When people find out I write for a newspaper, the first question they ask is if I’ve ever interviewed someone famous — a movie star or a well-known politician, they’ll say.

The answer is I’ve never interviewed someone famous, but I’ve interviewed quite a few important people.

My definition of important is someone who gives of themselves to make the world a better place. They instinctively know to give of one’s heart and soul leaves a longer lasting impact on society than simply showing up on a movie screen or making lots of money.

Over the past few weeks, this community lost two respected citizens, Mason Briscoe and Arthur Mahlmann.

I first met Mr. Briscoe when I stopped into the Fort Bend Feed and Farm Supply many years ago. I’d heard they had rawhide bones for our dog, but I found out the-visited store on Highway 90A had much more than pet supplies and tomato plants.

They had Mr. Briscoe.

With his slow Texas drawl and ready smile, I immediately felt at home with him, and so did everyone who came into the store.

He hid his accomplishments, preferring to talk about current events, the weather or what was happening with someone else. Over the years, I visited the store under the pretext of picking up dog food, but I really came to visit with Mr. Briscoe.

One year, the newspaper decided to profile World War II veterans, and Mr. Briscoe’s name came up. We sat down in his cozy office in the back of the store, the desks filled with papers accumulated over years of working in the same place.

In his unhurried way, Mr. Briscoe described being a carefree young boy and shipping off to war in Europe. He was debonair, dashing and full of mischief, but the war forced him to grow up.

While in Europe, he earned medals and commendations for bravery. He came home a man, settled down and quietly made this part of the world a better place.

Many young people at St. John’s United Methodist Church credit Mr. Briscoe with setting them on the right path to becoming a man, and he did so with gentle guidance, sound advice and a twinkle in his eye.

Mr. Briscoe was life-long friends with Arthur Mahlmann. Like Briscoe, Mr. Mahlmann shipped out to Europe as an idealistic young man, prepared to fight for freedom. He came under gunfire, earned medals and commendations, yet never hesitated to step forward when duty required his bravery.

When he returned to Rosenberg, he married a lovely home-town girl, Lydia, and worked his entire life in Rosenberg to create homes and neighborhoods.

A devout Catholic, Mr. Mahlmann made sure his church received updates and renovations, and his commitment to his faith was unshakable. I was fortunate to spend time with Mr. Mahlmann because he wanted to dictate his biography so his children and grandchildren would know their heritage.

Once a week for four months, we sat together, and, in his deep, baritone voice, Mr. Mahlmann described his beliefs, his commitment to Rosenberg and his unwavering love for his family, especially his still-beautiful bride, Lydia.

Not only did he leave a wonderful history for his family, Mr. Mahlmann unknowingly taught me to stay true to my convictions, especially when times were difficult, believe I could make the world a better place and to always cherish my family.

I could never bring myself to call these two gentlemen by their first names, even though they would’ve been comfortable with being greeted that way. They deserved respect because they lived what they believed every single day of their lives.

So whenever I’m asked if I’ve ever interviewed someone important, I think about Mr. Mahlmann and Mr. Briscoe.

And the answer is “yes.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I stood in the card aisle, looking at all the different Mother’s Day cards. I’m fortunate my mother is in good health. She spends her retirement days volunteering at her church, bowling on Wednesdays with a league and keeping up with her seven children, 26 grandchildren and almost as many great-grandchildren.

Most of the cards were sentimental, and those words do reflect how I think about my mom. But they weren’t personal enough. I kept looking, the flowery cards getting increasingly sappy.

Not that I don’t like corny, but those cards just didn’t seem right for my mom who, in her late 70’s, is sassy and still runs circles around me.

So I headed to the humorous card section. There were cards for children to present to their mothers, complete with pictures of youngsters covered in mud and dirt. Sending my mom a humorous card didn’t seem right either, even though she’s the first one to laugh at a joke.

I thought about making her a card on our home computer, but it’s a long standing joke in our family that when someone receives a “store-bought” card, complete with an envelope, that person rules.

I could send her a bouquet of flowers, and she’d love that, but that gesture didn’t seem like the right move for my mom this year.

When trying to think of how to honor my mom, I thought about the ways our society pays homage to mothers. Songwriters have composed hundreds of songs for mothers, both saintly mothers and rotten mothers and writers have penned thousands of poems and stories about motherhood.

