Volk frames the memoir of her multigenerational New York deli-owning family in chapters devoted to dishes, throwing in two recipes for good measure. Unfortunately, the subject of food, best served ripe with passion and detail, is hardly her main course. The book reads like one of those tedious holiday letters relatives often inflict on one another, a litany of hip replacements and the small triumphs of children. And endless questions, better posed to a therapist, are asked but left unanswered. Case in point — Volk, on an aunt’s insensitivity: ”Does she do it on purpose? Does she not know she does it? What’s in it for her?” The author’s fascination with her family is unquestionable; how that warrants a full-length book is another question altogether.