More than 70 years ago, my French Canadian mother made a road trip from Montreal to Fresno to work as a registered nurse. She didn’t know anything about Central California. She had never heard of Armenia or its people. But love can surprise you. She met my Armenian American father and settled into life on a dusty vineyard.
My mother wasn’t an expert in her adopted cuisine, but she had Armenian friends who were: Sally, our neighbor, and her sister Ruby. Each autumn after the grape harvest, the three women would gather in Ruby’s kitchen to make large batches of kufta, a stuffed meatball. It took two days to chop, cook, knead and assemble all the ingredients. Fine-grained bulgur was mixed with ground beef or lamb to make its outer covering.
In my family, kufta became a Christmas Eve tradition. The meatballs were offered along with ham, turkey and yalanchi, lemony grape leaves filled with onions and rice. The dining table was filled with salads and desserts made by friends and neighbors. Our celebrations burst with energy. Everyone feasted on food and drink. Santa arrived with presents, and finally friends would play guitar and piano as we crowded around them to sing carols.
A year or two after my mother died, I was visiting my dad and in the kitchen, I spotted four stainless-steel cylindrical containers covered with tight lids, old-fashioned bandage holders she had probably recycled from the surgical suite where she worked. I lifted a lid and saw that the canister was half full of golden-brown bulgur. In addition to kufta, my mother had used the grain to make a nutty-flavored Armenian pilaf. Making that pilaf was a breeze for me. Maybe it was time I learned to make kufta.
I took one lesson from a friend, then fumbled my way through yearly improvements. If I prepare the filling the day before, it still takes me four hours to put together 75 meatballs.
By now, making kufta at Christmas has become not just a holiday tradition, but also a meditation. I cup a portion of the raw beef and bulgur mixture in one hand and mold it into a thin patty with the other, my left thumb pressing into my right palm in a circular motion, the repetitive movements like working through a string of prayer beads. I think about the past. I ponder the future. I feel the food in my hands and become centered in the present.
In the middle of the flattened patty, I place a spoonful of por, a spicy mound of lamb and onion that will rock the palate. I carefully pull up the uneven edges of meat around the mixture and form a smooth ball, adding a splash of ice water to hydrate the bulgur on the outer surface. One down, many prayers to go.
I can see my hands turning into my mother’s hands. I hardly recognize the broad knuckles and wrinkled skin as my own. I miss her. My father died 3½ years after she did. I miss him too.
In the Gospel of John, a grain of wheat remains a singular seed, resting alone — until it dies in the Earth and “bears much fruit.” In my heart, I understand this. In this agricultural region of California, I live it.
The original kernel of wheat disappears in becoming more than itself, producing a greater bounty that can be shared. Human beings have the same ability, once we get out of our own way. Tempered by loss and change, everyone is responsible for building new relationships, family and community.
Christmas Eve celebrations happen at my house now. The big batch of kufta sits in my freezer until I cook the meatballs in a pot of boiling broth. New friends and sweethearts add to family and old neighbors. For each guest, I am grateful.
None of this grace would be mine if my mother hadn’t taken a chance. Our state needed nurses. She answered the call. She found her way to the Central Valley. I found my way to kufta.
Danielle R. Shapazian is a registered nurse and writer who lives in Fresno. She is the founder and director of the San Joaquin Valley Bookfest.
More than 70 years ago, my French Canadian mother made a road trip from Montreal to Fresno to work as a registered nurse. She didn’t know anything about Central California. She had never heard of Armenia or its people. But love can surprise you. She met my Armenian American father and settled into life on a dusty vineyard.
My mother wasn’t an expert in her adopted cuisine, but she had Armenian friends who were: Sally, our neighbor, and her sister Ruby. Each autumn after the grape harvest, the three women would gather in Ruby’s kitchen to make large batches of kufta, a stuffed meatball. It took two days to chop, cook, knead and assemble all the ingredients. Fine-grained bulgur was mixed with ground beef or lamb to make its outer covering.
In my family, kufta became a Christmas Eve tradition. The meatballs were offered along with ham, turkey and yalanchi, lemony grape leaves filled with onions and rice. The dining table was filled with salads and desserts made by friends and neighbors. Our celebrations burst with energy. Everyone feasted on food and drink. Santa arrived with presents, and finally friends would play guitar and piano as we crowded around them to sing carols.
