The Sweetness of Summer: Picking Fruit in Italy
When I think of summer, I don’t think of beaches or vacations.
I think of fruit. I think of my dad.
My father isn’t a chef, and he never worked in agriculture. But he has always had this sixth sense for fruit — for understanding ripeness, smell, weight, and origin with a precision that felt like magic to me growing up. In our family, he was the unofficial fruit whisperer. And in the summertime, he came alive.
Every weekend, we’d pile into the car before the sun had fully risen, and drive — sometimes hours — to find the very best. He never settled for supermarket fruit. He knew where to go, who to talk to, which crates to turn over.
It all started in Vignola, in the heart of Emilia-Romagna — a town famous for its duroni di Vignola, those deep ruby cherries that snap when you bite into them. Not soft. Not mushy. These cherries are grown in volcanic soil, kissed by Alpine breezes, and they hold their shape like little jewels. My dad would always grab a handful for the drive home — he said the ones that stained your fingers were the sweetest.
Then came the fragoline — wild strawberries from the hills of Trentino-Alto Adige or cultivated varieties from Campania, each one tiny, deeply red, and perfumed like a flower. They didn’t need sugar. They didn’t need anything. We’d layer them over fresh ricotta, stuff them into sponge cakes, or simply eat them by the handful, standing barefoot in the kitchen.
By July, it was peach season, and that meant a drive down to Puglia or the Colli Euganei near Padova, where the sun bakes the orchards until the peaches turn syrupy and soft. My dad’s favorites were the pesche tabacchiere from Sicily — squat, donut-shaped, and so fragrant that the whole car would smell like summer the moment we opened the crate. We’d slice them into red wine, just like his father did, and let them soak while dinner cooked.
And then: tomatoes. But not just any tomatoes. My father swore by the pomodorini di Pachino, from the sun-drenched southeast tip of Sicily. These cherry tomatoes are IGP-protected, meaning they can only come from that exact microclimate — where sea air and bright light make them taste like something you’d only find once in a lifetime. We’d eat them raw with olive oil and oregano, or roast them low and slow until they collapsed into pure sweetness.
But his greatest love?
Lemons from the Amalfi Coast.
Giant, thick-skinned, and wildly fragrant — the Sfusato Amalfitano lemons are unlike any other citrus. My dad believed they were sacred. He would zest them into cakes, squeeze them into marinades, and slice them into pitchers of water like they were gold. He taught me that lemon isn’t just a flavor — it’s an ingredient that lifts everything else, like sunlight in a bottle.
Even now, thousands of miles from Italy, I shop for fruit with his voice in my head. I smell the stem. I feel the weight. I wait until the timing is just right. Because it’s never just fruit — it’s memory. It’s heritage. It’s how I was raised to taste life.
At Dilettoso, I carry that same care into every recipe. It’s not just about being gluten-free or better-for-you. It’s about honoring ingredients, the land they come from, and the generations who taught us how to love them.
Today, those fruits mean more to me than flavor — they’re a reminder of how beauty shows up in the simple things. A summer peach, a sun-warmed tomato, a perfectly ripe cherry. My father taught me to notice those moments. And in a world that moves fast, that’s the spirit I try to protect — in my kitchen, in my work, and in every mix we share at Dilettoso.
By Stefania, Founder of Dilettoso
Stefania Dilettoso, an Italian nutritionist with a passion for wholesome living, grew up immersed in the culinary traditions of her homeland. From an early age, she learned to honor food as both nourishment and an expression of love. Through her writing, Stefania shares the artistry, heritage, and soul of Italian cuisine, inspiring others to savor life's simple, flavorful pleasures.
