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Growing up as an Italian American in New York puts a lot of pressure on a kid. You're not allowed to say mozzarella unless you pronounce it mutsa-dell. Your mother sequesters herself in the kitchen all Sunday morning making meatballs and "gravy" for the two o'clock family dinner, presumably scheduled to perpetuate the rumor that your household has remained faithful to Italy's time zone. God forbid you don't make the sign of the cross when you drive past a church -- even if you never actually enter such a building. And removing the stereotypical red horn pendant hanging from your car's rearview mirror? Fuhgedaboudit.