At our rural two-story farmhouse in North Richmond, California, I, Richard, a seventeen-year-old, sits downstairs at our kitchen table with my older sister, Mary, and my older brother, Tony. My father, Mike, is pouring wine into his brother's wine glass from a gallon wine jug that sat on the table then pours wine into his glass. You can smell the baccala that my mother, Katie, is cooking. The baccala smell is overwhelming. On the kitchen wall hangs...