There are few things more irritating and cringe-making than reading a profile of someone that is more about the author than the subject. But I find it hard to write this without dwindling into the personal, into the autobiographical. For there are really only two important influences in my cooking life: my mother and Anna Del Conte.

I met Anna, having read her first, when I was young, not long after my real mother died and so I can't help but cast her in a maternal light. I don't want to give the wrong impression. Anna is no kind of Italian mamma. She is far too chic, too imbued with easy elegance. She's a cool Milanese, not some chest-beating, gesticulating character from central casting. Perhaps if she fitted more into the cosy, clichéd role she'd be more well-known, as she deserves to be; as it is, she has the respect and admiration of those who know, and that is what matters. But it annoys me that she isn't a household name, that her books are not multi-million bestsellers. She would probably regard the former as a vulgarity, and as for the latter, her books sell well. But there is a great injustice in this business (for all that I benefit from it), which is that if you have no television presence you're never going to hit the big time. And although I feel it is unfair on Anna, it is worse for the rest of us.

It sounds like the sloganising hyperbole of a junior publicist to say that anyone who cooks should have Anna's books, but it is the simple truth, along with the fact that she is, I'm telling you, the best writer on Italian food there is. Actually, all that understates the case. I should be embarrassed to quote myself, (I've written and spoken about her before, as often as I can, to be frank) but anyone who loves food - reading about it, cooking it, eating it - should have her books. The shame is, it's not altogether easy to get your hands on them. Four - from Portrait of Pasta (1976), the book that actually changed the way the English thought about Italian cooking at a time when you could buy olive oil only in Soho or at Timothy White's, and the instrumental force in leading us beyond the land of spag bol, macaroni cheese and tinned ravioli - to Entertaining all'Italiana (1991), my favourite and the book that made me into a food writer - are out of print. Vintage has, to be fair, collected a Greatest Hits in the form of Amaretto, Apple Cake and Artichokes: The Best of Anna Del Conte, but the truth is, there is no worst.

So far, so effusive: I know, I know. And if I'm embarrassed to gush and emote like this, it's nothing compared to the discomfort I must be causing Anna. But she has just published Risotto with Nettles: A Memoir with Food, so she will just have to squirm. It is the model autobiography, a book that is honest and personal, but in such a matter-of-fact, unsensational way that recollections of life under Mussolini, imprisonment for anti-fascism, even casual asides confessing marital infidelity never roam into tabloid territory. Nothing smacks of the contemporary no-detail-spared confessional. She is a strange mixture: both austere and bohemian, having lived a life not without its louche elements but never lacking decorum. But then she does come from another age, and this is perhaps where the book's historical value lies.

She came to England as a very young woman, and she is now 80, so that the country she adopted (through marriage, and a strong and enduring one) is not the country she lives in now. And the Italy she left, or rather her patrician, if impoverished, part of it, is impossibly distant. So she is not just an enforced outsider but a relic, really. Child of her time, she is never self-indulgent or self-pitying, yet there is an awful, mournful melancholy about her description of herself as "a hybrid, fitting properly neither here nor there, being neither English nor any longer Italian, always missing something when I am here or something else when I am there. Even now that I am old, I have the dilemma of where I should be buried: here in the lovely churchyard of this picturesque village in Dorset, where I now live, or in my family tomb in the grand Monumentale cemetery in Milan. Even dead I will not settle."

To a modern reader, her breezily implicit acceptance that a happy marriage doesn't preclude infidelity no doubt jars; I confess I was not shocked exactly but slightly taken aback, and not least by the fact that she regards both its occurrence and evocation so intrinsically unremarkable. As she says, she comes from a time when loyalty was more prized than fidelity.

