The garden is all but abandoned in the mild winter months here at La Torre di Montecarlo, a small, beloved inn and trattoria outside of Lucca, Tuscany: overgrown black kale, white cabbage heads that have toppled over and begun to decompose, a cracked turnip surrendered to the worms. But we—me, the chef Elisabetta, who goes by Betti, and Didi, her hound-spaniel mutt—are here for the wild stuff, the native herbs and leaves that you might dismiss as weeds if you did not know better. They sprout up, uncultivated, along with the vegetables that Betti's mother lays out in orderly rows each season. With a single stroke, Betti deftly cuts around the base of a cluster of borage leaves. She pulls several other species too, a mint with a strong peppery odor, another that appears to be a cousin of parsley.