My mailbox stays filled with sales fliers, postcards from digital television companies wanting our business and, my favorite, magazines.

Curling up on the couch with a magazine is a great way to relax, and I love any kind of magazine which is probably the reason I get about six different publications every month.

When I was young, I remember flipping through the beautiful “Life” and “Look” magazines my grandparents had on their coffee table, and I was fascinated by the black-and-white war photos and those of the Kennedy family.

The boys always snickered when flipping through “National Geographic.” They were only looking for the pictures of naked tribes people.

But “National Geographic” wasn’t about exploitation – the magazine was and is about introducing people to the wonders of the world through stunningly beautiful photographs.

The covers are just a sampling of the wonders inside the pages. Nowhere else can one see such fantastic pictures of majestic mountains, hidden lakes and the open plains that make Earth such a beautiful planet.

The stories are extremely well written, and the authors not only describe geography, they give readers a glimpse of how people and animals live, think and survive. These wordsmiths – often writing on a laptop from an igloo or a hut – can make the life cycles of fleas and the Incas equally interesting.

A magazine I’ve subscribed to for over 20 years is “Better Homes and Gardens.” My mom had a well-used copy of the BHG red-checked cookbook in the kitchen and getting the magazine seemed appropriate as I headed off into adulthood.

Although I still enjoy the magazine, most of the decorating articles are for people who love stark contemporary homes, and the gardening articles are geared toward the northeast or the Pacific Coast.

Few of us south of the Mason-Dixon line can grow lilies of the valley in our gardens nor can we leave cushions on outdoor furniture – the mildew, brutal heat or the dogs will make short work of those.

So, for the first time in two decades, I’m letting my subscription lapse because I want to read something that has meaning to me.

Hence the reason “Southern Living” is at the top of my favorite magazine reading list. The articles are about the South – grits and ham hocks, azaleas and pine trees and buttermilk biscuits. There aren’t feature stories about multi-million dollar mansions on the Pacific coast or how to protect the home against an ice storm.

The articles in “Southern Living” are about people who live with 100 percent humidity, year-round air conditioning, beauty salons and dominos.

Their readers are constantly searching for the best way to sprinkle Louisiana-grown Tabasco sauce over every dish at a back-yard barbecue and the best flea markets in Texas and Alabama.

Over the past few years, I’ve moved away from the magazines that concentrate on fashion and make-up. I’ve become a fan of practical magazines like “Real Simple” and Oprah Winfrey’s “O” magazine.

My friend, Pat, gave me a subscription to “O” right after the magazine started publication, and it’s been one of the best gifts I’ve ever received.

The layouts are creative, and the pictures are first rate. Fashion spreads feature clothes that fit the average gal who shops at Target and the mall, not a size 0 model wearing eight-inch heels and fishnet stockings.

The best part of any magazine, however, is the writing, and “Southern Living” and “O” feature talented authors who write from their hearts.

“Southern Living’s” Rick Bragg entertains readers with his thoughts on growing up with shrimp fests and crawfish boils, and “O” readers find articles from women who’ve overcome cancer, rebuilt after losing their home to a natural disaster or simply survived a teething toddler.

Oprah always closes the magazines with her thoughts, and she retains her connection with those of us who wrestle with static cling, extra pounds and whether or not we’re good enough.

Though the pages of magazines, we find our kindred souls and, through that connection, we know we’re not alone.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Most people can feel a cold coming on for days. There’s that nasty tickle in the back of the throat, the beginnings of a stuffy nose or the start of a mild cough.

Not me.

Whenever a cold strikes, it’s a sudden storm-the-beach assault by a legion of nasty viruses looking for someone to beat up. In a matter of hours, I am down for the count, losing the battle and not caring that the enemy’s winning.

Luckily, I don’t get sick very often and I’m back to normal in a day or so.

The trade off for not being sick long is that for those 24 hours, I feel like I’ve been mauled by a Mack truck that not only ran over me but then put that 18-wheeler into reverse and came back to finish the job.

My fever spikes, I ache all over and I’m hot and cold. But no matter how bad I feel, I always follow the same routine for getting over the crud quickly.

First, make room on the couch because staying on the couch is more comfortable than staying in bed.

With a cold washcloth on my head, a box of tissues hugged close to my chest and the remote control in my right hand, I become one with the couch while the battle rages.

I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want to be left alone with reruns of “I Love Lucy” and doze on and off until the cold or tummy virus runs its course.