A year or two after my mother died, I was visiting my dad and in the kitchen, I spotted four stainless-steel cylindrical containers covered with tight lids, old-fashioned bandage holders she had probably recycled from the surgical suite where she worked. I lifted a lid and saw that the canister was half full of golden-brown bulgur. In addition to kufta, my mother had used the grain to make a nutty-flavored Armenian pilaf. Making that pilaf was a breeze for me. Maybe it was time I learned to make kufta.
I took one lesson from a friend, then fumbled my way through yearly improvements. If I prepare the filling the day before, it still takes me four hours to put together 75 meatballs.
By now, making kufta at Christmas has become not just a holiday tradition, but also a meditation. I cup a portion of the raw beef and bulgur mixture in one hand and mold it into a thin patty with the other, my left thumb pressing into my right palm in a circular motion, the repetitive movements like working through a string of prayer beads. I think about the past. I ponder the future. I feel the food in my hands and become centered in the present.
In the middle of the flattened patty, I place a spoonful of por, a spicy mound of lamb and onion that will rock the palate. I carefully pull up the uneven edges of meat around the mixture and form a smooth ball, adding a splash of ice water to hydrate the bulgur on the outer surface. One down, many prayers to go.
I can see my hands turning into my mother’s hands. I hardly recognize the broad knuckles and wrinkled skin as my own. I miss her. My father died 3½ years after she did. I miss him too.
In the Gospel of John, a grain of wheat remains a singular seed, resting alone — until it dies in the Earth and “bears much fruit.” In my heart, I understand this. In this agricultural region of California, I live it.
The original kernel of wheat disappears in becoming more than itself, producing a greater bounty that can be shared. Human beings have the same ability, once we get out of our own way. Tempered by loss and change, everyone is responsible for building new relationships, family and community.
Christmas Eve celebrations happen at my house now. The big batch of kufta sits in my freezer until I cook the meatballs in a pot of boiling broth. New friends and sweethearts add to family and old neighbors. For each guest, I am grateful.
None of this grace would be mine if my mother hadn’t taken a chance. Our state needed nurses. She answered the call. She found her way to the Central Valley. I found my way to kufta.
Danielle R. Shapazian is a registered nurse and writer who lives in Fresno. She is the founder and director of the San Joaquin Valley Bookfest.
More than 70 years ago, my French Canadian mother made a road trip from Montreal to Fresno to work as a registered nurse. She didn’t know anything about Central California. She had never heard of Armenia or its people. But love can surprise you. She met my Armenian American father and settled into life on a dusty vineyard.
My mother wasn’t an expert in her adopted cuisine, but she had Armenian friends who were: Sally, our neighbor, and her sister Ruby. Each autumn after the grape harvest, the three women would gather in Ruby’s kitchen to make large batches of kufta, a stuffed meatball. It took two days to chop, cook, knead and assemble all the ingredients. Fine-grained bulgur was mixed with ground beef or lamb to make its outer covering.
In my family, kufta became a Christmas Eve tradition. The meatballs were offered along with ham, turkey and yalanchi, lemony grape leaves filled with onions and rice. The dining table was filled with salads and desserts made by friends and neighbors. Our celebrations burst with energy. Everyone feasted on food and drink. Santa arrived with presents, and finally friends would play guitar and piano as we crowded around them to sing carols.
A year or two after my mother died, I was visiting my dad and in the kitchen, I spotted four stainless-steel cylindrical containers covered with tight lids, old-fashioned bandage holders she had probably recycled from the surgical suite where she worked. I lifted a lid and saw that the canister was half full of golden-brown bulgur. In addition to kufta, my mother had used the grain to make a nutty-flavored Armenian pilaf. Making that pilaf was a breeze for me. Maybe it was time I learned to make kufta.
I took one lesson from a friend, then fumbled my way through yearly improvements. If I prepare the filling the day before, it still takes me four hours to put together 75 meatballs.
By now, making kufta at Christmas has become not just a holiday tradition, but also a meditation. I cup a portion of the raw beef and bulgur mixture in one hand and mold it into a thin patty with the other, my left thumb pressing into my right palm in a circular motion, the repetitive movements like working through a string of prayer beads. I think about the past. I ponder the future. I feel the food in my hands and become centered in the present.
In the middle of the flattened patty, I place a spoonful of por, a spicy mound of lamb and onion that will rock the palate. I carefully pull up the uneven edges of meat around the mixture and form a smooth ball, adding a splash of ice water to hydrate the bulgur on the outer surface. One down, many prayers to go.
