• Motherhood

    The American Dream

    My father’s family migrated from Italy in the 1950’s and settled in a town in Massachusetts. My earliest memories of a child were spending all Sunday at my grandmother’s house.  The air at Nona’s home was filled with aromas of freshly made tomato sauce, handmade pasta, and wine that had been made in the cellar. After we had all gone to church, we would sit down for a few hours to chow down on the meal for which my Nona had been slaving away in the kitchen all day. My Papa, or grandfather, would sit out on the porch in his white undershirt and slacks and just watch the cars go…