It’s difficult to put into four rhyming stanzas or five epic chapters exactly what mothers do that makes them worthy of praise.

They go through childbirth, a terrifying journey they and only they can travel. While they’re still catching their breath, an infant is placed into their arms.

In that one heart-stopping moment, a new mother realizes she is connected to another human in an unbreakable bond for the rest of her life.

Mothers walk miles in an infant’s lifetime, soothing a colicky cry or heading off to the playground. They have room on their laps for as many children as will fit, and nothing cures a bruised knee or busted knuckle quite like a kiss from mommy.

They celebrate the first tooth, first step and first words out of their baby’s mouth. They hover over a toddler as they make their way into the world and then, in a gesture that is quite remarkable, they let go of their child’s hand when the time is right.

Moms endure the torturous teen-age years, understanding tantrums and pouting are all part of separation because that’s a child’s destiny – – to go out in the world and make a life for themselves.

When those teenagers turn into young adults, mothers smile as they give away their daughters and sons to another to love, her heart breaking a little because her baby is truly grown up.

Although we honor moms on Sunday, they deserve respect every day for they have a difficult role to play in life.

They make sure their children have their feet solidly on the ground and then help them find their wings so they can fly away.

Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers and, to my mom, thank you for helping me finally find my wings.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’m listening to a murder mystery novel, and the tale’s based in Nashville, Tenn. The author is quite familiar with that area as he describes the streets and neighborhoods with exact detail.

He cannot, however, be a native Southerner as he’s included every hackneyed, stereotypical phrase ever attributed to a backwoods southern hick in his book.

The narrator makes it worse by using the fakest Southern accent I’ve ever heard, and I’ve got a comparison. I grew up in New York state, and I quickly became aware of the vast differences in the way I talked versus the teens I was meeting in school.

I pronounced words like “car” and “bar” with a hard “a” sound — like “kar.” People in Louisiana, however, used a much softer accent on that “a,” and it was “cahr” and “bahr.” Soon I fell in love with the genteel way those words rolled off their tongues.

Northerners like to group everyone from the South into a broad category, where we all say “reckon” and “ya heah” and have a lower IQ just because we talk differently. But we’re not stupid because we have a drawl — we just pronounce words differently and take our time about saying them.

In the South, one shoe does not fit all. There are different accents across the region, starting with the distinct vowel sounds coming from those reared in Virginia. They pronounce words like “mouse” more like “moose” and “house” like “hoose.”

One of my favorite Southern accents hails from Georgia. The mother of one of my best friends in high school hailed from that beautiful state, and she pronounced Albert’s name as “Ahl-buh.” I’d ask Mrs. Bondurant questions all the time, just to hear her transform ordinary words into musical notes.

I’m from Louisiana, and I tend to put a French slant on the words. When we first moved to Houston, I pronounced “Bissonnet” as “Biss-a-nay,” just as they would in Louisiana.

However, I found out that in Houston, it’s “Biss-ah-net,” the Spanish pronunciation the preferred method. Same as with “bayou.” In Louisiana, it’s “by-you,” and in Texas it’s “buy-oh.”

The mysterious city at the end of the Mississippi River is often mispronounced. People not familiar with Louisiana words call the city “New Or-Leans,” but southerners know the real name is dragged out — “New Ah-Lins.”

People often talk about people from the Bronx having a distinct accent, but the people from Chalmette and Metairie, Louisiana have accents extremely similar to their Northern cousins. The two accents are almost interchangeable — things don’t “warp,” they “wop,” and it’s not “oil,” it’s “earl.”

Cajuns also have a distinct accent that’s charming and quite distinct. My dad could lay on a Cajun accent as thick as cane syrup in the winter. The “chers” and “ah biens” rolled off his tongue whenever he wanted to charm someone.

Here in the Lone Star state, there’s a variety of accents, and I thoroughly enjoy Texas country, especially the familiar sayings from people who were born and reared here.

People from other areas have sayings particular to their region, but you’d have to go a long way to beat the Southern explanation of stupidity: “he’s so dumb, he could throw himself on the ground and miss.”