I suppose we all are so very different from how we seem, but in her life Anna is so vigorous and vital, so disinclined towards the self-referential or any form of embarrassing introspection, so no-nonsense and uncomplaining (she endured the photo session to illustrate this piece with a cracked rib and actually apologised when she couldn't completely suppress her winces of agony) that I am as surprised that she has written a memoir in the first place as by her weary admission towards the end of the book that "I have to come to terms with the three big 'S's in my life: silenzio, solitudine and stanchezza. Silence and solitude are self-explanatory, but tiredness is an odd feeling. I am not tired in the physical sense, but everything I do, think, feel seems to have a negative edge, which tires me."

If she isn't a jolly, rotund Italian mamma, it is what she calls her negative edge - which I read as contained cynicism - that makes her a writer, the Conrad of the kitchen. When I describe her to people unfamiliar with her work, I use shorthand, calling her "the Marcella Hazan of England". And it's true that she "translated" Marcella Hazan into English, de-Americanising it and making it clear - as she does in all her books - just how to make authentic Italian food for those cooking in England and buying produce from English shops; she is really more of an Italian Jane Grigson. Her prose is considered and understated, her erudition illuminating yet underplayed. Above all, she understands that food has a context - historical, social, creative - but that this is nothing if recipes don't work. She is eminently reliable, the trustiest, most inspiring teacher. Every paragraph she writes is shot through with her sensibility, which mixes wryness, intellectual rigour and practical commonsense.

And for all her protestations of stanchezza, this weariness doesn't seem to be terminal. Presently, at 80, she is working on her next book, Cooking with Coco, about the food she makes with and for her grandchildren.

Although unrelated to her by blood, I feel a familial gratitude: her recipes are part of my life and my own cooking history. Some of them have been evangelically reprinted in a couple of my books, and there are so many more that are an intrinsic part of my repertoire. I hope the three that follow show you why.

Lemon Risotto

This recipe comes from Secrets from An Italian Kitchen (1989), now out of print but still reprinted in her compilation collection Amaretto, Apple Cake and Artichokes and her memoir, Risotto with Nettles. The version below is my adaptation of it (from Nigella Bites). Nothing much is changed in my reworking - I wouldn't presume - however, I do halve it, so that it serves two rather than four. I just find that easier. It is of course her recipe and, naff though the phrase may be, I would suggest one of her signature dishes.

Anna is forceful about the need for balance, and this recipe demonstrates how important harmony is: the creaminess of the rice is punctuated by the citrus tang of the lemon, so that both richness and sharpness are contained, indeed balanced.

I, in fact, borrowed (without attribution, I'm afraid to say) from this recipe before I reprinted it as below. In my first book, I translated the lemon risotto into lemon linguine. When one learns from a cook or a food writer, it means something only if you learn more than the recipe. I'd cooked this risotto, and it seemed to me that the rice could be replaced with pasta. It made sense to me both in terms of how it might taste and how much easier it would be to make for a tableful of people (I had two children under the age of three at the time). I actually love making risotto, and find it (so long as there is peace in the kitchen) comforting just standing at the stove, stirring. But then mindless, repetitive activity is enormously relaxing.

Still, there are times when that isn't practical, and if you want to take the direct route to the pasta version (fantastically useful when you've got a crowd to feed), I suggest (for six eaters, as a main course) you cook 750g linguine, and while it cooks fork or whisk together two egg yolks, 150ml double cream and about 50g of grated parmesan, the zest of half a lemon and the juice of half, a bit of salt and freshly ground pepper (you can add more lemon juice if you feel it needs it on tasting). When the pasta is cooked, drain it (first hiving off a small cup of the cooking water) and then toss it back into the still-hot pan with a tablespoonful of soft unsalted butter. Then add the lemon mixture and quickly toss to mix, adding some cooking water if you feel the pasta's too dry. Sprinkle with freshly chopped parsley (chives are also good here) and serve immediately.

You have to be as quick when serving the risotto, which is why I love it as a kitchen supper for two. There is something so uplifting but delicate about this: it comforts without weighing one down.

A quick note: so many people are erroneously convinced that Italians don't use butter, but olive oil only; but as Anna would tell you - and often, sometimes with the slightest edge - this is not at all the case. You don't have to trust me: see her Gastronomy of Italy and The Classic Food of Northern Italy, and indeed all her writing, for amplification and education.

