Angelina is seventy years old, but when she speaks, her gaze returns to that distant time of land and toil. She tells me about when, together with her mother, she harvested buckwheat. They produced so little, so little that taking it to the mill was not worth it: the miller would have kept a part as payment, and that flour was too precious to be wasted. They used a home mill, a rudimentary tool built by her grandfather that produced a coarse and fragrant grain.

On that same stone they also ground chicory root, previously dried and roasted.

True coffee at home was a rare luxury; they settled for that surrogate mixed with barley. “Sure,” Angelina sighs, “the taste was something else, but that’s what the convent provided.” The family’s wealth was all in two cows and four goats.

The cheese derived from it was destined for sale; it was needed to make ends meet. Only the “defective” forms remained for the home table, those with holes or coarse imperfections. It wasn’t much, but it was what kept them alive.

The most vivid memory, however, is linked to the chiscioi. They were born out of poverty, made with very few ingredients: Buckwheat flour and whole wheat flour.

Water for kneading. A pinch of dried alpine herbs to give it some character. The secret touch? Grandpa Gino’s grappa.

He wasted nothing: he always kept some to warm up while cutting wood in the forest, but a few drops also ended up in the dough to make it special. Bitter flavors and sweet touches. Chicory was never missing, even though the children didn’t like it at all. If there were eggs, mom made small omelets; otherwise, it was eaten raw, finely chopped to soften the pungent bitterness.

But the most awaited moment was the end of the day. With the leftover dough, mom fried empty fritters, quickly passed in sugar. They were simple, very poor sweets, but for Angelina and the other children, they represented the greatest gift.

Other regional recipes can be found below: