A city can be characterized by bricks, buildings and roads. A community, on the other hand, is a reflection of the people who live there, those who create a sense of family.
Fort Bend County lost one of its most beloved pillars of the community with the passing of Orin Covell. Orin’s list of accomplishments are enviable — numerous booster clubs, MUD boards and civic boards.

At his wake, the line to greet Orin’s family stretched outside the funeral home and down the driveway. Many of us waited over an hour in line to hug Becky, and everyone from mayors to judges to business executives to college buddies came to pay their respects at both the wake and the funeral.

I remember Orin as the smiling guy in the starched white shirt and impeccable silver hair who’d start to tell me a story and, 30 minutes later, get to the end. But what a marvelous ride Orin took us on when he told his stories.

Mike Hafer, who knew Orin for many years, said Orin was the kind of guy people enjoyed being around. Orin was a fabulous sounding board, never in a hurry, and always had time to listen and then give an honest answer.

Mike said he overheard someone saying that Orin had to have lived two lives because no one could’ve given all that he did so well to both his professional and private life. But he did. Whenever we visited, he always talked about his family and we usually swapped grandbaby stories.

His sister, Ann, said she and Orin regularly went to lunch because family was so important to him. And that family included the community.

Orin was a second generation fireman, but he wasn’t one to ignore the phone call when it came in. For over 30 years, Orin responded to the calls to help somebody in trouble.

Many times I saw Orin out at a fire, sweating and working alongside all the fire fighters on the scene, day or night.

He wasn’t a paid firefighter — he was a volunteer, and Orin embodied the word “volunteer.” The day before he passed away, Orin spent the afternoon helping the Red Cross set up a bicycle event. And he did so with a smile and no regrets about giving of his weekend to a community cause.

At Orin’s funeral, the Rev. Howard Drabek delivered the eulogy, and he said Orin was all about foundations. He was one of the original members of the Lamar Educational Awards Foundation, an organization that helps teachers fund enrichment projects in the classroom.

Many people knew Orin as a guardian of Fort Bend County’s long and rich history, and he safeguarded that history through his work with the George Foundation and the Fort Bend County Museum Association.

Whenever I’d go out to the George Ranch as a reporter, I’d usually find Orin out and about the grounds. His office reflected his love of his family and of Texas, but it was on the open prairie where I heard the best stories about the Georges and the early days of the county.

Whether it was helping people in the insurance business or assisting teachers , students, Boy Scouts and teens inside and outside the classroom, Orin knew any successful community’s foundation always starts with the volunteer.

For those sitting on the sideline, wondering how to make a positive difference in the world, look no further than the example left by Orin Covell.

Give freely of yourself and of your time, and, in return, you will be part of that solid foundation upon which families, churches, schools, communities and futures are built.

Thank you, Orin, for making so many dreams come true for so many.

You’ll be deeply missed, good friend.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My mom is famous for her chicken and sausage gumbo. Her Cajun stew is thick and dark and filled with flavor. My gumbo is a pale imitation.

I asked my mom how she manages to turn out a huge pot of dark, scrumptious gumbo every holiday. She smiled, reached into the back of the refrigerator and took out a plain glass jar.

“This is the secret,” she said, setting the jar on the counter.

Kary’s Roux, made in Ville Platte, the heart of Cajun Country, is a dark, thick pre-made roux that removes all the sweating and stirring over a hot stove. Cooks only have to add water, onions, chicken and sausage and thick, rich gumbo is ready to eat in 30 minutes.

“You cheat,” I said to my mother. She denied the accusation.

“It’s not cheating,” she said, putting the jar in the back of the refrigerator. “It’s just a little bit of extra help.”

“What next,” I said. “Are you going to tell me your spaghetti’s not home-made?”

She put a cup of hot water in the microwave.

“Ragu,” she said, pushing the buttons on the front panel.

“And your jambalaya?” I asked.

“Oak Grove,” she said. “Comes in a package. Just $2 and you’ve got enough jambalaya to feed an army.”

My mouth fell open in surprise.

“Don’t tell me you don’t use a little bit of help in your recipes,” she said stirring coffee crystals, a packet of artificial sweetener and powdered coffee creamer into her mug. She smiled and asked me a simple question.

“Tell me how you’re going to cook your Thanksgiving meal without a little bit of help.”

I started to deny using any crutches, but then I stopped.

The cornbread dressing I stuff my turkey with comes right out of a Pepperidge Farm plastic bag. Forget baking cornbread the night before and sautéing onions and celery at 5:30 a.m. All I add to the package is water and butter.

