I grew up as a latchkey kid in the ’90s, and my after-school routine consisted of my sister and I watching an episode of Sally Jesse Raphael and doing our homework until our parents arrived home from work. Then, without skipping a beat, we’d all head to the kitchen to cook dinner and chat.

I’ve eaten homemade focaccia nearly every Sunday of my life. Sunday dinner in most Italian-American families, mine included, is one tradition from the old country that has stayed alive through the generations. Every week growing up, my extended family crowded into my grandparents’ kitchen and pulled chairs up to long…