I can see my hands turning into my mother’s hands. I hardly recognize the broad knuckles and wrinkled skin as my own. I miss her. My father died 3½ years after she did. I miss him too.
In the Gospel of John, a grain of wheat remains a singular seed, resting alone — until it dies in the Earth and “bears much fruit.” In my heart, I understand this. In this agricultural region of California, I live it.
The original kernel of wheat disappears in becoming more than itself, producing a greater bounty that can be shared. Human beings have the same ability, once we get out of our own way. Tempered by loss and change, everyone is responsible for building new relationships, family and community.
Christmas Eve celebrations happen at my house now. The big batch of kufta sits in my freezer until I cook the meatballs in a pot of boiling broth. New friends and sweethearts add to family and old neighbors. For each guest, I am grateful.
None of this grace would be mine if my mother hadn’t taken a chance. Our state needed nurses. She answered the call. She found her way to the Central Valley. I found my way to kufta.
Danielle R. Shapazian is a registered nurse and writer who lives in Fresno. She is the founder and director of the San Joaquin Valley Bookfest.
More than 70 years ago, my French Canadian mother made a road trip from Montreal to Fresno to work as a registered nurse. She didn’t know anything about Central California. She had never heard of Armenia or its people. But love can surprise you. She met my Armenian American father and settled into life on a dusty vineyard.
My mother wasn’t an expert in her adopted cuisine, but she had Armenian friends who were: Sally, our neighbor, and her sister Ruby. Each autumn after the grape harvest, the three women would gather in Ruby’s kitchen to make large batches of kufta, a stuffed meatball. It took two days to chop, cook, knead and assemble all the ingredients. Fine-grained bulgur was mixed with ground beef or lamb to make its outer covering.
In my family, kufta became a Christmas Eve tradition. The meatballs were offered along with ham, turkey and yalanchi, lemony grape leaves filled with onions and rice. The dining table was filled with salads and desserts made by friends and neighbors. Our celebrations burst with energy. Everyone feasted on food and drink. Santa arrived with presents, and finally friends would play guitar and piano as we crowded around them to sing carols.
A year or two after my mother died, I was visiting my dad and in the kitchen, I spotted four stainless-steel cylindrical containers covered with tight lids, old-fashioned bandage holders she had probably recycled from the surgical suite where she worked. I lifted a lid and saw that the canister was half full of golden-brown bulgur. In addition to kufta, my mother had used the grain to make a nutty-flavored Armenian pilaf. Making that pilaf was a breeze for me. Maybe it was time I learned to make kufta.
I took one lesson from a friend, then fumbled my way through yearly improvements. If I prepare the filling the day before, it still takes me four hours to put together 75 meatballs.
By now, making kufta at Christmas has become not just a holiday tradition, but also a meditation. I cup a portion of the raw beef and bulgur mixture in one hand and mold it into a thin patty with the other, my left thumb pressing into my right palm in a circular motion, the repetitive movements like working through a string of prayer beads. I think about the past. I ponder the future. I feel the food in my hands and become centered in the present.
In the middle of the flattened patty, I place a spoonful of por, a spicy mound of lamb and onion that will rock the palate. I carefully pull up the uneven edges of meat around the mixture and form a smooth ball, adding a splash of ice water to hydrate the bulgur on the outer surface. One down, many prayers to go.
I can see my hands turning into my mother’s hands. I hardly recognize the broad knuckles and wrinkled skin as my own. I miss her. My father died 3½ years after she did. I miss him too.
In the Gospel of John, a grain of wheat remains a singular seed, resting alone — until it dies in the Earth and “bears much fruit.” In my heart, I understand this. In this agricultural region of California, I live it.
The original kernel of wheat disappears in becoming more than itself, producing a greater bounty that can be shared. Human beings have the same ability, once we get out of our own way. Tempered by loss and change, everyone is responsible for building new relationships, family and community.
Christmas Eve celebrations happen at my house now. The big batch of kufta sits in my freezer until I cook the meatballs in a pot of boiling broth. New friends and sweethearts add to family and old neighbors. For each guest, I am grateful.
None of this grace would be mine if my mother hadn’t taken a chance. Our state needed nurses. She answered the call. She found her way to the Central Valley. I found my way to kufta.
Danielle R. Shapazian is a registered nurse and writer who lives in Fresno. She is the founder and director of the San Joaquin Valley Bookfest.