Guess I’ll have to concede that point.

“And tell me how you make those Thanksgiving mashed potatoes,” she said, taking a sip of coffee.

Okay, I’ll admit I use instant potatoes, but that’s just because I don’t have time to peel all those potatoes, boil them, mash them and spend 20 minutes beating out all the lumps.

It’s so much easier to open a packet, add some milk and butter and, voila, I’ve got enough mashed potatoes to plaster a ceiling.

“And the vegetables,” she said nicely.

Well, I had to admit I slit open a bag of frozen green beans and cook them in the microwave. I do, however, steam fresh broccoli each and every year.

“And did you grow said broccoli in your back yard?” she said, stirring her coffee.

She had me there.

“Now let’s move on to your rolls,” she said. “Make those with yeast and flour, do you?”

I had to admit I haven’t the first clue how anyone makes fresh bread. I always buy the three-for-a-dollar packages of cheap rolls that only require me to throw them in the oven for six minutes.

“And the desserts,” she said. “Roll out those pie crusts all by yourself?”

Sighing, I had to admit — I use frozen pie crusts for the pecan pies and canned apple filling for the apple pies.

“Tell you what,” she said, patting my arm. “There’s an extra jar of that roux in the pantry. Go ahead and slip it into your purse when you’re ready to leave.”

The next time I have family over and they rave about my gumbo, I’m going to tell them my mom passed down an old family recipe.

And make sure I hide that jar of Kary’s Roux safely behind the packet of instant gravy, canned cranberry sauce and jars of diced apples.

This article originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

Check-out lines often seem like they stretch out into eternity. I read once — in a magazine while waiting in the check-out line — that marketers spend a great deal of time deciding what to put on the shelves of the check-out lanes.

Those last-minute decisions shoppers make put a lot of money in the store’s pockets, and that’s why managers are constantly researching impulse buying.

Candy’s a huge impulse-buy item because by the time we get to the checker, our blood sugar is low and we’re often frustrated. Plus a candy bar isn’t a big-ticket purchase, so marketers feel most people will give in to temptation. If they don’t, their children will and, either way, they get your money.

But knowledge is power, I told myself as I waited in a long check-out line Saturday afternoon. I’d headed into town to shop for my son’s birthday, and I’d found some casual clothes for him in a discount fashion store.

This store lined their check-out lane with shelves, and as soon as I headed into the long abyss, the first few items tried their siren song on me.

Stacks of holiday towels and wash cloths began singing. I ignored them until I remembered my daughter-in-law loves holiday decorations.

Well, the towels were only $2.99, so I tossed a set into my basket, thinking I’d tuck them into her Christmas stocking. But there was no way the rest of that junk was going to entice me, so I moved along, feeling confident.

Wait. There’s a card reader for my camera. I’d been looking for a card reader for a while, and here was one for only $7.99. It could break, I thought, so I tossed another one in the basket.

Okay, that was an unexpected purchase, but it was something I needed. But wait, here’s some headphones. The volume on my computer is often low, and using headphones seems to solve the problem. But I can’t find the set I normally use.

I threw a package in my basket, telling myself it was only $4.99 and, after all, I really could use those headphones.

Then I came to a stop in front of the discount books shelf. I began to sweat. I’m a sucker for books, especially children’s books. I spied Shel Silverstein’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” and knew I had to have that book for my granddaughter.

And the holiday cookbook for my sister.

And the book of jokes for my son.

And the poetry book for my mom.

Then it was my turn to check out. I placed my items on the counter, thinking I might put some of those impulse purchases back.

But just then, the little voice inside my head whispered one more time — look at those holiday socks right next to the cash register.

Sure enough, there were some darling holiday socks my granddaughter would just love. I had to stop the cashier from totaling up my bill so she could add three more impulse-buy items to the ticket.

Some days the shopper wins, and some days the marketers win. This is one of those days where I lost the battle.

But, as I loaded six bags of clothes and other impulse purchases into the trunk of my car, there’s always tomorrow at the grocery store.

Let’s just hope I can make it past the Snickers and Twinkies with more success than I did the pumpkin towels and Frosty the Snowman socks.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I was walking down the grocery store aisle, looking for something quick for dinner, when I spotted the sign for frozen pizza.
Having something hot for dinner sounded pretty good, especially if I didn’t have to go to any more trouble than ripping open a cardboard box and sliding a pizza pan into the oven for 18 minutes.