The next time I’m ready for a story based in the South, I’m going to pick up the printed version so I can imagine the voices in my head. That way, I’ll have an old-fashioned, good-ole-gal voice in my head.

And honey, that’ll be finer ‘n frog’s hair.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I never noticed it before, but the clock on my desk is loud when the room is quiet. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Every time I look up, another minute has passed.

In the quiet, I find myself noticing little things — the fine layer of dust covering the books on the shelf and how the pictures on the wall are slightly crooked.

I’m not taking time to step back from life so I can notice the small details in life. I’m procrastinating, and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s procrastinating.

Today, I’m putting off writing this column because the creative juices are not flowing. So I decide to distract myself and start with the load of towels I left in the dryer last night.

I thought I’d find some inspiration between the fabric softener sheets and the wash cloths, but, alas, there was none to be found.

So I looked inside the refrigerator because we all know inspiration lies somewhere between last night’s left-over pork chops and mashed potatoes.

I could write about the unknown contents of those two plastic bowls in the back of the fridge, but that’s only good for a paragraph or two. Besides, I really don’t want to know what’s developing underneath the Saran Wrap.

Hearing our dog’s collar jingle, I get up and play with her for a little bit. Perhaps throwing the ball to Channell might start those creative juices flowing.

The only thing that distraction accomplished was having our energetic pup tromp over the bushes my husband just planted.

Sometimes flipping through the television channels sparks a bit of creativity. With over 150 channels, there’s bound to be something interesting and captivating to watch and then write about.

I found myself glued to an episode of “Hoarders,” which led me to throw away those plastic bowls in the fridge sight unseen, and then clear all the clutter off the kitchen counter.

So, hours after I started, I’m still sitting here, tapping my index finger on the computer mouse, trying to find inspiration.

Instead, I find myself wondering why I have so many stacks of paper around my desk. In one stack, I find the invitation to my niece’s wedding and remember I never got around to making our hotel reservations.

Then I see the envelope inviting me to order a new women’s magazine. Wondering what future issues might offer, I fire up the Internet, read about the publication’s plans and find myself sidetracked into reading about the history of Earth Day.

Then I remember I meant to recycle the newspapers on the kitchen table. Before putting the stack into the recycling bin, though, I spot a few columns I meant to read, so I sit down and put on my glasses.

That’s when I remember that pork chop in the fridge, so I warm it up, fix a glass of iced tea and tell myself I’m just stoking the creative fires.

After that quick power snack, I once again sit down at the computer, ready to crank out a column, because the creative juices should be flowing.

The only thing I notice is how loud that clock is ticking.

So I move the clock to the back bedroom and notice my granddaughter has left out some toys from her Sunday visit.

While picking up the accessories to her princess doll collection, I remember all the ways she tried avoiding going to bed, including saying she was hungry, she needed to color one more page and could I pretty please read her just one more story.

Procrastination and distraction. Two tricks that often work or, in the case of the Adams’ women, can get us off the hot seat.

At least for a little while.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

We’re a society obsessed with time-saving devices. Microwaves cut cooking times from hours into seconds. Instant and frozen foods allow us to put a three-course meal on the table in less than 15 minutes.

Cell phones put us in touch with family and friends in seconds no matter where we are. We can pick up our cells and, while waiting at red lights, make an appointment with the dentist, call our kids or chat with a friend from out of state.

There are so many devices that save us time, we should be gliding along in auto pilot most of the time.

Then why do we always seem to be cruising through life in the fast lane, gripping the steering wheel, the gas pedal pushed all the way to the floor?

Because in our quest to hurry up and accomplish our to-do list, we’ve lost the ability to sit back and take it easy. There’s too many things to do and not enough time to do them.

Relaxation is a word many of us only know from seeing the concept on advertisements. We seldom live that state of mind, despite all of society’s inventions and catch phrases designed to give us more free time.

We multi-task to take care of all the items on our long “to-do” list. We listen to a podcast of a radio show while cleaning the kitchen. We fold clothes while watching a TiVo’d television show because we’re too impatient to sit through the 30-second commercials.

Going to the market was once an activity where people not only shopped for dinner, but neighbors took time to catch up on each others’ lives.

Now, most people talk on their hands-free cell phones while dashing up and down the grocery store aisles, their iPhones or Blackberries beeping off a grocery list. There’s no time to chat with friends in the store — we’re preoccupied doing two things at one time.