More than 70 years ago, my French Canadian mother made a road trip from Montreal to Fresno to work as a registered nurse. She didn’t know anything about Central California. She had never heard of Armenia or its people. But love can surprise you. She met my Armenian American father and settled into life on a dusty vineyard.
My mother wasn’t an expert in her adopted cuisine, but she had Armenian friends who were: Sally, our neighbor, and her sister Ruby. Each autumn after the grape harvest, the three women would gather in Ruby’s kitchen to make large batches of kufta, a stuffed meatball. It took two days to chop, cook, knead and assemble all the ingredients. Fine-grained bulgur was mixed with ground beef or lamb to make its outer covering.
In my family, kufta became a Christmas Eve tradition. The meatballs were offered along with ham, turkey and yalanchi, lemony grape leaves filled with onions and rice. The dining table was filled with salads and desserts made by friends and neighbors. Our celebrations burst with energy. Everyone feasted on food and drink. Santa arrived with presents, and finally friends would play guitar and piano as we crowded around them to sing carols.
A year or two after my mother died, I was visiting my dad and in the kitchen, I spotted four stainless-steel cylindrical containers covered with tight lids, old-fashioned bandage holders she had probably recycled from the surgical suite where she worked. I lifted a lid and saw that the canister was half full of golden-brown bulgur. In addition to kufta, my mother had used the grain to make a nutty-flavored Armenian pilaf. Making that pilaf was a breeze for me. Maybe it was time I learned to make kufta.
I took one lesson from a friend, then fumbled my way through yearly improvements. If I prepare the filling the day before, it still takes me four hours to put together 75 meatballs.
By now, making kufta at Christmas has become not just a holiday tradition, but also a meditation. I cup a portion of the raw beef and bulgur mixture in one hand and mold it into a thin patty with the other, my left thumb pressing into my right palm in a circular motion, the repetitive movements like working through a string of prayer beads. I think about the past. I ponder the future. I feel the food in my hands and become centered in the present.
In the middle of the flattened patty, I place a spoonful of por, a spicy mound of lamb and onion that will rock the palate. I carefully pull up the uneven edges of meat around the mixture and form a smooth ball, adding a splash of ice water to hydrate the bulgur on the outer surface. One down, many prayers to go.
I can see my hands turning into my mother’s hands. I hardly recognize the broad knuckles and wrinkled skin as my own. I miss her. My father died 3½ years after she did. I miss him too.
In the Gospel of John, a grain of wheat remains a singular seed, resting alone — until it dies in the Earth and “bears much fruit.” In my heart, I understand this. In this agricultural region of California, I live it.
The original kernel of wheat disappears in becoming more than itself, producing a greater bounty that can be shared. Human beings have the same ability, once we get out of our own way. Tempered by loss and change, everyone is responsible for building new relationships, family and community.
Christmas Eve celebrations happen at my house now. The big batch of kufta sits in my freezer until I cook the meatballs in a pot of boiling broth. New friends and sweethearts add to family and old neighbors. For each guest, I am grateful.
None of this grace would be mine if my mother hadn’t taken a chance. Our state needed nurses. She answered the call. She found her way to the Central Valley. I found my way to kufta.
Danielle R. Shapazian is a registered nurse and writer who lives in Fresno. She is the founder and director of the San Joaquin Valley Bookfest.
More than 70 years ago, my French Canadian mother made a road trip from Montreal to Fresno to work as a registered nurse. She didn’t know anything about Central California. She had never heard of Armenia or its people. But love can surprise you. She met my Armenian American father and settled into life on a dusty vineyard.
My mother wasn’t an expert in her adopted cuisine, but she had Armenian friends who were: Sally, our neighbor, and her sister Ruby. Each autumn after the grape harvest, the three women would gather in Ruby’s kitchen to make large batches of kufta, a stuffed meatball. It took two days to chop, cook, knead and assemble all the ingredients. Fine-grained bulgur was mixed with ground beef or lamb to make its outer covering.
In my family, kufta became a Christmas Eve tradition. The meatballs were offered along with ham, turkey and yalanchi, lemony grape leaves filled with onions and rice. The dining table was filled with salads and desserts made by friends and neighbors. Our celebrations burst with energy. Everyone feasted on food and drink. Santa arrived with presents, and finally friends would play guitar and piano as we crowded around them to sing carols.
