My maternal grandmother was poor most of her life. Born of Italian immigrants during World War I, quit school after the eighth grade around the time of the Great Depression to help care for her younger siblings, and widowed two days after her 44th birthday. She never had much financially. But she could cook and bake like no one’s business, and she cooked and baked for the family she loved so dearly her entire life. From her I learned that one of the greatest gifts you can give someone you love is a full belly. Her homemade pizza and apple pie…priceless.

My Sicilian grandfather ate tripe and cow tongue and ox tail decades before anyone dreamed up the phrase “nose to tail” or “whole animal cooking.” My Italian great-grandmother bought live chickens from a shop on Penn Avenue in Garfield in the morning to have for dinner that night, long before “farm to table” meant anything. Italian immigrants were curing meats and making wine in their Bloomfield basements since they arrived from Ellis Island. And immigrants like them from other countries, who arrived at the turn of the 20th century and after, did the same. They were the original foodies, but out of necessity and tradition not out of lifestyle.