The couch is where my sons camped out when they were sick, and they coped with being stuck on the couch quite differently than their mother.

They liked being pampered. I remember tucking blankets around them, getting their favorite pillow from their room and then constantly refilling water glasses and taking their temperature every hour because they were all was convinced their fever was high enough to require an emergency trip to the hospital.

And of course there was the moaning and groaning – them from the couch, me from the kitchen fulfilling their coughing request for a grilled cheese sandwich – cut in thirds, please – with chicken noodle soup and crackers or fruit and cubes of cheese, all served on their favorite tray.

This scenario only happened, of course, when they were really sick because all three of my sons tried to worm their way out of going to school at least once a week.

“Mom,” they’d croak from their rooms. “I’m sick.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“No.”

“Are you throwing up?”

“No.”

“Then get dressed,” I’d yell back to them. “You’re going to school.”

I’m sure that sounds mean, but I’d been duped by boys who tried every trick in the book to skip school. Over the years, I learned that my darling angels were sneaky.

My boys knew how to hold the thermometer close to the light bulb or run the thermometer under hot water when I was out of the room.

They knew to only spike the mercury to 100 – just enough to stay home for a day but not high enough to miss any real fun.

The fake act that usually works is the stomach ache. It’s hard to judge for sure if a teenager is lying about a stomach ache. But let’s face it – if they say they’re too sick to eat ice cream or Lucky Charms for breakfast, then they’re really sick.

Having sons who faked being sick is where I first came up with the couch as the best place to recuperate. They thought it so I could pamper them while they were in the throes of acute illness.

The real reason was to keep an eye on them, both to make sure they weren’t faking; and, if they really were sick, to watch over them until they felt better. I also told them they’d get better faster if they rested up on the couch.

So a few days ago, when my head started throbbing, the coughing started and I ached all over, I knew it was time to hibernate in the best spot for recuperating – the couch. And in 24 hours, I was as good as new.

Couch time – the best medicine around.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

When people take personality tests, they’re asked to rate their habits to see if they’re guardians, nurturers, performers or givers.

I took one this past weekend, and I scored on the easy-going side. Because I fibbed on a few of the answers, the test reflected what I wanted it to say — extroverted and non-judgmental.

Until I looked in the linen closet.

My husband put away the towels, and they weren’t folded in thirds. The shelf is narrow, and the towels fit better if they’re folded in thirds versus in half.

I refolded the towels and the washcloths – the folded edge needs to be facing outwards – and lined up the extra bars of soap.

After I was sure the linen closet was tidy, I went back in the kitchen and, while rearranging the spices in the cabinet, told my husband how I’d scored on the quiz. He hid behind the newspaper.

“Well, I’m not particular about things, “I said, sensing his reluctance to talk about my score on the test.

“Except for the toilet paper,” he replied.

I’ll give him that one.

When I was a teenager, there was a major news story about an imminent truckers strike. Newscasters were warning people to stock up on canned foods and paper items.

For some reason, it struck me that the Winn Dixie could be out of toilet paper for months.

I made my mother buy at least 20 rolls of Charmin, and my dad thought my fretting was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

So much, in fact, that he gave me a four-roll package of toilet paper for Christmas.

But that irrational fear has stuck with me. To this day, I always have at least 10 extra rolls of toilet tissue in the linen closet.

My husband cleared his throat again.

“And those pillows on the bed,” he said.

Well, of course, the pillows on the bed have to be lined up. If the smaller pillows are thrown on top of the bed in every which way, the bed looks messy and untidy.

“And don’t forget the pillows on the couch,” my husband added.

That’s not even being particular. Two pillows go on either end of the couch – coordinating patterns on either side, and the long pillow goes in the middle.

“Everybody’s picky about the couch pillows,” I said defensively.

“You’re right,” my husband said, a light touch of sarcasm in his voice. “You’re not at all particular about things, like for instance, folding the clothes.”

Okay, I will admit to having a particular way of folding clothes. First, they have to be folded within minutes of the dryer’s buzzer going off.

T-shirts are folded with the design facing up so that when I reach into the drawer, I can see exactly what’s on the front of the shirt before I pull it out.

And permanent press items must be hung up immediately after being removed from the dryer.

“If you don’t hang the shirts up right away, they’ll wrinkle,” I said, refolding the towels in the kitchen drawer.

My husband went back to reading the paper, asking if I was going to leave the dishes in the sink overnight since I wasn’t so particular.

