I still remember the first time I ever saw a chestnut within its prickly green home. I was around 7 and living in the south of Italy. By that time I of course had eaten my fair share of chestnuts, that were traditionally roasted after every Sunday meal at Nonna’s every Autumn. However the honor of going to pick chestnuts was not bestowed upon me until my father and grandfather thought I was old enough to go into the mountains with them and able to be aware of my surroundings especially on the lookout for the venomous green little snakes that were the topic of every mountain trip when it was time to gather the mushrooms or chestnuts.
I remember my little weaved brown basket and my dad and grandpa both taking out their heavy duty working gloves and thinking to myself,