by Carlo Rotella

FOR REASONS that have to do with my family's immigrant history, the Fourth of July always reminds of my Sicilian grandmother, my Nonna. I used to sit at the table in the basement kitchen of her house in Queens, eating seconds and thirds of her pasta and sausage while the neighborhood cats looked down at us through the windows set high in the wall, checking on whether there would be leftovers.

She would cut spaghetti into cat-size bites before putting it out for them in their own chipped bowl.

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