“Are you kidding?” I said, looking at him as if he’d grown two heads. “And face that mess in the morning.”

Then it hit me.

I’m that curmudgeon who reads the newspaper from back to front, checks the clock radio every single night to make sure the volume’s at the right level for the morning alarm and separates the dinner forks from the salad forks in the kitchen drawer.

I’m the minus 10 on the personality quiz.

Tonight I’m going to live dangerously and leave the dishes in the sink, forget about rearranging the pillows on the couch and leave the clothes in the dryer overnight.

This deluded person – who fudges on a magazine personality quiz so she’s not in the bottom half of the answer sheet in the back of the magazine – just might break the mold and run with scissors, drink milk out of the carton and leave the top off the peanut butter jar over night.

Look out world. Change is a-comin.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Note the address for the McBride’s is 13330, not 1330. I need to proof my numbers better!! Thanks and please do support Kevin and Dana. They are truly angels on this earth.

When we talk about heroes, often a larger-than-life person comes to mind – the firefighter who dashes into a burning building to rescue a child or the solder who puts his or her life on the line in a war zone.

It’s easy to overlook heroes in our midst, those who are presented with an overwhelming obstacle and then rise to meet that challenge with dignity and grace. Such is the case with Kevin and Dana McBride.

I first met the McBrides almost 10 years ago after hearing about a penny drive at Austin Elementary entitled Chandler’s Tree Farm. My first thought was the students were collecting money to plant trees on the school property.

That assumption was wrong. The school was collecting pennies to benefit the children on the Bone Marrow Transplant Unit at Texas Children’s Hospital.

One of the students, Chelsea McBride, had a toddler brother, Chandler, who’d gone through two bone marrow transplants, chemotherapy and radiation at Texas Children’s. The McBrides knew how difficult and lonely it was for families on the unit, especially during the holidays.

Back in 1998, Chelsea’s classmates, along with the entire school, collected enough money for the McBrides to purchase Christmas gifts for all the patients and their families who could not leave the hospital.

The McBrides loaded up a red wagon and, with 1-year-old Chandler riding in the back, the family delivered gifts to all the patients on the unit as well as brothers and sisters back home.

Chandler quietly passed away in the arms of his mother a year later, a heartbreaking end to a bright young life. The McBrides could have retreated into their own sorrow, become bitter and angry or blamed the world for their loss.

Instead, Dana and Kevin did what very few people could do – they decided to remember the families who were still on the unit, waiting for a miracle.

The first few years after Chandler passed away, Dana and Kevin visited the unit on major holidays – bringing patriotic baskets with goodies on the Fourth of July and candy and decorations on Easter and Mother’s Day.

Eventually, they decided to concentrate on Christmas, a happy time for most families but a painful one for those on the ward who are isolated from the rest of the world.

Throughout the year, the McBrides collect money so they can spread holiday cheer on the cancer ward, and this year is no different. Dana said after they get the patient wish list from the nurses, they go shopping, and their living room resembles a department store.

The gifts they purchase includes toiletries, cologne, toys and tokens for the parking garage. They choose gifts specifically for everyone in the family of the child isolated on the unit. The McBrides decorate a tree and put up holiday garland and lights in the lobby.

They load up a little red wagon and Santa takes Chandler’s place handing out the gifts. Dana and Kevin understand the fatigue, sorrow and helplessness those mothers and fathers feel watching their children undergo test after test and procedure after procedure.

This is the 11th year for Chandler’s Tree Farm, and 100 percent of all the funds collected go directly to the patients and their families. Your donation can help ensure the families on the ward know others care about them and haven’t forgotten them as they fight for their child’s life.

Donations can be mailed to Dana and Kevin McBride, 13330 Raintree Dr., Montgomery, Texas, 77356. For more information, email chandlerstreefarm@gmail.com or search for Chandler’s Tree Farm on Facebook.

There you’ll meet the McBrides and the nurses, family members and friends who’ve had their lives changed by parents who’ve endured the worst tragedy a parent can imagine but turned their grief and sorrow into a positive outreach to people in the midst of despair.

Yes, heroes dash into danger to help others. Some, like Dana and Kevin, load up a little red wagon with gifts and, in the name of their little boy, spread as much joy as they possibly can in a place where hope can often seem out of reach.

Want to know the definition of a true hero? Look at the people behind Chandler’s Tree Farm. There’s your answer.

This article was previously published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I had to bid farewell to a dear friend this week. This friend saw me through good times and sad times, celebrations and crying jags.