Serves 2

2 shallots
1 stick of celery
60g unsalted butter
1 tbs olive oil (not extra virgin)
300g risotto rice, preferably Vialone Nano
1 litre vegetable stock (I use Marigold stock powder)
zest and juice of ½ unwaxed lemon
needles from 2 small sprigs of fresh rosemary, finely chopped
1 egg yolk
60ml (4 tbs) grated parmesan, plus more to sprinkle
60ml (4 tbs) double cream
Maldon salt to taste
good grating pepper, preferably white

Put the shallots and celery into a Magimix and blitz until they are a finely chopped mush. Heat half the butter, the oil and the shallot and celery mixture in a wide saucepan, and cook to soften the mixture for about 5 minutes, making sure it doesn't catch. Mix in the rice, stirring to give it a good coating of oil and butter. Meanwhile, heat the stock in another saucepan and keep it at simmering point.

Pour a ladleful of the stock into the rice and keep stirring until the stock is absorbed. Then add another ladleful and stir again. Continue doing this until the rice is al dente. You may not need all of the stock; equally, you may need to add hot water from the kettle.

Mix the lemon zest and the rosemary into the risotto, and in a small bowl beat the egg yolk, lemon juice, parmesan, cream and pepper.

When the risotto is ready - when the rice is no longer chalky, but still has some bite - take it off the heat and add the bowl of eggy, lemony mixture, and the remaining butter and salt to taste. Serve with more grated parmesan if you wish, check the seasoning and dive in.

Spaghetti with Marmite

This is a new addition to my repertoire and I am furious Anna has never told me about it before. She introduces it (in her memoir) as "hardly a recipe, but I wanted to include it because I haven't as yet found a child who doesn't like it". This earns its place in the book, since it's what she cooked for her children and now cooks for her grandchildren.More than that I just love the charm of it (as well as, addictively, the taste).

Anna is frighteningly dismissive of what she calls "Britalian" food (I quaked a little, but she so kindly lied to me and declared me no culprit here) and although I know what she means - too much novelty, not enough simplicity, along with fraudulent claims of authenticity - this, although it mixes the British with the Italian, is in fact entirely authentic when you come to think of it. She has her hybrid life, and her children are half-English, half-Italian, as is this recipe they grew up on.

I know it sounds odd to the point of unfeasibility, but wait a moment. There is a very traditional day-after-the-roast pasta dish in which spaghetti is tossed in chicken stock, and I have eaten shortcut versions of this in Italy (recreated in my own kitchen guiltlessly) which use a crumbled stock cube along with some butter, olive oil, a little chopped rosemary and a little of the pasta cooking water to make a flavoursome sauce for spaghetti. If you think about it, Marmite really offers saltiness and savouriness the way a stock cube might. Anyway, I have no need to defend it. Indeed, I am proud to present it. Actually, whatever the recipe, I always think of Anna when I cook pasta, remembering her two ordinances: one, that the water you cook pasta in should be as salty as the Mediterranean; and two, that pasta should not be too officiously drained, but rather be "con la goccia", that's to say, with still some cooking water clinging to it, as this makes it easier to incorporate the sauce.

Serves 4 (children)

350-380g dried spaghetti
50g unsalted butter
1 tsp Marmite
freshly grated parmesan cheese, for serving

Cook the spaghetti in plenty of boiling salted water. While the pasta is cooking, melt the butter in a small saucepan and add the Marmite and 1 tablespoon of the pasta water. Mix thoroughly to dissolve, then pour over the drained spaghetti. Serve with plenty of grated parmesan cheese.

