Where it all began – In Nonna’s Kitchen

This isn’t just a memory—it’s a feeling I carry with me every day.

Nonna’s kitchen wasn’t about perfect technique or fancy ingredients. It was about time. Time spent together. Time slowing down. Time to talk, laugh, taste, and be present.

What she gave me wasn’t just a passion for food—it was the understanding that food is a language. It’s how we love, how we comfort, how we pass on something of ourselves.

I remember her handing me the spoon to try the chocolate cake mix—not because it was part of a recipe, but because it made me smile. I remember rolling gnocchi with her, not to learn the shape, but to feel useful, trusted. I remember how she’d tell stories while stirring sugo, or how she'd pause just to watch me enjoy that first bite of pizza.

Those weren’t lessons. They were moments. And those moments are what made me who I am.

She didn’t just teach me how to cook—she showed me how to be. How to give without asking. How to create something beautiful from nothing. How to turn the ordinary into something worth remembering.

That’s what Cooking with Tucci is all about. Not just recreating flavors from my childhood—but honoring the moments that made them unforgettable.

Life Lessons from Nonno

My Nonno has always been my hero—not just for what he did, but for who he is.

An incredible athlete, a soccer player, a passionate runner, a fisherman, and above all, an extraordinary man.

Everyone loves my Nonno. His patience, his generosity, his quiet strength—he has this way of giving without ever expecting anything in return. He helps because it makes him happy to see others smile. He listens. He cares. He shows up. Always.

He worked for many years as a car electrician in Italy, and I had the honour of working beside him for a while. I still remember him whistling old songs in the garage—sometimes even singing—with a lightness in his heart that made even the hardest days feel warm.

We spent countless hours together—especially fishing. Overnight trips to Capri, 300-kilometre drives just to find that one perfect spot he loved. He taught me that fishing, like life, is about patience, silence, focus… and joy.

He’s also got the biggest sweet tooth I know—chocolate and dessert are his guilty pleasure. And even now, no matter how old I get or how far I go, he still calls me "bimbo."

It’s a name full of love, of memories, of moments only he and I share.

The time I’ve had with him shaped the way I see the world. He didn’t teach with words—he taught by example. And that, to me, is the truest kind of wisdom.

The world through Mum's eye

What can I say about my mum? She’s a warrior. A woman with the strength of a thousand—and the gentlest heart you’ll ever find.

When my parents separated, I was just eight. It wasn’t easy on anyone, but she made sure I never felt like I had less. She worked insane hours, took on everything alone, and still managed to give me the world. I always felt safe. I always felt loved.

She worked for over 20 years as an import-export manager in Napoli—a job mostly held by men. That tells you everything about her determination and drive. But she didn’t just lead with strength. She led with grace.

She never raised me with endless praise, but she raised me by example.

She taught me how to keep going, even when things get hard.
To smile, even through tears.
To find light in the darkest moments.
To be free—and to never stop exploring.

Because of her, I traveled. I grew. I became who I am today. She let me chase the world, and in doing so, I found my place in it.

And one more thing—she’s the biggest animal lover you’ll ever meet. If she saw a struggling ant, she’d take it home, feed it, care for it, and only release it once it was strong again. That’s my mum.

Tough as steel, soft as a cloud, and full of love for everything that breathes.

I love you Ma'

My Dad – The Rhythm of Joy

If there’s someone who truly knows how to enjoy life, it’s my dad. He’s the kind of person who never takes things too seriously — always laughing, always young at heart, no matter his age. He’s fun to be around, the kind of dad everyone wants at the party.

He worked alongside my Nonno for many years before opening his own car shop, where he became known for building some of the loudest, craziest car audio systems back in the golden days of the '90s. If your car was shaking from the bass — my dad probably had something to do with it!

That passion for music? I got it from him. He’s also a talented percussionist who played for years in a Brazilian samba group in Italy. Those rhythms still run through my veins today.

On my dad’s side, music wasn’t the only thing that filled our days — it was also sweets. My Nonna and Nonno owned a shop that sold these addictive little chocolate balls called Cri Cri — I used to go wild for them! And just next door, my Uncle “Zio Lillino” ran a pastry shop, so imagine how much sugar ran through our childhood.

I always remember my dad surrounded by friends, music playing, a glass of wine in hand, laughter filling the air. He’s someone who reminds me to slow down, live fully, and savour every moment

My why, My family, My future.

This is my everything—my wife, and our son Noah.

We’re here in Australia, far from home, far from family—but together. And together is everything.Noah is the reason I wake up every day with purpose. He’s my heart outside of my body, my greatest joy, and my deepest love. Through Cooking with Tucci, I’m not just sharing recipes—I’m building something for him.

I want him to grow up with the same love for food that my Nonna gave me. Because food, in our family, isn’t just about eating. It’s how we show we care. It’s the time spent choosing the ingredients, finding the recipe, cooking it with attention, and serving it with love. It’s the smile on his face when he tastes it—that’s everything to me.I want him to know his roots.

I want him to feel connected to his culture, to the traditions of Italy, even from the other side of the world.
Because here, it’s just us. And passing that love on—through food, through stories, through moments at the table—is how I keep that tradition alive for him.

And maybe one day, long after I’m gone, Cooking with Tucci will still exist.

And if it does, I hope Noah will take it forward—with the same heart, the same joy, and maybe even more passion than I had.

That’s why I do this.
For him, for us.

La tavola where it all come together.

This may not be the most perfect photo we have, but for me, it’s one of the most important—because this is exactly how I remember us: together.

It’s my Nonna’s 72nd birthday. We're all around the table, glasses raised, smiles wide. Celebrating, laughing, being loud like only Italians can be. Just like always—any excuse was good enough to gather: birthdays, Christmas, New Year’s, or simply because it was Sunday. And the place was always the same: Nonna and Nonno’s house. That was our safe spot. Our anchor.

There were cousins running around, the sound of kids playing, card games being dealt, and lots of joyful noise. And of course—a proper feast. Made with love by Nonna, my aunt, and sometimes even me. The smell of homemade food filling the air, followed by a toast with fresh limoncello or centerbe, as tradition demands.

What I cherish most isn’t just the food (though we never missed a meal). It’s the connection. The time spent together, the stories, the clinking of glasses, the warmth that filled the room.And at the head of the table—always—sat Nonno and Nonna.
La colonna portante della nostra famiglia. The pillars. The ones who made that house feel like home for everyone.Every dish I cook now, every recipe I write, carries a piece of them—and a piece of this moment.Because la tavola isn’t just where we eat.
It’s where we live. Where we love. Where we stay connected.

And believe me—I miss all of it, so very much.