The Veneto is governed by the seasons. Its jewel, the city of Venice, sweats in the summer, is refreshed, increasingly too much so, by high waters in November, then it’s cloaked by thick winter fogs. Throbbing crowds surrender to a hushed deathly silence, brightness turns to melancholic grays. The great wheel then turns over once more; people and colors reappearing with the emerging Spring sunshine. Death, decay and renewal; reaping and sowing. Venice and its hinterland celebrate the festivals, Catholic and pagan, with processions, bonfires, a little fasting and lots of feasting.

But it’s the cycles in the culinary calendar that interest us. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Rationed appearances lead to greater appreciation. Fruits and vegetables, each variety unattainable for much of the year, reveal themselves in turn at the food markets. With great anticipation they’re hunted for. Gladly they’re devoured. Then they disappear, teasing with their absences once more.

‘Saw the first asparagus today’ the shout goes out. ‘Still a bit expensive, but I just had to have some.’

It’s a treat. How to eat them? No commercial pasta as an accompaniment; the new arrivals are far too precious for that. Care must be taken. Homemade pasta for an asparagus lasagne, perhaps. Not much cheese; mustn’t drown such delicate tastes. Two weeks later there’s an asparagus festival in a village in the hills of the Prosecco wine region, Farra di Soligo. People gather to celebrate the star of the show. Glasses of local wines, Prosecco and Verdiso, wash down the master of the moment. Chatter swirls, friendships are cemented, taste-buds are given a treat. Then, having burst into life for a while, the asparagus is gone once more. Absent for another year, it yields its place to its successors.

‘We can get whatever we want, whenever we want,’ a Londoner boasts.

Yes, but all sense of value lost. How much more precious when there’s sacrifice and waiting. Where’s the oozing freshness in London’s February strawberries? What a treat to rediscover the seasons. Even the waxing and waning of the moon dictates the lives of those in the Veneto. Haircuts, sowing of seeds, bottling of wine, pruning of fruit trees; all must be done when the phase of the moon is right.

But back to the food. Let’s begin with January. Cold crisp days, ones breath bursting out in clouds. Fresh, unwaxed oranges from Sicily arriving overnight; crates of them. The house reeks of the biting citrus perfume. It’s not very Italian, but orange marmalade is too good to miss. The year’s production must be made while the fruit is still available. But there’s also the truly local delicacy; radicchio di Treviso. This is no ordinary radicchio; this is the stuff of legend. It’s worshipped. It has entire recipe books dedicated to it. They have festivals, of course. It’s an incredibly serious business. It’s the prima donna of the Veneto vegetables. Reputations are made and lost on the production of such a star.

February is when the local sparkling Prosecco is first bottled after the previous year’s harvest. It’s spent its required time in the vats; now it can be enjoyed. What a great excuse for another festival, this time in Col San Martino. Well, in many small villages in fact. We’re eating artichokes now. Ever tried them mashed together with potato, adding parsley and plenty of pepper? Great winter filling for crespelle, the Italian savory crepes.

February means Carnival in Venice; the masks, the costumes, the special crispy sweets; crostoli and frittelle. Winter vegetables still mean broccoli and spinach, both of them incredibly healthy. A quick look later in the small river running through our village, Cison di Valmarino, and we see that it’s reasonably full with the melt-waters. It’ll be very different in August, when its course will be entirely dry. Soon all the wild flowers will be out, beautiful carpets of them decking the banks.

Easter comes around, the end of Lent, a time to let loose. Flocks of sheep are herded across the hills, this the only time we find local fresh lamb in the Veneto. It’s not a common meat in the region. Pascal lamb. Limited. Special.

The seas, too, have their seasons. At the food market in Conegliano we see huge tubs full of soft-shelled crabs. They heave with their crawling inhabitants, both in Spring and in the Fall. There’s the asparagus and strawberries now. Then cherries in May, grown mostly around the beautiful hill-town of Asolo. Every fruit and vegetable needs its own festival, of course.

So gently into summer, its wonderful fruits and vegetables. Melons, apricots, nectarines and peaches; it’s no accident that the hot summer yields juices that quell desperate thirsts. Open a water-melon that’s been in the fridge. Sit around a table with friends and pick at the fruit. Smile as the cool juice runs down your chin. Zucchini, eggplants and peppers come into season, there’s rocket for the salads. The suns rays burst out in flavors.

August is the time to buy the special cheeses, ‘di malga’. Drive up into the mountains that grace the Veneto to find the alpine huts. The cows have been out in the high pastures for the summer, the milk is at its best. Soon the beasts will be back indoors, eating goodness only knows what. Small producers make wonderful cheeses. Buy whole ones and allow them to mature in your wine cellar. Break them open later, in the cold depths of winter, accompanied by a heavy Amarone wine, sitting by the open fire.

Summer means work in the tomato department. The ripe fruits oozing with Puglian sunshine arrive fresh in the markets. Industrial quantities. The sunshine has to be trapped for the year, preserved, put into jars. Women (and men) vie with each other as how many kilos they process. Wonderful machines are used to separate juices from skins. It’s the secret of those wonderful pasta sauces. Fresh basil, too, must be taken advantage of. A few leaves in tomato and mozzarella salads, or blended for making your own pesto. Again, the summer tastes ooze on the tongue.

So we slide into the softer flavors of Autumn. Colors change, the greens on the hillsides mellowing into a thousand different hues. The grapes have fattened and ripened; it’s time for the annual harvest. Builders, plumbers, they all down tools – everyone joins in with picking the grapes. Traffic slows to a crawl as tractors with grape-bursting trailers take command of the roads. Pumpkins and squashes are seen in the markets, such versatile produce. Use them in soups, risottos, for making gnocchi, for baking bread. Use them for desserts; the list is endless.

It’s also the time for mushrooms. You thought soccer is the national sport in Italy? What about scavenging for mushrooms? Up in the hills at sunrise, among the woods, everyone has their secret mushroom glades. The greatly prized porcini, the searched-for chanterelles, the popular chiodini; it’s an obsession. People lose their sanity; sometimes, extremely rarely, even their lives. What satisfaction, however. An early morning’s hunting, cleaning the treasures at home, then eating them later in the day. It might be with homemade pasta, or in a risotto, or accompanied by a blob of polenta. It doesn’t get any better than that.

Autumnal fruits mature on the trees; apples, pears and plums. They’re good for a strudel. The Veneto was occupied by Austrians for a period, a fact now reflected in some of its cuisine. Then there’s the chestnuts. Such an array of equipment for roasting them. Special pans, barrels that turn over fires, tubes that look like missiles; everyone has their own theory of what might be best. Fingers might be burned as they’re peeled, but the sacrifice is all very worth it. They’re great, too, for making stuffing for meat. And did I mention the chestnut – ‘marroni’ - festivals?

November, conveniently, is when the geese are killed. Goose stuffed with chestnut, washed down with the local red, raboso. The acidity of this indigenous grape type cuts right through the fatty meat. A real winter treat. So, too, at this time of year, the unfortunate pigs are slaughtered. Sizzle the pork on the grill as you drink your glass of Prosecco.

And so we come full circle. Soon the scent of oranges will waft through the air once more. Grilled radicchio will grace our plates. It’s not ready yet. I’ll have to wait. Of course I’m delighting in what we have now, but the gastric juices flow in wonderful anticipation….