My dear friend did not judge or gossip behind my back. This friend was never too busy for me and listened when I needed to vent.

Chocolate, dear friend, I shall miss thee.

Over the years, I’ve noticed I’ve become more sensitive to foods and additives, especially caffeine.

Where I could once down a Coke at 10 p.m. and be fast asleep an hour later, now a cup of caffeinated coffee in the morning will have me wide awake at 1 a.m.

So a couple of years ago, I switched to all decaffeinated beverages. Although they quench my thirst, they’re still poor substitutes for an early morning caffeine zing.

I almost had to say good-bye to dairy foods. A few years ago, I noticed I had a tummy ache after drinking a glass of milk. Research indicated I might be lactose intolerant.

I’m intolerant about a lot of things – people who take up two parking spots, dogs left chained up in the back yard and drivers who text while driving – but good old-fashioned Vitamin D milk couldn’t be on the aggravation list.

So I decided to experiment. I filled a bowl with creamy Blue Bell milk chocolate ice cream, sat back and enjoyed every spoonful.

I had a cramping stomach ache for three days.

My sister-in-law told me about Lactaid. This magical pill, as it’s advertised on its Website, counteracts the effects of dairy products for people who react unpleasantly to milk, ice cream and cheese.

It took me two years to gather up the courage to fight that stomach ache again. But the lure of Blue Bell Triple Chocolate ice cream finally got to me, and I bought a box of the pills.

The manufacturer was right – it was magic, and I can now enjoy a bowl of ice cream without dreading the after effects.

Unfortunately, I might strike out when it comes to chocolate. Chocolate’s caffeine levels aren’t sky high, but they’re obviously enough to play havoc with my system, and that’s a sad state of affairs.

Chocolate, you see, has been my best friend since I was a young girl. My grandparents owned a five-and-dime store, and they had a candy counter near the front door.

The section was filled with all types of sweets – pink, yellow and white candy necklaces, licorice strips and bubble gum.

Those gummy candies were a distant second to the delicious, creamy taste of chocolate, and that love affair has sustained me for over 40 years.

And what a friend chocolate has been. It never asks me for money and doesn’t want to borrow my car. Those Hershey Kisses and Dove Milk Chocolate candies patiently waited for me in the back of my desk drawer until I reached for their help.

So after my last bout with insomnia, knowing full well chocolate was the culprit, it was with great reluctance I cleared out my secret stash of chocolate.

With tears in my eyes, I now walk past the candy counter at the grocery store, my old friends, Mars and Cadbury, wistfully calling my name as I reach for the spearmint Tic Tacs.

I’ve had quite a few satisfying relationships in my life, all with people, but the relationship I’ve had with chocolate stands tall and firm in its own right.

I’ll be keeping my eyes peeled for a “live with chocolate” pill so my stalwart buddies, Nestle and Hershey, can take their rightful place in my desk drawer.

Goodbye, dear friend.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

“Everwood” was one of my favorite television shows in the early 2000’s. On one of the early episodes, the character of Ephram gave a speech about his tragic flaw — his inability to change. I’ve always liked it and decided to share it here for no other reason than the excerpt is poignant writing, probably from show creator Greg Berlanti, and writing that tugs at the heart is always a joy to read again and share.

From “Everwood” – penned by Ephram Brown, a teen-age character on the show:

The more things change, the more they stay the same. I’m not sure who the first person was to say that – maybe it was William Shakespeare or perhaps Sting – but at the moment, it’s the line that best explains my tragic flaw: my inability to change.

I don’t think I’m alone in this. The more I get to know people, the more I realize it’s everyone’s flaw.

Staying exactly the same for as long as possible and standing perfectly still feels better, or at least the pain is familiar if you’re suffering.

If you took that leap of faith, one outside the box, if you did something unexpected, who knows what other pain might be waiting out there. It could be worse pain, so we maintain the status quo and stay on the road always traveled.

It doesn’t seem so bad – not as bad as flaws go. You’re not a drug addict; you’re not killing anybody, except yourself a little. But when we finally do change, it doesn’t happen like an earthquake or an explosion or, all of a sudden, we’re a different person.

I think it’s smaller, the kind of thing people wouldn’t even notice unless they looked really close which, thank God, they never do.

But you notice it.

Inside, it feels like a world of difference. You finally become the person you’re meant to be forever, and you hope you’ll never have to change again.

The news came via email from my aunt last week – a fire had completely destroyed the church in Olean, N.Y., the town where she lives, my mom was married in and I was baptized in.

