VILLA ELENA
I grew up in a grand house named Villa Elena, just a few kilometers outside the town of Siena. It’s set on a typical Tuscan hill surrounded by olive trees, vineyards, and fields of wheat and sunflowers in the summer. The engineer who designed and built the house at the end of the nineteenth century spent so much money making it beautiful for his daughter Elena that he went bankrupt, leaving him no other choice but to sell it. The purchaser, as it turned out, was my paternal grandfather, Gino Tozzi, a skilled and prosperous local merchant.
You can find traces of its elegant elegant past among the cracked walls or in the surrounding garden full of rare plants. Fragments of old frescos occasionally appear from under the whitewashed ceilings, and the wrought iron gates still bear the monogram of the spendthrift engineer. When I was a little girl, many of Villa Elena’s rooms were inhabited by excess antique furniture, not people. The house was cold in the winter, prone to frequent drafts.
At Villa Elena, you can find traces of an elegant past among the cracked walls or in the surrounding garden full of rare plants.
A small fireplace and modern kerosene stoves that had replaced the old terracotta and cast-iron versions provided heat. I have fond memories of cozy winter evenings, gathered in the kitchen for dinner with my family: an irresistible symphony of scents blending together and wafting through the room, and the warmth and intimacy that came from feeling part of the family nest.
As spring approached, the tender leaves of a variety of climbing plants quickly covered the external wall of the house. Soon the green shutters would have to battle armies of tiny white roses and wisteria that seemed to double overnight. I remember my mom singing her favorite songs, nostalgic and emotionally charged. It seemed as if her voice showered the flowers framing the outside windows. Growing up in Italy, you understand from an early age that you cannot go through life without experiencing a bouquet of mixed emotions: love, pain, fear, hope, disappointment. Though I didn’t know it at the time, in her own way, my mother’s songs were preparing me for the future.
Villa Elena has beautiful travertine staircases that connect the two floors. As a little girl, I loved sliding down them, dusting my pants with talcum powder beforehand to ensure the fastest ride possible, aided in part by the well-worn steps. The house has a well that collects rainwater from the roof.
I remember summer days when my grandmother pulled up overflowing pitchers of fresh water to quench our garden’s thirst. Warning us, she waved her finger and scowled, forbidding us to venture too close to the mysterious font.
Villa Elena contains a large room that we use solely for special occasions. On its walls hang framed certificates from 1910, announcing two prizes my family received in Bruxelles for their production of a well regarded red, among the best in Italy. This honor is a source of great family pride, and it is worth nothing that more than a century later, the quality of our family-produced wine remains excellent.
Villa Elena has a well that collects rainwater from the roof.
Over the years, I have had the privilege of living in other beautiful and privileged homes in Italy and New York. But nowhere have I felt more at home than in the bosom of Villa Elena. My brother Marco still lives there with his family and my mother. When my daughter and I go back to Siena, Villa Elena is always our first destination, the place where we feel loved and welcomed.
Our arrival is always celebrated with a sumptuous family dinner where happiness is expressed more through food than words. The menu is a collection of our favorite seasonal dishes—meat and vegetables from the farm—my brother’s wine and my mom’s french fries, everyone in agreement and in perfect harmony. At least for one evening.
