On a flight coming home to Tuscany after a visit to Los Angeles, we transferred through Paris. About 90 minutes before landing, the flight crew began the breakfast service, and a very nice flight attendant asked me if I would like a croissant with my coffee. Now, I love croissants. I love how surprisingly light they feel relative to their size; their crisp, buttery flakiness; the inevitability of that first bite causing a small shower of weightless, paper-thin splinters of goodness to leap from the golden brown outer layer. If it is not like this, it is not a croissant. It is merely a piece of rolled-up buttery breadstuff.

So I asked the flight attendant if it would be a real croissant that would come with my coffee, the kind that one would find in a Parisian bakery. She assured me that it would be. I am sad to report that it was not. It was a mass-produced commercial product. Soft. Uncrispy. Unflakey.

Yes, it was still, technically, a croissant. But there was no human hand behind it. The assembly line it rolled off of would have been indifferent to its quality. The workers who operated that assembly line cared, I’m sure (or at least I hope), about whether the croissant met minimal commercial standards, but it seems doubtful that they’d have given much thought to the degree of pleasure, if any, it would bring to the person who ate it. There’s a difference between something made purely for profit and something made by the human hand, made with love for the making itself, and with respect towards those for whom it is made. We can all feel that difference, and with all five of our senses.

I don’t write this as any kind of criticism of the airline. Everything else about the flight was perfect, including the food (and, honestly, my hope that I could get an artisanally-made croissant on an airplane was probably a little unreasonable). But I found myself thinking about my disappointment over that airplane croissant when someone asked me recently why Christian and I chose to, in their words, “position Villa Ardore as an ultra-luxury destination.”

The question took me a little aback. The truth is that we didn’t “position” ourselves. Villa Ardore is as it is today not as the result of a series of business decisions, focus groups, or other market research, but because of what Villa Ardore means to us emotionally. It isn’t merely, or even principally, a business for us. It’s a passion, a labor of love. And, as a baker’s heart fills at the sight of someone closing their eyes in a rapture of enjoyment with that first bite of his croissant, ours fills when those who have stayed at the Villa tell us how at home and well cared for they have felt during their stay.

This summer several multi-generational families made Villa Ardore their home away from home. One family that routinely stays at top-rated hotels and villas throughout the world told villa manager Francesco Goracci that, while the villa’s comfort, amenities, and service were at the highest level, that was what they had become accustomed to and rightly expected. But they added that they had never before stayed anywhere where they had felt so well cared for. They, and others who stayed at the Villa this year, are already planning their return.

It would be disingenuous not to admit that we are very happy about this from a business perspective, but that is truly secondary. What really makes us feel that we have succeeded is that we have created an atmosphere in which those who stay at Villa Ardore feel like it is a home for them, even if only for a week, and that they feel at least some measure of the same love for, and connection with, this beautiful place that we do.

Soon we will be making Villa Ardore our own home again, at least for a few weeks, when Christian’s mother comes from the U.S. to join us here in Italy. It has in many ways been a difficult year for her, and for our whole family; her dear husband of 45 years passed away very suddenly in March, and she has struggled with her own health challenges as the result of which she cannot live entirely on her own. Because her husband was her primary caregiver, her grief was compounded by worry about how she will manage her day-to-day life.

Christian traveled back to the U.S., first to help with immediate arrangements and then to talk with his mother about her longer-term plans. Given the realities of his work, he could not stay with her indefinitely, so his sister stepped in. And then I did so. Between the three of us, we managed to ensure that Christian’s mother was never alone and never without care. But this arrangement, with Christian and me flying back and forth between Italy and the U.S., while effective as a stopgap, was clearly not sustainable. Our other responsibilities of work and family still remained.

But as difficult in some ways as this period has been, there has also been a beauty to it. The interruption of the hum and rhythm of our daily lives, painful as the reason for it has been, has reminded us of life’s most important gifts. Family. Love. Our common humanity. In his poem The World is Too Much With Us, William Wordsworth laments the ease with which we allow ourselves to be distracted from these gifts by practical concerns. The opportunity that Christian has had to spend months deeply connecting with his mother, and that to a lesser extent I have had, has been a welcome corrective to that ill.