St. Joseph’s Maronite Catholic Church was over 100 years old and was the central gathering place for my parents, grandparents and great-grandparents.

The case is still under investigation, but foul play is not suspected. Perhaps old wiring, maybe a spark in the attic – no one knows exactly what started the blaze, but a church where thousands of weddings, baptisms, funerals and daily Masses were celebrated and observed is now a pile of rubble.

The horrendous fires currently raging across Texas drove home the point of what happens when fire roars through a city, town or a building.

Everything’s either burned beyond recognition or damaged by smoke and water used to put out the flames. All that’s left are cinders and memories.

I can still remember attending Mass at St. Joe’s as a young girl – the church always had a lingering, faint scent of lemon furniture polish and incense. The same people sat in the same pews week after week, and bingo was a staple on Saturday nights.

My parents were married at St. Joe’s, and the picture of my dad kissing my mom on the church steps is one of my favorites.

Three of their children received their first Holy Communion at St. Joe’s, and I always loved stopping in for a quick prayer whenever we went back to Olean in the summers.

It seemed I’d no sooner read the news about St. Joe’s than I heard about the Texas wildfires thundering across the state.

Tracking the fires online and reading posts on Facebook, the fires weren’t a distant threat – they were within 200 miles of our home. With the strong winds we had this weekend, the wildfires quickly grew and seemed to pop up all over the place.

Sunday afternoon, my husband and I were out on country roads, and we drove past parched meadows and pastures. People were outside, tending to their horses, watering trees whose leaves were withered and sparse or simply standing outside, watching distant smoke from the fires slowly drift their way.

Skies that were blue slowly but surely turned gray, and bits of ash landed on my shirt when we stopped. The smell of those fires was in the air, and we knew people’s lives were being decimated minute by minute.

So many people lost their homes and all their belongings in fires that seem impossible to believe, especially in a state where hurricanes, flooding and tornadoes are Mother Nature’s wrath, not out-of-control wildfires.

Later that evening, I watched a video from the fire back in Olean, and one lady put her parish’s disaster in perspective. She said the fire destroyed a building, yet she felt blessed. No one lost their life in the fire.

She was holding a brick from the old church and said anyone wishing to buy a salvaged brick could do so. All the money would go toward rebuilding St. Joe’s.

For the people affected by floods or fires, nothing can bring back their treasured heirlooms and irreplaceable photos and belongings.

But when the time comes to rebuild, I want to keep in mind what that parishioner said – rebuilding is one brick at a time.

And that’s what the resilient people in Olean will do as well as the people in Texas affected by fire. They will rebuild one brick, one cabinet and one crucifix at a time.

A home, as they say, is where the heart is and nothing can destroy that dwelling place.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

While chatting with my friend, Pat, she said her son was invited to a wedding shower for couples. Mark, a bachelor, wasn’t quite sure what to make of the party as he’d never been to a that type of shindig before.

Gentlemen, welcome to a brave new world – the wedding shower.

In the past, wedding showers were considered a woman’s domain. But what men don’t realize is that before anybody walks through the front door carrying an ice bucket wrapped in silver and white paper, there’s quite a bit of behind-the-scenes planning happening.

First, there’s the invitations. Traditional bridal shower invites are usually printed on embossed paper, a delicate tissue paper sleeve protecting the print, and sent through the U.S. Postal service.

Today’s groom believes texting the invite is more efficient and, because it’s free, allows more money for beer and pretzels.

And speaking of snacks, they’re as important as the invitations. I remember watching my mom make sandwiches for bridal showers she hosted.

A week before the shower, Mom ordered colored bread from the local bakery. On the day of the shower, quite a bit of time was spent slicing cucumbers for the filling and then artfully arranging those tiny blue triangles on a silver tray.

To this day, I cannot figure out why anyone would think a slice of cucumber between two slices of blue bread could be considered a sandwich.

But now that men are attending showers, I guarantee there will be barbecue and bratwurst alongside those frilly sandwiches.

Then there’s the drinks. Old-fashioned wedding showers required the hostess to come up with some type of sparkling punch served in an oversized glass punch bowl, usually borrowed from a great-great aunt.

The punch mixture was either a container of lemonade mixed with a bottle of 7-Up with sliced lemons floating around the top or a half gallon of orange sherbet covered with 7-Up to create a frothing cloud.

