Over seven decades ago, my mother, a French Canadian, embarked on a journey from Montreal to Fresno to work as a registered nurse. She knew little about Central California or its Armenian community. But love tends to throw surprises our way. It was here she met my Armenian American father, and together they settled on a vineyard filled with dust and dreams.
While my mom wasn’t well-versed in Armenian cooking, she had friends who were – Sally, our neighbor, and her sister Ruby. Every fall, following the grape harvest, the trio would gather in Ruby’s kitchen for a culinary marathon. They spent two days meticulously preparing kufta, a type of stuffed meatball. The process involved chopping, cooking, and kneading until the fine-grained bulgur and ground meat—be it beef or lamb—created a perfect outer shell.
Kufta quickly became a staple of our Christmas Eve feasts. Alongside the meatballs, we served ham, turkey, and yalanchi, lemon-infused grape leaves stuffed with rice and onions. Our dining table transformed into a vibrant array of salads and sweets, lovingly prepared by friends and neighbors. The energy was palpable as we indulged in food and drink. Santa would show up with gifts, and eventually, we’d all gather around to belt out carols while friends played guitars and pianos.
A year or two after mom passed away, I was visiting dad when I stumbled upon four stainless-steel canisters in the kitchen. Once used as bandage holders in her surgical suite, they were now filled with golden-brown bulgur. My mother used this grain to make Armenian pilaf, as well as kufta. Making pilaf was second nature to me, but maybe it was time I tried my hand at kufta.
With one lesson from a friend as guidance, I began my annual tradition, improving a bit each year. Even if I prepare the filling the night before, crafting 75 meatballs takes me a good four hours.
Now, crafting kufta during Christmas has evolved from a simple tradition into a meditative practice. As I shape the mixture of raw beef and bulgur in my hands, a rhythmic dance between my fingers forms a delicate patty. It’s like moving through a set of prayer beads, reflecting on the past, contemplating the future, and feeling grounded in the present.
I delicately place a spoonful of spicy lamb and onion, known as por, in the center of the patty. Carefully, I encase the mixture, smoothing it into a ball, using a dash of ice water to keep the bulgur on the outside supple. One down, countless to go.
As I work, my hands start to resemble my mother’s—marked with broad knuckles and weathered by time. I miss her dearly. My father followed her 3½ years later. I miss him too.
The Gospel of John speaks of a grain of wheat that remains a singular seed until it perishes and brings forth greater yield. This resonates with me deeply. Here in California’s agricultural heartland, this concept is a living reality.
The original seed vanishes, transforming into a bountiful harvest ready to be shared. We humans possess a similar potential, once we step aside and let growth happen. We all have a part to play in cultivating new connections, nurturing family, and fostering communities shaped by change and loss.
Christmas Eve now finds everyone gathering at my home. The large batch of kufta waits in my freezer, destined for a pot of boiling broth. New friends and partners join us, combining with family and longtime neighbors. For each person present, I feel tremendous gratitude.
None of this grace would have come into my life if my mother hadn’t embraced a chance so many years ago. California needed nurses, and she answered the call, journeying to the Central Valley and unknowingly guiding me toward kufta.
Danielle R. Shapazian, based in Fresno, is a writer and registered nurse. She also founded and directs the San Joaquin Valley Bookfest.
