnut felt very Milan to me: polished, understated, intentional.

Italy taught me that food doesn’t have to be complicated to be unforgettable. A tray of pasta. A pressed sandwich. A thin crust pizza. A creamy tiramisu. A glossy chestnut.

Each flavor became part of my sense of self. Not just recipes to recreate, but experiences to carry forward.

This series, Flavors of My Italy, is my way of preserving those moments—one dish, one memory, one bite at a time.

The lean towner under construction