There are a lot of rules at Villa Coco: it is not pesto if it is not from Genova; no cheese with fish – NEVER; you must go to Naples as soon as possible, you must be accompanied by a Neapolitan and you must have the sfogliatella in midafternoon.

Our young man, the protagonist of Andrew Sean Greer’s Villa Coco, nicknamed Giovedì by the Baronessa who has brought him here, is commanded to learn three things: to dress for dinner; to speak Italian – his American will not be tolerated, particularly in the car; to provide good conversation on history and culture at the dinner table. Decent instructions for life.

The rules are important (we’re talking mortal danger if you put a hat on a bed), confusing and liable to change. Zucchini blossoms should be filled with ricotta, with one anchovy at the centre. But: fish with cheese? The anchovy is not a fish. The universe can be just as one decides. Or at least, as the Baronessa decides.

Giovedì has travelled to Tuscany, fresh from his degree in Archives and Records Management, to catalogue the piles of books, paintings and objects in a ‘modest country house.’ Instead he finds himself waging war against a pine marten and called upon for every conundrum, including an overfull septic tank. He has just begun what he believes to be his real work, made more difficult by his employer’s habit of rearranging the paintings, when he is thwarted again: he is needed for the olive harvest.

Why the Baronessa suddenly decided to catalogue her treasures and/or junk, whom to trust of the various visitors to the villa, whether it is a good idea to begin a romance with his employer’s cousin, Giacomo-Giacomo, and how to stop dressing so much like an American who is trying to dress as an Italian are all questions playing mischievously through the novel along with this: what is the Baronessa’s plan and, at 91, how long does she have to pull it off? Perhaps she will live forever.

The food, manners and dress in 1940s Cornwall provide no less entertainment in The Feast by Margaret Kennedy. The staff of the Pendizack Manor Hotel are as unimpressed by it as the guests. Mrs Siddal’s cooking leaves much to be desired, her husband largely hides from his guests, emerging occasionally to conduct philosophical conversations on vengeance or gluttony, and standards are so low that even a Canon who causes a scandal on a Sunday morning will not be evicted since he has paid for the week. 

We, the readers, know that there is a disaster coming. How the days before this play out, who might be saved and the role of marshmallows, gobstoppers and a group of children in a secret society is all to be revealed. If 2025 was the year I tried to make everyone read Barbara Pym, 2026 is for Margaret Kennedy. Lucy Carmichael (as mentioned) is firmly on my best books I have read this year list and The Feast, in many ways vastly different, shows all the same skill, humour and intelligence.

With Pym characters ever on the brain, especially Mildred of Excellent Women and Prudence of Jane and Prudence, I was delighted to find that her novels informed the writing of The Spinster Cookbook by Eli Davies (alongside other favourite heroines including the eponymous Lolly Willowes).

The Spinster Cookbook is about pleasure. It’s about a delicious dinner of vodka and toast – you can make that toast into bruschetta following her recipe or you can just rub some garlic on it and kick back with a novel and a cold glass. It is about cultural changes in cooking in the UK from Sainsbury’s beginning to stock pesto (sorry, Genovese) to expectations of women to what the kitchen table is used for. But overall this is about the joy of choosing for oneself. And that choice, self-proclaimed spinster or not, can be to host a lavish dinner party, share olives straight from the jar with a friend, shamelessly eat cereal out of the packet or, not to give anything away, to fill one’s ice trays with lemon slices, gin and tonic.

If you do want to aim for the lavish dinner party, Vegan Africa by Marie Kacouchia is heaving with delicious recipes. The banana-peanut butter ice cream may appeal more than the colourful stews in this heat but crunchy spiced chickpeas and date-infused cashew milk are surely perfect regardless of the season.

The residents of Villa Coco and all Italians will be furious at Pete’s approach to making pizza in Pizza Pete and the Perilous Potions by Carrie Sellon. His father’s pizza shop is in trouble. There’s a new takeaway nearby taking all their business. Maybe they need to offer something a little different? Marshmallow and anchovy toppings? Pringles and beetroot? Fortunately Pete’s friend Anna is there to veto these suggestions. But what about adding something a little different to the tomato sauce? Something a little magical…*

It is not my intention to alienate all Italians but my current favourite picture books may cause as many issues as Pete’s pizza. I shall write to Mariesa Dulak and Rebecca Cobb and request that the sequel to The Ice Cream Crocodile establish the superiority of gelato over ice cream. Aside from that, this book is faultless. Elvis loves being part of the circus. But he longs to be on stage performing great acrobatic feats, not stationed behind the ice cream cart. Could there be a way to combine the two?

In The Blue Tomato by Amber Aü a blue tomato tries desperately to become red. A series of creative ideas and complicated experiments fail. Perhaps there is space for Blu to remain blue? I mean, if beetroots can be golden and even candy-striped…

And, while they may not bake sfogliatelle, I declare that Yue Zhang’s really is the best bakery. Welcome to The Best Bakery is about a bunny so keen to learn from the very best that she will risk everything, the best baker happening to be a wolf. The illustrations are so good you can almost smell the warm loaves. Pass me the garlic and the vodka.

Buon fine settimana,
Lizzie

*I ought to state that this book and this bookseller do not wholeheartedly encourage spiking anyone’s food. Can be great fun though.