Some meals start in the kitchen. Others start in the woods.
Our day began with a walk near Fiobbio, a small village on the slopes of Monte Misma in the Val Seriana area above Bergamo. We’ve done several hikes in and around Misma. See: A Walk from Albino to Bergamo via Monte Misma, Monte Misma – Just Outside Our Window, and Le Vie di Misma - Trails 511 and 510.
Left: Algio orsino (or bear garlic) growing along the Lujo stream.
Center: A walk in Fiobbio, Italy to collect algio orsino (Allium ursinum).
Right: Fresh ravioli stuffed with ricotta and aglio orsino, decorated with pesto made with aglio orsino.
From our friends’ house, we set out on foot toward the Lujo stream, baskets in hand and a clear objective: find aglio orsino (Allium ursinum), also known as wild or bear garlic.
Early spring is the moment for it. In damp woodland, the plant spreads in thick green carpets, announcing itself before you even see it. The air carries that unmistakable garlicky scent. Crush a leaf between your fingers and the smell intensifies instantly; a small chemistry experiment happening right there on the trail.
That chemistry is part of what makes aglio orsino so interesting. In the intact leaf, sulfur-containing compounds like alliin are stored separately from an enzyme called alliinase. When the leaf is cut or crushed, the enzyme converts alliin into allicin, the compound responsible for the sharp, pungent garlic smell. Allicin is powerful but unstable, and when heated it quickly transforms into milder sulfur compounds that soften the flavor.
This detail became important later.
After collecting a generous bundle along the stream, we made our way back, stopping briefly at Ca’ La Stongia before returning to Elena and Matteo’s kitchen. The plan was simple: fresh pasta and whatever we could make from the wild garlic we had gathered.
The kitchen quickly turned into a small workshop. Flour on the counter, eggs cracked into a well, dough kneaded and rolled through the pasta machine. We made two pastas: tagliatelle and ravioli. The ravioli were filled with ricotta and our freshly foraged aglio orsino, and dressed with a pesto made from the same leaves.
But first we did something that might seem counterintuitive for garlic lovers: we boiled the leaves briefly. The reason goes back to that chemistry. Heat disables the enzyme that produces more allicin and breaks down the allicin already present. The result is a gentler flavor—still garlicky, but greener and more rounded. Our friends had tried using the leaves raw the week before and found the result overpowering; a quick blanch made the ingredient much easier to work with.
Cooking together has its own rhythm. Someone rolls pasta while someone else shapes ravioli. Someone tastes the filling and adds a little more salt. Conversations jump from food to walks to whatever else comes up. Hours pass without anyone noticing.
In the end, the table filled with bowls of pasta: ravioli with ricotta and wild garlic, tagliatelle with pesto alla trapanese. Dessert followed—pastiera we brought to share and a colomba waiting on the counter.
It’s satisfying to eat something you’ve gathered yourself, but the real pleasure is the chain of events behind the meal: the walk through damp woods, the smell of crushed leaves, the small bit of chemistry that transforms a sharp plant into something delicate, and the shared work of turning it all into lunch.
Meals that start in the woods tend to taste better.
Photos
Right: Allium ursinum leaves.
.jpg "Liverwort (Hepatica nobilis)")
.jpg "Primrose (Primula vulgaris)")
.jpg "Turkey tail (Trametes versicolor)")