Sunday afternoons, once a sacred time for visiting with family, watching a football game on television or taking a nap on the couch, are now precious slices of time when we catch up on the laundry, pay bills, clean the house or run errands we’re too busy to do during the week.

In our quest to create more time for ourselves, the only thing we’ve made more time for is more work.

After falling into bed last Saturday night, exhausted yet knowing I had a long list of to-do items for Sunday afternoon, I found myself thinking of an episode from “The Andy Griffith Show.” Entitled “Man in a Hurry,” a businessman, Malcolm Tucker, comes through Mayberry on a Sunday afternoon and has car trouble.

No one’s available to repair his car, and Tucker is furious, wondering why the people in this hick town won’t repair his car on a Sunday afternoon. He belittles everyone because he believes his time is more important than relaxing.

But after seeing how the people of Mayberry protect and savor their unhurried Sunday afternoon, Tucker comes to realize that enjoying quiet time in a front-porch rocking chair, surrounded by friends and the Sunday newspaper, can be the best use of time.

Leisure time allows us to do what’s really important — spend time with our loved ones and, most importantly, spend time with ourselves doing absolutely nothing.

Because, sometimes doing nothing is when we accomplish everything.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

On our way back from Baton Rouge recently, we found ourselves getting hungry. There were dozens of signs along the interstate for fast-food joints, but my husband suggested stopping off in the historic district of Breaux Bridge, the city that bills itself as the crawfish capital of the world.
The district is small but filled with bustling antique shops and small restaurants featuring a variety of Creole and Cajun meals.

We spotted a cafe in the middle of Bridge Street, Chez Jacqueline, and when I saw the words “fried crawfish” on the menu, I was hooked. We walked through an old-screen door; and when that squeaky door slammed behind us, I felt as if we were home.

The wooden tables and chairs have seated diners for years. The condiment basket included hot sauce, a Louisiana staple, that Cajuns use to douse everything from boiled shrimp to scrambled eggs.

The walls were covered with local art as well as family photos of Jacqueline, her mother and her daughter — all of whom worked in the restaurant.

The menu features French and Cajun dishes, not uncommon as Cajuns are descendants of exiles from the French colony of Nova Scotia who settled in the bayous of Louisiana.

Jacqueline is from France, and her roots are evident in the menu choices of Coquille St. Jacques and baked oysters smothered in butter and cheese.

Soon a woman with corn rows and a beautiful smile sat down behind a keyboard and welcomed us to Cajun Country. When Donna Angelle started playing the “Zydeco Blues,” the joint came alive.

As she crooned “I was born on the bayou and there were times when I thought I couldn’t last too long,” the sincerity and wistfulness was evident in her mellow voice.

As we applauded, Angelle picked up an aged accordion, and she had that banged-up instrument wailing the blues in seconds. People’s feet were tapping and the walls were thumping as Angelle rocked and danced.

Louisiana’s Zydeco music captures people’s ears, but her food bewitches the rest of the senses. On the table next to us, a plastic serving platter was piled high with mounds of hot, boiled crawfish, accompanied by a roll of paper towels and a bowl of melted butter.

As in many restaurants in small towns, diners compared notes and talked about their favorite meals. The ladies next to us were from France, and Jacqueline had prepared special dishes for them, including escargot.

Jacqueline stopped by our table and asked if I’d like to try some escargot, and I declined. She reached back over the table, ripped off a piece of French bread and dipped the bread into that buttery-rich casserole dish. She brought up one snail covered with spinach, cheese and butter.

“Baby, you will love my escargot,” she said, holding the snail close to me. My mouth remained firmly closed.

“Open up,” she said and I hesitated.

“Cher, I promise, you will love it. Now open up,” she insisted. So, I did.

I never thought I’d eat escargot, but when that French delicacy is bathed in butter and cheese and cooked to perfection, it wasn’t half bad.

As Angelle continued singing, we found ourselves swaying back and forth in our seats, thrilled to step away from life and simply relax with crispy fried crawfish tails, lively Zydeco music and the comforting feeling we’d left the modern world far, far behind.

