My memories of the Fall are so stereotipically Italian they could go on a postcard. Those I cherish the most, of course, come from my childhood and are all about white truffles, wild mushrooms and vendemmia. Memories of handmade tajarin laden with melted butter and topped with layers and layers of white truffle shavings: dad was -and still is - a keen truffle hunter and those precious kitchen gems have always abounded at home, to the point I only realized how expensive and exclusive they were when I moved abroad.
Memories of the Mostra del Fungo, the most important recurrence in my village. Well, clearly, the most important recurrence that doesn’t involve our patron saint and is not Easter or Christmas. Of course, wild mushrooms we ate throughout the Fall, but the weekend of the Fair, there was always breaded fried porcini on our table and I could eat a wagon of those. Thinking of it, I still can.
