The days of the old tradition of everyone in the extended family coming the grandparents’ home for Sunday dinner, every Sunday, might be gone, but through our stories they will never be far from our consciousness. The front door to Grandma and Grandpa Rotolos’ apartment was always left open on Sundays. The hallway smelled of freshly waxed woodwork and garlic frying in olive oil. I'd head straight for the kitchen where Grandma would be standing in front of the stove, turning cloves of fresh garlic in a pool of sizzling oil, and forever stirring her big pot of gravy.

She’d look up from her work, smile, lean over to kiss me, and then turn back to her work. From there I’d head to the back porch, Grandpa's workshop, where he made his sausage, dried his peppers, and bottled his giardiniera. Grandpa would usually be out in the back yard, tending to his garden. There was his dream world; his eyes would glass over, as he’d sit in the shade and yell out for me to pick the basil and fennel, peppers and tomatoes. I’d leave when I heard Grandma yell that it’s time to grate the cheese.