Growing up in my part of Long Island, New York, in the 1990s was like being in The Sopranos, minus the Mob. Nearly everyone claimed some Italian heritage—I proudly asserted that I was three-quarters Italian, though my last name betrays the Irish remainder.

We had our choice of a half dozen pizza joints within a mile of our house; our pork store was Maria’s Italian Deli, where we went for chicken cutlet heroes after Mass. When I went to friends’ houses for playdates, I came home smelling like other moms’ meatballs and sauce. (“Gravy” is a Jersey thing.) My own mother started her sauce in the morning. I would wake up to onions stinging my eyes.