With the couples shower, I’m betting part of the beverage list includes “get your own” sodas in the fridge and a battered Igloo filled with adult beverages on the patio.

No bridal shower is complete without the games. My friend’s son loves games, but hopefully we’ve moved away from the traditional games nobody likes but everybody plays because it’s expected.

There’s the written game where participants have to unscramble letters to make words all pertaining to a wedding. For some reason, “expensive” and ” budget” are never on the word list.

And then there’s the game where participants write down advice for the bride-to-be. They’re usually lofty ideals, never practical advice like, never ask “does this make me feel fat” or “does this lasagna taste as good as your mother’s?”

Wait until the guys find out that if you win the game, you give your prize to the bride to be. I found out about this traditional act of generosity the hard way.

At one of the first bridal showers I ever attended, I won a game. The hostess handed me a set of pretty kitchen towels, and I thought those would come in handy in my dorm room.

I was feeling pretty good about my win until the girl next to me – a seasoned shower attendee – leaned over and whispered “You have to give it to the bride.”

Sure enough, the hostess was standing next to me, a forced smile on her face. So I reluctantly handed her the towels and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

Something tells me if there are games at a couples shower, the men will keep the prizes, high five each other and then spend the rest of the afternoon gloating about their win.

I’m betting gifts given at a couples shower are fun. Let’s face it – a new drill is a lot more fun than a chafing dish. In fact, I’ll bet brides think a new drill is more fun than a chafing dish, even if a silver serving tray comes with it.

So gentlemen, RSVP to that invitation, come on in and let the games begin.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Food has always played a significant part in get togethers for my family, especially for my mother’s relatives. Her parents were Lebanese, and stuffed squash, tabooley, kibbee and chicken and rice were Sunday dinner staples.

My mother kept up the tradition, and all of us drop everything for a chance to have dinner at Mom’s house, those ethnic dishes an integral part of every mealtime.

When my mom visited us this summer, she spent a Sunday afternoon showing my sons how to cook some of those family-honored meals.

When my nieces heard about our afternoon, they good-naturedly demanded a “Cooking with Delores” session as well.

My mom obliged and most of the female members of my family gathered at my mom’s for an afternoon of chopping, slicing, simmering and learning.

My mom said in the old days, her mother would rise early to boil a chicken and pick the peppers and mint from her garden. We took a modern short cut and picked up an already roasted chicken and raided the produce section at the local Winn Dixie.

We all helped take the chicken off the bone and hollow out the peppers and squash. My mom showed us how to mix rice, tomato paste and seasonings together to stuff the bell peppers and yellow squash.

As we worked, the aunts entertained the nieces with stories about our childhood, each story growing more grand with subsequent tellings, the laughter practically nonstop.

In the background, my mom was carefully arranging the peppers and squash in a pot, and I remembered watching my grandmother perform the same ritual. Her kitchen smelled heavenly as she cooked, and now my mom’s kitchen was smelling the same way.

My youngest sister took notes as my mom explained how to make the dishes but, she tried to sneak a few moves past us, claiming it was faster to leave out the little details and share the big picture with us.

We good-naturedly accused her of trying to keep all the recipes to herself, and then we remembered our grandmother was the same way with her recipes. Truth be told, I haven’t shared any of my favorite recipes with my sons, so I guess that tradition lives on.

As more family members arrived, nieces, aunts, sisters-in-law and sisters chopped, told jokes, reminisced about the old days and eagerly shared news about what was happening in their lives.

Boyfriends and husbands talked about LSU football, fishing and the best way to fry a turkey, Louisiana style. And, of course, there was lots of kidding and laughter, as is the way when my family gathers.

One of the last dishes we made was the kibbee, and I finally found out how my mom created the mystery middle layer of that baked meat dish – she sautéed seasoned meat, onions and pine nuts together and placed that scrumptious mixture between the two layers of raw meat.

The baked layer – the one that had been seasoned and taken to the end stage – held the entire casserole together. It seemed fitting we ended our cooking lesson with the kibbee because that’s how we were that afternoon.

We all tasted the dishes and declared them the best we’d ever had.

That afternoon, laughter, good-natured kidding and many-times-told family stories, shared between four generations, bonded us together, just as sharing foods from our childhood connected us with our roots and our heritage.

When all the food was on the table, we stood back and took photos of our handiwork. You’d have thought we were documenting a gourmet meal in a four-star restaurant. For us, it was a banquet, but not of fancy canapés or grand soufflés.

Ours was a family banquet held together and served up with love and laughter.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.