Walking back to our car, we promised ourselves we’d come back and immerse ourselves in the down-home hospitality Cajuns know how to bestow upon anyone who’s lucky enough to leave the concrete highway and step back into the land of accordions and crawfish.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Man, I’m getting old, I thought as my knees creaked and screamed at me while I was walking up a flight of stairs.

I’m no spring chicken, but my knees really don’t have to announce their years of wear and tear as loudly as they were doing this past weekend.

Thinking I might have to make a doctor’s appointment, I went to bed early and woke up with hardly any pain. The reason — earlier in the week, I’d slept on a different mattress.

Now I was back in my own bed and, miracle of miracles, I was cured.

Who’d have thought a good nights’ sleep could be a cure all for those aches and pains? To make things even more convenient, I now have a nearby culprit for any time things go wrong — I slept wrong.

That’s an excuse that goes back hundreds of years, probably to the cavemen.

“Honey, I couldn’t bring home a mastodon today because the cave floor was lumpy and I just didn’t get my beauty rest.”

Inability to concentrate? Must be the inner coils in the Serta are shot.

Forgetful and restless all day? The Beautyrest has lost its charm.

It’s not that researchers haven’t heard the moans from the sleepy, and they’ve made incredible strides in mattress technology. Manufacturers now have mattresses with memory foam that remember every bend and bulge in your body and react accordingly.

These mattresses are so smart that consumers can adjust the head rest, order the perfect tension in the box springs and even set levels for two sides of the bed, tailor made for each person.

They’re no longer referred to as a lowly mattress and box springs — they’re horizontal living spaces that support everything about you.

Children instinctively understand the philosophy that nothing beats sleeping in one’s own bed. Most of us want to sleep in our own bed because that’s our safe place. When children have to share their safe place, things can blow up rather quickly.

Growing up in a family with seven children, we all shared a room with a sibling, and I remember sharing a double bed with my sister, Diane.

Five years younger than me, we fought as all sisters do, especially ones forced to share their living space. Every single night, we followed the same script.

“Here’s the line,” I’d say, taking my hand and making a dent down the middle of the mattress.

“You can’t cross that line because then you’d be on my side.”

My sister, ever the protagonist, would wait until I was almost asleep and then slip her foot over the imaginary line.

“My foot’s over the line,” she’d whisper.

To which I’d kick her foot back over the line. She’d kick back and the battle raged until one of us ended up on the floor.

If we’d had a mattress with a memory, that imaginary line could’ve opened up automatically at 10 p.m. and then ejected the sister who crossed the line. No shoving or discussion required.

Perhaps the answer to a lot of life’s frustrations and arguments can be found in getting the right mattress. Just think — those Tempur-Pedic or King Koil mattresses might help us remember where we put the car keys or our cell phones and, in the case of fighting siblings, toss both out of the bed onto the floor to cool off.

After all, if a mattress can remember the shape of our hips and thighs, then handling the pesky details in life should be a cinch.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Last week, like many folks, we packed our suitcases and headed out of town for spring break. We pointed the car west toward Fredericksburg, planning on visiting some Texas wineries, local antique shops and recommended tourist attractions.

We stopped in the visitor’s center, had a nice conversation with the friendly staff, and circled all the places we wanted to visit.

Like hundreds of other people, we walked up and down Frederickburg’s main street, dutifully picking up T-shirts and souvenirs and eating lunch in a few of the trendy restaurants.

So it came as a surprise that our favorite stop of the week was in a remote area of a state park where, besides a few birds and some craggy live oaks, we were the only ones taking advantage of one of the prettiest and refreshing places I’ve encountered in ages.

Pedernales Falls State Park is located 35 miles west of Austin, right outside Johnson City, the birthplace of the late Lyndon B. Johnson, former Texas senator and president of the United States. The sprawling park boasts a major calling card — a gorgeous waterfall.

Normally, gallons of water cascade over the mammoth rocks; but because of the severe drought in central Texas, visitors are now walking over and around the exposed and dry boulders.

At the public swimming hole, though, families were taking advantage of the shallow, cool waters. Shaded picnic areas had plenty of room where campers were barbecuing, relaxing underneath the aged oaks or taking naps.

We saw a sign for a bird viewing sanctuary and we pulled off, curious as to what we’d find. The Friends of Pedernales State Park had built two bird viewing areas, and their love for wildlife was evident everywhere.

