I love the way my mom cuts fruit, the way she wills the pear in her hand to undress itself for her, without a single blemish in sight. I often think about her seamless execution when I'm cutting fruit myself, my apples full of potholes, and my cucumbers unevenly sliced, still showing slivers of green skin.
Her bowl of oranges, bananas and strawberries — presented after every meal with a cup of tea so delicious it will transport you to the mountains and hills between Armenia and Iran — is not just the sign of a brilliant host. It is, for me, in the most simplest of terms, the sign of what it means to be an adult.
It symbolizes experience, hard work, practice and knowledge. It is the mark of a grown-up, of a woman who has learned, laughed, loved and sacrificed, and by the time she was my age, had lived in three countries, showing courage in the most devastating of circumstances.
