We made rice balls every Thanksgiving and Christmas. My family

Antonia Lofaso once spoke with affection and reverence for her heritage: “We made rice balls every Thanksgiving and Christmas. My family formed an assembly line. You’d play with it, stuff it, roll it in breadcrumbs, and then drop it into the fryer. We’d make so many of them. My family not only planned their meals; we planned the leftovers, too.” Though her words are playful, they resound with ancient truth: that food is not merely nourishment for the body, but the binding force of memory, tradition, and kinship. In the act of shaping rice into golden spheres, her family was shaping something far greater—the rhythm of togetherness.

The origin of this memory lies in Lofaso’s Italian-American upbringing, where the kitchen was not only a place of labor but of joy, invention, and unity. The rice ball, or arancini, is a dish steeped in Sicilian history, born of ingenuity—transforming humble grains into treasures of flavor. By making them for Thanksgiving and Christmas, her family wove their ancestral traditions into American holidays, creating a feast that honored both their past and their present. In this, their table became a bridge across time and oceans, reminding us that true tradition is not stagnant, but living, growing, and adapting.

The imagery of the assembly line is profound. Each member of the family had a task: one shaping, one stuffing, one rolling, one frying. It was not the work of a single hand, but the harmony of many. This mirrors the way communities throughout history have survived and thrived—through shared labor, where each contribution, however small, became essential to the whole. In the making of rice balls, the family rehearsed the greater lesson of life: that unity is forged not by talk alone, but by shared effort and shared joy.

We may recall the great harvest festivals of old, when entire villages would gather to thresh grain, press grapes, or gather olives. These tasks could not be done alone; they required many hands, many voices, many hearts working in rhythm. And when the labor was finished, the feast began—a celebration not only of the food itself but of the bonds created in its making. Lofaso’s memory is the modern echo of this timeless pattern: the act of cooking together becomes as sacred as the eating.

Even her mention of leftovers carries wisdom. To plan for leftovers is to acknowledge continuity, to know that the feast does not end when the table is cleared. Just as life flows beyond the moment, so too do traditions flow beyond a single day. The rice ball eaten on the second or third day carries with it the laughter of its making, the aroma of the fryer, the warmth of family gathered together. In this, leftovers become not an afterthought, but an extension of love.

The lesson for us is clear: cherish the labor of togetherness, not just the feast itself. Do not treat meals as transactions, where food appears and disappears without connection. Instead, enter the kitchen, lend your hands, share the work. For in shaping dough or rolling rice, in stirring pots or washing dishes, we forge bonds that will outlast the meal. And let us not despise the humble leftovers, for they are reminders that abundance continues, that the joy of the feast lingers beyond the moment.

So, O listener, take this teaching into your own household. Form your own assembly line, whatever it may be—whether in cooking, in decorating, in preparing the feast. Make the act itself a celebration, not only the eating. Blend the traditions of your ancestors with the traditions of today, and let the table be a place where cultures meet, memories are forged, and generations stand together. For the true feast of Thanksgiving or Christmas is not only in the dishes upon the table, but in the laughter, the labor, and the love woven into them. And in this way, every meal, even its leftovers, becomes holy.