White tiramisu

I pinched this recipe (with permission, and credited gratefully) from Entertaining all'Italiana, and Anna borrowed it (ditto) from a Venetian friend (which is why she called it Tiramisu di Edda). And this is the natural path of recipes: they are passed down, shared, and they evolve. I can't bear it that this book is out of print, the book that taught me that it's the menu, not just the recipe, that counts, and encouraged me to construct whole dinners, whole lunches from my first book onwards. It's easy to think of a recipe to cook, but it can be hard to put together a menu that works on the plate and in the kitchen (in terms of hob space and oven temperatures and so on). I don't feel any menu that Anna presents (or I do, learning from her) has to be followed to the letter, but I do feel it is helpful to the reader.

I wish everyone could have a copy of this book, and when it was still in print it was always my housewarming present for people moving into their first home, owning their first kitchen. But at least the recipe is included in Amaretto, Apple Cake and Artichokes. My version is a little different, but not substantially. I probably used a different sort of dish than Anna, which means I needed to fiddle with quantities a bit. Trifle is more about layers than amounts (and do bear that in mind), which is to say the proportions of the dish will affect how the layers build up and thus how much or little you need of the ingredients that make up these separate layers.

I used to be terribly sniffy about tiramisu, scorning it as the Black Forest gateau of the 1990s, though making generous exception, even then, for this version. I no longer feel that intolerance or disdain, and have tried out many different varieties or takes on it: this, however, remains my fond favourite.

Anna suggests that you make your own meringues for this, and I used to. Now I buy a box of ready-made meringues (I find Marks & Spencer makes the best ones: they still have a bit of inner squidge) and crumble one or two or more in, as I feel. It's lazy, I know, but it turns a slightly labour-intensive pudding into an effortless one. I am not sure (though Anna might disagree) that once the crumbled meringue has been sitting in the mascarpone mixture you could really tell the difference.

If I don't give instructions for making the meringues in question, it's because I feel that those of you who are inclined to make their own will know how to already. Those who are unsure should best stick to the boxed kind.

Whatever, this is a blowaway confection: the soft, rum-soaked sponge fingers countering the creaminess of the mascarpone, which is in turn balanced by the nuggets of crunchy and chewy meringue; I love it best with some red-beaded raspberries, which offer - in taste and texture - a further contrast.

Serves 6-8

small meringues, approximately 3cm in diameter, made with 2 egg whites and 120g caster sugar, or about 2 bought meringue nests
2 eggs, separated
90g caster sugar
325g mascarpone
160ml clear white rum, such as Bacardi
200ml full-fat milk
18 savoiardi (Italian version of lady's fingers)

Choose a dish about 10cm deep, suitable for holding 9 savoiardi in one layer. Heat the oven to 140°C/Gas 1. Then make the meringues. Set aside 10 of them and crumble the others.

Beat the egg yolks with the sugar until pale and mousse-like. Fold in the mascarpone gradually and then beat until incorporated. Whisk 1 egg white (you don't need the second) until firm and fold into the mascarpone mixture.

Mix the rum and milk in a soup plate and dip the biscuits in the mixture just long enough for them to soften. Lay about nine moistened biscuits in the dish and spread over about a third of the mascarpone mixture. Sprinkle with the meringue crumbs. Dip another nine biscuits into the rum and milk as before and then arrange them on top of the meringue crumbs. Spread over about half the remaining cream, cover with clingfilm and refrigerate. Put the remaining cream in a closed container and refrigerate also. Leave for a day (I have left it for two days without any problem).

Before serving, smooth the remaining cream all over the pudding and decorate with the whole meringue coins (or more crumbled shop-bought meringue). I would offer a bowl of raspberries alongside.

... finalmente

There is an Italian aperitif that I learnt about in Anna's memoirs and have taken to drinking (preferably with her) called Prosecco Sporco. Literally that means dirty prosecco (I suppose we could call it Filthy Fizz) but what it is in practice is prosecco spiked with a dash of campari - unutterably chic, and to be relished. Much like Anna Del Conte.

• Risotto with Nettles by Anna Del Conte (Chatto and Windus, £12.99) is out now. To order a copy for £11.99 with free UK p&p, ring 0330 333 6847 or go to the Observer bookshop