For the last few years, my mother-in-law has wanted to come to Italy, a place that she has never been, to spend some time with us living at Villa Ardore. Unfortunately, her health challenges have prevented it. But now she is able to make the trip, and we are so happy to welcome her. We can’t wait to watch with her as the sun sets beyond the vineyards and over San Gimignano; to cook and eat vegetables from the organic garden; to talk in the living room by the fire when the evenings turn chilly, enjoying a glass of local wine. I may even make some croissants. We have no itinerary. We have made no elaborate plans. We will simply be together, as a family, appreciating our great fortune to be able to do that.

This month’s recipe: Pappa al Pomodoro

From late August and throughout September, the very characteristically Tuscan tomato, the Costoluto tomato, wider than it is tall, with deep folds that make it look like a miniature pumpkin, is at its peak. It is this tomato that is best used for that other food that is quintessentially Tuscan, and emblematic of this late summer period at the cusp of autumn: pappa di pomodoro.

Like so much of the local cuisine, pappa di pomodoro has its roots in the fundamentally rural character of the region, and the practice—common in traditional rural communities the world over—of letting nothing go to waste. As with last month’s recipe, zucchini ripieni, this one requires stale bread (if you don’t have bread that has become stale, you can achieve a similar, though not quite identical, effect by slicing bread and drying it out in the oven at a low temperature). Among the many benefits of this dish is that it costs very little, and is very easy, to make and is perfect for what can be the varying temperatures at this time of year, as it can be eaten hot, at room temperature, or chilled.

Ingredients:
• 8 – 9 medium-size ripe costoluto (or similar) tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and roughly chopped

• 4 Tbsps. of extra virgin olive oil

• 2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

• ½ small onion finely chopped

• ½ celery stalk cut into two large pieces

• 5 thick slices (9 oz., or 250 g.) of stale or oven dried country-style bread, roughly broken by hand into smallish pieces

• 6 fresh basil leaves

• ¾ cup + 2 Tbsp. (200 ml.) water

• Salt and pepper

Method:
1. In a medium-to-large pot, warm the olive oil over medium heat, and sauté the chopped onions until they are golden brown (about 5 to 10 minutes). Then add the celery pieces and continue cooking for about another minute, then add the chopped garlic and continue to cook just until the garlic becomes fragrant, about 30 seconds.

2. Add the peeled*, chopped, and seeded tomatoes to the pot and give everything one good stir and add salt and pepper to taste.

3. Add the water and bring the pot to a medium boil. As soon as the water begins to boil, turn the heat to low and allow the pot to simmer for a few minutes. Tear by hand 4 basil leaves and add them to the pot, then stir. After about 5 minutes, remove the celery pieces using a slotted spoon or fork, and discard them.

4. Add the bread and continue to cook the mixture over low to medium heat, stirring the bread with a wooden spoon to soak up the tomato. Continue gently stirring until the bread has become very soft, and then use the spoon to gently mash the larger pieces of bread until you have very small pieces. At no point during the process should the mixture seem watery, but if it feels too dry, moisten it with a generous drizzle of olive oil.

5. Gently mash the mixture and move it about the pot with a whisk, just enough to ensure a rough consistency.

6. Serve topped with the remaining two basil leaves.

*The most effective way to peel tomatoes is to cut a shallow +, just enough to penetrate the skin, into the middle of the tomato’s bottom side, and extend each shallow line to the stem side, scoring the skin in 4 more or less equal parts. Bring a pot of water to a boil and drop the tomatoes into the water for no more than 30 to 45 seconds, then immediately transfer the tomatoes to a large bowl filled with ice water for about a minute. The skin will then easily pull away from the tomato’s flesh.

NOTE: You may find online many recipes calling for the addition of parmesan cheese. While it can of course be added as a matter of individual taste, it is not included in the traditional preparation and is not recommended.