I’m a little girl waking up. It’s Thanksgiving and there it is — the metallic tap, tap of my mother’s spoon against the rim of the large stainless steel pot. Della Serritella Rocco has been alone at work long before first light. Inside the pot are pork neckbones, inexpensive but delicious, together with fresh tomatoes and herbs, creating the luscious gravy — no one called it sauce back then — that would dress the divine homemade ravioli momma is about to create in her humble kitchen. This is a labor-intensive effort, reserved for holiday feasts like Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. …

Donato DiCarlo morphed into Dan DeCarlo on his way to achieving the American Dream. The warm June dawn reflected blindingly off skyscraper and seawater alike, shrouding the lady in silhouette. Donato, a tall handsome lad, had heard about the great statue in the harbor, a gift from France 20 years earlier, and hoped to see her, but the angle of the sun made it difficult. Like everything about his 16 years, nothing had come easy. Donato spoke no English, only his native Italian. Neatly dressed in a roughly woven brown suit, the best he could scrape together for the voyage, …