You may not look at the Mazda Miata-based Fiat 124 Spider and say, “Viva l’italia!” But why would you? It’s a Japanese car sold by an Italian-American company. But when I drove one for the first time, something strange happened. I think I found the automotive embodiment of myself: energetic, easy to beat up, made here and there, with borderline Italian looks and a cuore italiano, if you know what I mean. It’s not an Italian car, it’s an Italian-American car.

I’m an unlikely Italian-American. My bland, slightly Southern suburban upringing and British-sounding surname have never done much to bind me to my ancestral culture. My claim to this ancestry comes by way of my mother’s fully Sicilian family, and the cuisine that comes with it.