The Book That Bottles Italy’s Flavours and Family Stories

Wendy reviews books set in Italy. For more articles like this one, subscribe to her Substack channel Italy Writers and get in touch via Sunflower Publishing.

Preserving Italy is like rummaging through somebody’s family photo albums, but instead of embarrassing pictures, you’re flipping through jars of homemade jam, bottles of limoncello, and all the mouthwatering bits in between. Domenica Marchetti is basically letting you in on the secrets only nonna tells you when you’re elbow-deep in flour and you’ve already had a glass or two of wine. Over 150 ways to squirrel away summer’s bounty or impress your friends at dinner—there’s a little something for everyone, from oil-soaked veg to cheeses and even some seriously boozy liqueurs.

The structure? Sure, the book’s organised—by method, by ingredient. But honestly, what grabs you isn’t some fancy table of contents. It’s those quirks at the start of each recipe. Tiny flashbacks, shout-outs to her Italian auntie, gentle reminders of the towns and kitchens where these flavours were born. Suddenly, you’re not just following steps, you’re walking next to her as she remembers her childhood, sometimes with a grin, sometimes with a quiet sigh. Marchetti’s voice? Warm, genuine, like someone who’s seen a few kitchen disasters and survived to jot down the wisdom.

She grew up surrounded by the hustle and bustle of an Italian-American family, where learning to make pasta arrived right after learning to tie your shoes. Summers were all about chasing the taste of fruit straight off the tree or realising there are more shapes of cheese than you thought possible. You can tell. These aren’t recipes you just Google—they’re tangled up in regional pride and family drama, the kind of dishes that make you nostalgic for a childhood you didn’t actually have.

And the little culinary road trip she takes you on? Basically a food lover’s fantasy: hunting for basil in Liguria, hunting for citrus in Campania, sea air and olives in Puglia, and, before you know it, you’re halfway up the mountains in the north. All the classics make appearances: caponata from Sicily, angry Calabrian hot pepper paste, beans Tuscan-style, limoncello that tastes like someone bottled up sunshine. She even throws in all the storage hacks and “if this, then that” advice so you don’t panic if your local shop’s out of bergamot. The photos? None of that over-styled nonsense—just honest, gooey, gorgeous food in jars, the kind you practically want to reach through the page and steal.

My Take

Preserving Italy is basically the cosy jumper of cookbooks. It doesn’t care about food trends or whatever ingredient’s blowing up on Instagram this week. Nope. This book is all about patience. Slow food. A vibe where you’re in the kitchen messing around with jars because, honestly, what’s the rush?

I’ve chewed through a lot of cookbooks (some of them literal snooze-fests), but this one? It scratches at your memory. Maybe it’s how Marchetti writes—like she’s sharing some old family gossip with you while you sterilise jars together. The recipes aren’t just “add vinegar, add salt, blah blah”—they’re rooted in stories. You can actually picture someone’s nonna quietly judging your technique, or a neighbour peeking over the fence to offer unsolicited tomato advice. Feels personal, you know?

Best part? It’s got range. Super practical tips (how to seal jars, why your pancetta needs more love, what-the-heck-to-do if your pickles turn weird), but it’s not just about the how-to. There’s heart to it—like real nostalgia for the folks who figured out how to turn “Oops, we have too many lemons” into something seriously good. You can taste the scrappiness.

And forget just tomatoes and jams. Marchetti goes off-road and brings in all these cool, underrated Italian gems—stuff from Abruzzo you’ve probably never heard of unless you’ve got an Italian zia hiding somewhere. Her sweet and sour peppers? Wildly good. Pickled aubergine, sapa, unusual cheeses, homemade booze… the book’s halfway to a farmhouse fantasy. The kitchen gets a little bit rustic, which I love.

But, honestly, maybe my favourite thing is that weird, quiet thrill you get from filling up a shelf with your own preserves. There’s something a bit magic about it. You label a jar, stash it away, and wait. And when you pop it open later, it’s like sending a postcard to your future self—or a high-five, maybe. That’s pretty cool.

Why I Recommend This Book

Marchetti does this thing where she treats preserving not just as another kitchen “how-to”, but like… an act of pure devotion. She’s out here caring about ingredients like they’re her kids, and every jar’s practically dripping with nostalgia (maybe literally if you mess up the sealing process?). The book’s swimming in stories, you get smacked with history at every turn, and it’s weirdly emotional? Like, who knew olive oil and lemons could make you feel things.

And don’t stress if you’ve never sterilised a mason jar in your life, because this thing meets you wherever you’re at. Hardcore canning addict? You’ll dig it. Total rookie? No sweat, it’s got you. Or heck, maybe you just wish dinner wasn’t always some rushed, joyless affair; this book’s throwing you an invitation to slow down and savour it.

Honestly, you’ll find yourself coming back to it every time the seasons flip—like a favourite hoodie or your grandma’s lasagne recipe. It’ll have you snapping up crates of tomatoes just because you “might make sauce”, or sniffing figs and pretending you’re on some Italian hillside instead of your boring local farmers’ market. You drizzle oil over stuff, leave it alone for days, and somehow there’s this magic payoff. Plus, somewhere in the middle of all that, you might even feel like you’re holding onto more than just food. Like memories, or your family’s weird rituals, or, I dunno—a chunk of your own story.

And the kicker? Marchetti literally says when you crack open her book, it’s like opening the door to an Italian pantry. Friend, she’s not kidding. If your pantry dreams include jars of sunshine and a shot of soul, well—mission accomplished.

This article was adapted from my original review published on Sunflower Publishing.