I walked into the familiar restaurant, and the smells of my childhood surrounded me. Kibbee, tabooley, lentil soup. It was hard to believe I wasn’t in my grandmother’s kitchen.

“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while,” said the smiling lady behind the counter at Abdallah’s Restaurant.

She was right. I hadn’t braved Houston on a Saturday in quite a while, but my longing for some Lebanese food from my childhood overrode my fears of maneuvering Highway 59.

Growing up, we were surrounded by Lebanese food, especially on Sundays. My grandmother started preparing dinner Saturday afternoon when she’d boil and then debone the chicken for her special chicken and rice dish.

Every once in a while, she’d make meat pies, and she let me carefully spoon the spinach or the meat into the centers of the circles of bread dough.

She showed me how to pinch the edges together to form a triangle, making sure to leave a small space in the middle for the bread to rise, and then brush the pies with an egg wash so they’d be shiny when they came out of the oven.

I still remember how delicate and beautiful my grandmother’s hands were as she fussed over the details of those Lebanese dishes, making sure the baked kibbee was cut into perfectly formed diamonds and the tabooley was filled with plenty of chopped mint, picked from her garden outside the back door.

So when I walked into Abdallah’s, it was like walking into my grandmother’s kitchen. The small restaurant/store is filled with all the staples needed to create a genuine Lebanese dinner.

Granted, I haven’t a clue how to use most of them, but when I took my mom there this summer, her voice grew soft as she described how to use the tahini paste, the many uses for chick peas and why having pine nuts in the pantry is a must for any serious Lebanese cook.

Hearing people talk Arabic behind the counter was somehow comforting because as my grandparents bustled around the kitchen, they talked to each other in a mixture of English and Arabic, their rhythm of give and take connecting both languages.

Although we all speak English in my family, whenever we’re together at my Mom’s, we function in controlled chaos as we slip back into a familiar dance from our childhood and in-laws, nieces and nephews all join in.

One sets the table and another fills the glasses with ice. Someone places the dishes on the dining room table and another counts out forks and knives. Bowls are filled with rice and potatoes and someone carves the turkey or the roast.

A dozen people bustle around my mom’s kitchen on any given Sunday or holiday, the familiar smells of our childhood, adding to the feeling of security, safety and home.

And it’s the same when I go to Abdallah’s.

As I’m settling the bill, Mrs. Abdallah slips a pastry into a bag and hands it to me.

“For the ride home,” she says with a smile.

And just as the smells in that restaurant reminded me of home, the lady behind the counter with the sparkling blue eyes was offering me a bit of her home to take with me to my home.

That’s the way home cooking and home meals should be — generously shared with all who come to the table looking for the familiar smells and tastes of our childhoods and of home.

It’s been a while since I’ve had some garlicky hummus and freshly baked pita bread. I think I’ll brave the freeway again this weekend and sample a slice of my childhood, right in the heart of Houston.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.