Volunteers had constructed two wooden bird blinds with benches inside a covered area and an open area on the other. A natural wall, created by large branches, enclosed a cleared area that contained logs, bird feeders and a water fountain. Panes of glass separated the two areas, providing a perfect viewing area.

On a table inside the blind, volunteers had filled albums with photos and information about the birds that regularly visit the sanctuary. There was also an opening near the partition so photographers could snap pictures without bothering the shy songbirds and scavenging squirrels and mice.

We sat and quietly watched brightly colored birds dart in and out of the trees and settle on the cedar logs to feast on bird seed, kindly left by the volunteers.

Male cardinals lit on the logs, fighting with each other as the female cardinals quietly scooped up the bird seed scattered by the scarlet-colored males. A huge Western blue jay took a spot on the water fountain as if to proclaim himself king of the sanctuary.

The small goldfinches, wrens and mourning doves paid scant attention to that big bird, choosing instead to grab a quick snack and then dart back into the cover of the nearby trees. Birds in a rainbow of colors visited the sanctuary, and their songs echoed through the trees.

A quote by naturalist John Burroughs on the park’s Website sums up what we and thousands of other visitors realize when visiting this quiet spot — “I come here to find myself. It’s so easy to get lost in the world.”

We thought we went on vacation to visit trendy restaurants, snazzy tourist shops and Texas wineries. In reality, we discovered exactly what we needed in the quiet of a state park, far away from cash registers and over-priced knick knacks.

We found serenity.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

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.

Rosie ruffled the back of my hair, shook her head and met my eyes in the mirror.

“When are you going to do something about this gray hair,” she said. “Most people go gray in the front first, but your gray is all over the back of your head.”

“There can’t be that much gray hair back there,” I said.

“Are you kidding?” Rosie replied, handing me a mirror and turning me around in the beautician’s chair.

“Take a look.”

Luckily, I didn’t have my glasses on or I might’ve seen the back of my head that resembled the Swiss Alps in December.

But that gray hair is something I can’t see it, so, ipso facto, the problem doesn’t exist.

This tactic of denying something I can’t see has worked ever since I was a young girl. Most children think if they hide underneath the covers, the monster can’t see them, and they’ll be safe and sound.

I was no exception. But in addition to the monsters that lurked in the closet, I thought alligators lived underneath my bed.

They remained quiet and still during the day; but once my mom turned off the light, Alligator Central went into combat mode.

I truly believed if I dangled my hand or leg over the edge of the bed, those ravenous reptiles would chomp off an appendage.

It never occurred to me to actually take a look underneath the bed or open the closet door at night. I simply chose not to look and, thus, the monsters were kept at bay.

There’s a word for this type of behavior — avoidance — and I’ll admit it’s the coward’s way out.

But for a good bit of my life, pretending that’s what behind me, or what I can’t see, isn’t important, has worked.

Well, except for that afternoon I backed our Ford sedan into the house because I didn’t see how close the wall was to the back bumper.

And the night I backed into that light pole in the grocery store parking lot.

And the time I backed into that poor woman in the grocery store and practically broke her foot.

But other than those few occasions, avoidance works quite nicely for me.

For instance, gaining weight. When I look into the mirror, especially when it’s the mirror’s fogged in the morning and I’m not wearing my glasses, it doesn’t appear I’ve gained that much weight.

However, I caught a glimpse of myself in a plate glass window the other day, and my body resembled Africa, not an hourglass.

Clothes that no longer fit are in the back part of my closet where I don’t see them. Some fitness gurus would probably frown at that practice, believing I should keep those clothes front and center as a reminder to exercise and eat right.

But as long as those clothes are safely hiding in the back of the closet, behind my winter jacket and an old bridesmaid’s dress, I don’t think fret about never zipping those bell bottoms again.

The dust bunnies in my house follow my mantra. They love to hide underneath the couch, behind the TV and in the corners. And, since being out of sight and out of mind works, those bunnies enjoy a long, fruitful life in my living room.

When the bunnies in the corner and the alligators under the bed know how to keep out of the line of fire, then I’d say avoidance is a pretty good tactic.

Just don’t ever look behind you.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.