Soul food: Giancarlo Caldesi on his mother's lasagne If I put a slice of cucumber in my mouth and close my eyes, within a flash I'm back in the middle of a field, picking tomatoes and cucumbers as a boy. I am now at an age when memories are so valuable; they enrich my day, and certain aromas and tastes take me back to when my dearest people were alive. I grew up in Montepulciano in Tuscany, and ate such wonderful food as a child. Hare, venison, rabbit, duck, goose, guinea fowl, even hedgehog. We were self-sufficient, grew everything you can think of, and kept ducks, pigs and cows - they'd smack me round the head with their tails when I fed them. I used to cry a lot. But I was Mummy's little treasure, and helped her with everything. On Sundays I was sent to church, sometimes as an altar boy, and afterwards, when the bells were ringing, I would run home along the country lane. When the wind was blowing a certain way I could smell lunch from a mile away - I'm not kidding. We had a big clay oven outside and my mum would cook roasts and wonderful lasagne in it. I make lasagne just as she used to, with a ragù that takes three hours to make. When I cook my mother's dishes back in Tuscany, everybody says, 'This is Marietta's cooking,' and that means everything to me.