When I was little, I wanted to be ethnic. I wanted a strong, proud, national heritage, something other than the United States of America. My own family was a mix of European descent. My dad’s side, Storms, was predominantly German. On my mom’s side, we were a mixture of English, Irish, and a smattering of other things thrown in. My mom and uncle always claimed we are a little bit Native American – but I had my doubts. Even though I later learned of the dominant German genetic, I did not realize that in first grade. We were all-American in every sense of the word. I grew up in a 1960s suburban ranch home. We ate jello salads with our dinner and cheeseburger upside down pie made with Bisquick. My dad drove a station wagon with wooden sides, and we had a swing set in the back yard. The problem came when my first grade teacher asked each of us to prepare and bring in one of our family’s traditional ethnic dishes. Confused, I looked to see what my other friends would do. Ji...