Ciao! My name is Giulia Bianchi, I’m 42 years old, and I was born in a little town nestled in the hills of Tuscany, where life smelled like olive oil, wood smoke, and freshly baked bread. These days, I live just outside Portland, Oregon, in a cozy home with a sprawling herb garden and a kitchen that has become the heart of my world.

Cooking has always been my first language, even before I fully learned to speak. My earliest memories are of standing on a wooden stool beside my nonna, my little hands buried in flour as we rolled out tagliatelle and stuffed ravioli with wild herbs and ricotta. She never measured a thing, and yet everything she touched was perfectly balanced rich, soulful, and made with love. That’s where I learned that food is not just sustenance it’s memory, emotion, a conversation between generations.

When I moved to the U.S. in my late twenties, I carried a suitcase full of cookbooks, dried porcini mushrooms, and a hand-me-down moka pot that still hisses every morning on my stove. At first, I cooked to soothe my homesickness. I recreated the dishes of my childhood pappa al pomodoro, arista di maiale, cantucci dipped in vin santo hoping the smells and flavors would bridge the miles between here and home.

But something beautiful happened. As I met new people many of them women like me, juggling work, families, and the desire to put something real and nourishing on the table I began to share my food more openly. What started as dinner for a few friends turned into cooking classes in my home, little pop-up dinners, and eventually, a deeply fulfilling career as a personal chef and mentor.

I don’t cook with perfection in mind. I cook for connection. I believe in burnt edges, crooked pies, and that glorious moment when someone tastes your food and closes their eyes in delight. I’m endlessly inspired by the boldness of American cuisine, the diversity of its influences, and the way women here embrace creativity without fear. It’s taught me to blend traditions without losing their soul, to experiment, to fail deliciously, and to always, always keep a jar of homemade soffritto in the fridge.

My kitchen is open, messy, and full of laughter. I hope you’ll pull up a chair, pour a glass of wine, and stay awhile. There’s always something simmering, and I’d love to feed you not just food, but stories, ideas, and the joy of sharing a meal that comes from the heart.