Allegra was born in the Chianti hills of Tuscany, in a town so charming it could’ve been painted by hand – terracotta rooftops, olive groves, and a kitchen always smelling like garlic, butter, and sass. Her name means “joyful”, and it suited her from the moment she toddled into the kitchen with flour on her cheeks and a wooden spoon in her hand.

Her mother, Isabella, was a midwife who believed that food could heal even faster than time. Her father, Tito, was a part-time poet and full-time pasta enthusiast who claimed that al dente was the perfect metaphor for life — “resistance with a soft centre.”

Allegra became known for her fresh fettuccine — ribbons of pasta so perfectly cut and lightly dusted with semolina that they practically floated into the pot. She never used a machine. “If you can’t feel the dough,” she’d say, “you don’t deserve the sauce.”

Her secret? She sang while kneading. Songs of old Tuscany, or sometimes Beyoncé if the grandchildren were around. Her dough was light because her hands were light. And her fettuccine was always served simply.

People came from villages over just to learn from her. Not just the recipe, but the philosophy:

“Life is short. Your pasta shouldn’t be.”