
The first truffle of the season
A cold morning at Cal Sec. Gambo, the youngest of the dogs, finds the first one before we've even reached the upper field.
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What's growing, what we're cooking, what the dogs found this morning. Short stories from the truffle season, the village and life in the 1860 house. Written slowly, sent occasionally.
Some entries are guest reviews, republished here with their permission.

A cold morning at Cal Sec. Gambo, the youngest of the dogs, finds the first one before we've even reached the upper field.
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A twenty-metre well under the staircase, two houses stitched together by inner doors, and a plot paid for with a rabbit. The true story of Cal Cot, as the family keeps it.
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Eight years between planting the first oaks and lifting the first truffle: twenty grams, one 30th of January. The estate's story, generation by generation.
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A pan, butter, two eggs, and a small piece of black truffle the night before. That's the whole recipe — but the night before is the secret.
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Out the door, past the bakery, along the seafront and up to the headland. Forty minutes if you don't stop. Nobody doesn't stop.
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