A year or two after my mother died, I was visiting my dad and in the kitchen, I spotted four stainless-steel cylindrical containers covered with tight lids, old-fashioned bandage holders she had probably recycled from the surgical suite where she worked. I lifted a lid and saw that the canister was half full of golden-brown bulgur. In addition to kufta, my mother had used the grain to make a nutty-flavored Armenian pilaf. Making that pilaf was a breeze for me. Maybe it was time I learned to make kufta.
I took one lesson from a friend, then fumbled my way through yearly improvements. If I prepare the filling the day before, it still takes me four hours to put together 75 meatballs.
By now, making kufta at Christmas has become not just a holiday tradition, but also a meditation. I cup a portion of the raw beef and bulgur mixture in one hand and mold it into a thin patty with the other, my left thumb pressing into my right palm in a circular motion, the repetitive movements like working through a string of prayer beads. I think about the past. I ponder the future. I feel the food in my hands and become centered in the present.
In the middle of the flattened patty, I place a spoonful of por, a spicy mound of lamb and onion that will rock the palate. I carefully pull up the uneven edges of meat around the mixture and form a smooth ball, adding a splash of ice water to hydrate the bulgur on the outer surface. One down, many prayers to go.
I can see my hands turning into my mother’s hands. I hardly recognize the broad knuckles and wrinkled skin as my own. I miss her. My father died 3½ years after she did. I miss him too.
In the Gospel of John, a grain of wheat remains a singular seed, resting alone — until it dies in the Earth and “bears much fruit.” In my heart, I understand this. In this agricultural region of California, I live it.
The original kernel of wheat disappears in becoming more than itself, producing a greater bounty that can be shared. Human beings have the same ability, once we get out of our own way. Tempered by loss and change, everyone is responsible for building new relationships, family and community.
Christmas Eve celebrations happen at my house now. The big batch of kufta sits in my freezer until I cook the meatballs in a pot of boiling broth. New friends and sweethearts add to family and old neighbors. For each guest, I am grateful.
None of this grace would be mine if my mother hadn’t taken a chance. Our state needed nurses. She answered the call. She found her way to the Central Valley. I found my way to kufta.
Danielle R. Shapazian is a registered nurse and writer who lives in Fresno. She is the founder and director of the San Joaquin Valley Bookfest.
More than 70 years ago, my French Canadian mother made a road trip from Montreal to Fresno to work as a registered nurse. She didn’t know anything about Central California. She had never heard of Armenia or its people. But love can surprise you. She met my Armenian American father and settled into life on a dusty vineyard.
My mother wasn’t an expert in her adopted cuisine, but she had Armenian friends who were: Sally, our neighbor, and her sister Ruby. Each autumn after the grape harvest, the three women would gather in Ruby’s kitchen to make large batches of kufta, a stuffed meatball. It took two days to chop, cook, knead and assemble all the ingredients. Fine-grained bulgur was mixed with ground beef or lamb to make its outer covering.
In my family, kufta became a Christmas Eve tradition. The meatballs were offered along with ham, turkey and yalanchi, lemony grape leaves filled with onions and rice. The dining table was filled with salads and desserts made by friends and neighbors. Our celebrations burst with energy. Everyone feasted on food and drink. Santa arrived with presents, and finally friends would play guitar and piano as we crowded around them to sing carols.
A year or two after my mother died, I was visiting my dad and in the kitchen, I spotted four stainless-steel cylindrical containers covered with tight lids, old-fashioned bandage holders she had probably recycled from the surgical suite where she worked. I lifted a lid and saw that the canister was half full of golden-brown bulgur. In addition to kufta, my mother had used the grain to make a nutty-flavored Armenian pilaf. Making that pilaf was a breeze for me. Maybe it was time I learned to make kufta.
I took one lesson from a friend, then fumbled my way through yearly improvements. If I prepare the filling the day before, it still takes me four hours to put together 75 meatballs.
By now, making kufta at Christmas has become not just a holiday tradition, but also a meditation. I cup a portion of the raw beef and bulgur mixture in one hand and mold it into a thin patty with the other, my left thumb pressing into my right palm in a circular motion, the repetitive movements like working through a string of prayer beads. I think about the past. I ponder the future. I feel the food in my hands and become centered in the present.
In the middle of the flattened patty, I place a spoonful of por, a spicy mound of lamb and onion that will rock the palate. I carefully pull up the uneven edges of meat around the mixture and form a smooth ball, adding a splash of ice water to hydrate the bulgur on the outer surface. One down, many prayers to go.
