Cascone's contribution to the ever-burgeoning category of Italian-American memoirs is rife with classic images of massive family dinners and old spinsters who put evil spells (mal'occhio) on deserving family members. Yet for all its predictability, the account still manages to unpack the ethnic experience, as Cascone, who grew up in what readers can assume are the 1960s and '70s (there are no dates mentioned) in New Jersey, takes readers from her early memories of learning to say "vaffanculo" when she's angry to dating a "WASPy, preppie" kid who—gasp!—cuts his spaghetti when they're out to dinner. Cascone's style mixes her tough, "don't mess with me" personality with gruff humor, and her retelling of loony family fiascoes—her uncle's attempt to shoot eels to eat for Christmas Eve dinner; her father's finger getting stuck in the steering wheel of a Jaguar he's test-driving; and Cascone's own victories "hustling" the neighborhood boys over pool games in the basement—are comical and even sweet. The work covers Cascone's childhood and early college years (she recounted her Catholic school experiences in Pagan Babies) and deftly portrays the author's transition from being proud of her ancestry to ashamed of it (and the nose it gave her) and back again. Fairly chronological, the book is jarring only at the end, when Cascone abruptly changes gears to describe visiting Italy with her children and non-Italian husband after her parents have died. Spotty on dates and specifics—e.g., readers never learn where, exactly, the Cascones live, and Cascone doesn't give her parents and sisters' names—these reminiscences are simple yet heartwarming. (July 22)