I can see my hands turning into my mother’s hands. I hardly recognize the broad knuckles and wrinkled skin as my own. I miss her. My father died 3½ years after she did. I miss him too.
In the Gospel of John, a grain of wheat remains a singular seed, resting alone — until it dies in the Earth and “bears much fruit.” In my heart, I understand this. In this agricultural region of California, I live it.
The original kernel of wheat disappears in becoming more than itself, producing a greater bounty that can be shared. Human beings have the same ability, once we get out of our own way. Tempered by loss and change, everyone is responsible for building new relationships, family and community.
Christmas Eve celebrations happen at my house now. The big batch of kufta sits in my freezer until I cook the meatballs in a pot of boiling broth. New friends and sweethearts add to family and old neighbors. For each guest, I am grateful.
None of this grace would be mine if my mother hadn’t taken a chance. Our state needed nurses. She answered the call. She found her way to the Central Valley. I found my way to kufta.
Danielle R. Shapazian is a registered nurse and writer who lives in Fresno. She is the founder and director of the San Joaquin Valley Bookfest.
More than 70 years ago, my French Canadian mother made a road trip from Montreal to Fresno to work as a registered nurse. She didn’t know anything about Central California. She had never heard of Armenia or its people. But love can surprise you. She met my Armenian American father and settled into life on a dusty vineyard.
My mother wasn’t an expert in her adopted cuisine, but she had Armenian friends who were: Sally, our neighbor, and her sister Ruby. Each autumn after the grape harvest, the three women would gather in Ruby’s kitchen to make large batches of kufta, a stuffed meatball. It took two days to chop, cook, knead and assemble all the ingredients. Fine-grained bulgur was mixed with ground beef or lamb to make its outer covering.
In my family, kufta became a Christmas Eve tradition. The meatballs were offered along with ham, turkey and yalanchi, lemony grape leaves filled with onions and rice. The dining table was filled with salads and desserts made by friends and neighbors. Our celebrations burst with energy. Everyone feasted on food and drink. Santa arrived with presents, and finally friends would play guitar and piano as we crowded around them to sing carols.
A year or two after my mother died, I was visiting my dad and in the kitchen, I spotted four stainless-steel cylindrical containers covered with tight lids, old-fashioned bandage holders she had probably recycled from the surgical suite where she worked. I lifted a lid and saw that the canister was half full of golden-brown bulgur. In addition to kufta, my mother had used the grain to make a nutty-flavored Armenian pilaf. Making that pilaf was a breeze for me. Maybe it was time I learned to make kufta.
I took one lesson from a friend, then fumbled my way through yearly improvements. If I prepare the filling the day before, it still takes me four hours to put together 75 meatballs.
By now, making kufta at Christmas has become not just a holiday tradition, but also a meditation. I cup a portion of the raw beef and bulgur mixture in one hand and mold it into a thin patty with the other, my left thumb pressing into my right palm in a circular motion, the repetitive movements like working through a string of prayer beads. I think about the past. I ponder the future. I feel the food in my hands and become centered in the present.
In the middle of the flattened patty, I place a spoonful of por, a spicy mound of lamb and onion that will rock the palate. I carefully pull up the uneven edges of meat around the mixture and form a smooth ball, adding a splash of ice water to hydrate the bulgur on the outer surface. One down, many prayers to go.
I can see my hands turning into my mother’s hands. I hardly recognize the broad knuckles and wrinkled skin as my own. I miss her. My father died 3½ years after she did. I miss him too.
In the Gospel of John, a grain of wheat remains a singular seed, resting alone — until it dies in the Earth and “bears much fruit.” In my heart, I understand this. In this agricultural region of California, I live it.
The original kernel of wheat disappears in becoming more than itself, producing a greater bounty that can be shared. Human beings have the same ability, once we get out of our own way. Tempered by loss and change, everyone is responsible for building new relationships, family and community.
Christmas Eve celebrations happen at my house now. The big batch of kufta sits in my freezer until I cook the meatballs in a pot of boiling broth. New friends and sweethearts add to family and old neighbors. For each guest, I am grateful.
None of this grace would be mine if my mother hadn’t taken a chance. Our state needed nurses. She answered the call. She found her way to the Central Valley. I found my way to kufta.
Danielle R. Shapazian is a registered nurse and writer who lives in Fresno. She is the founder and director of the San Joaquin Valley Bookfest.