As easy as that sounded, I found myself wishing I was as resourceful as my grandmother. She always made pizza from scratch, including the dough. She’d let me open the Fleischmann’s yellow yeast packet and pour the warm water over it.

She’d add flour and work those ingredients together, gradually sprinkling more flour over the ball to keep the dough from sticking to her fingers.

We’d sit and talk while she kneaded the dough, and it was amazing to watch that ball of gooey dough turn into a beautiful golden globe.

When the dough was smooth, she’d sprinkle flour on a wooden cutting board and, using an old wooden rolling pin, roll out the dough and then use an upside-down small bowl to cut out small circles.

She’d ladle tomato sauce on top of each circle, sprinkle fresh cheese on top and then pop the pies into her gas oven. Our mouths would water as the smell of freshly baking bread and cheese filled the kitchen.

Times change, though, and we went from those home-made pizzas to a brand that became synonymous with my childhood — Chef Boy Ardee. Whenever we saw my mom pull out that tall red box, we knew fresh pizza was on the way.

We had some old Appian Way pizza pans that, over the years, became slightly warped from spending so much time in the oven. That didn’t matter because we loved making our own pizzas.

With a Chef Boy Ardee pizza mix, we could all have what we wanted on a pizza, from pepperoni to extra cheese to hamburger meat to sausage. Many a night we spent watching “Dark Shadows” or “The Smothers Brothers” while waiting for those pizzas to finish baking.

When we were young 20 somethings, price and time mattered, and we discovered Winn Dixie’s frozen dinner aisle, specifically the section with the Totino’s pizzas.

They were cheap, filling and easy. No one cared about trans fats back then. At 10 for a buck, Totino’s fit the bill.

Then marriage and children came along, and it was back to the Chef. My sons loved kneading the dough and then spreading the crust to the edges of the pan. And then smearing the flour on their shirts, their hair and the wall.

Those were great until we discovered people would actually bring pizzas to our front door if we picked up the phone, placed an order and then gave them money when the doorbell rang. When Domino’s came along, our long association with Chef Boy Ardee came to a sad end.

Now that my boys are on their own, I often find myself strolling the frozen food aisle, looking for something quick for dinner. We’ve come a long way from those cardboard Totino’s days. Modern pizzas offer a variety of toppings from artichokes to roasted garlic to Kalamata olives.

Weight Watchers and Lean Cuisine offer low-fat, nutritious pizza choices. There’s also gluten-free and vegetarian pizzas.

Some taste wonderful and others are like eating cardboard. And while it’s a lot easier to pop a frozen pizza in the microwave, nothing beats the smell and taste of a pizza made with fresh bread dough, home-made tomato sauce and freshly grated cheese.

That’s what I call a pizza pie.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I saw my daughter-in-law’s vehicle pull into the parking lot as the high school choir began singing the National Anthem. Due to heavy traffic, they were running a bit late for the concert.
Luckily, the concert was a casual and family-friendly affair because the playlist featured songs from classic Disney movies. When I saw my 3-year-old granddaughter come around the corner of the car, a smile broke out on my face.

She was dressed in a classic Disney Snow White costume with a bright red ribbon in her hair and black tap shoes on her feet. The blue sequins on her dress sparkled as mother and daughter dashed into the auditorium, and we hurried to our seats on the front row.

As soon as the choir started with their next song, my granddaughter began rocking in her seat in rhythm to the music, a smile illuminating her face. When the song ended, she was clapping louder than anyone else in the auditorium.

The next song was a lively number, and Kylie was soon on her feet, her arms out by her side, swaying to the music. We tried to get her to sit down, but she didn’t want to sit — she wanted to dance.

She twirled in time to the music, loving the way her yellow skirt billowed out around her. When the choir sang the toe-tapping “Hakuna Matata” from “The Lion King,” the teens were moving with the music.

And down front, my granddaughter was dancing and clapping right along with them.

Kylie danced the entire performance, skipping and swaying in tune with the piano and those beautiful young voices. She was uninhibited and spellbound in the magic of the music.

The ability to lose one’s self in the moment is sometimes forgotten by adults. We’re concerned with following the rules, coloring inside the lines so to speak, so we keep our emotions in check. We don’t want others to think we’ve lost our senses.

But sometimes throwing caution to an arbitrary, strong wind is just what we need. How often have we sat in traffic with a great song on the radio and only hummed instead of belting that song out like Aretha Franklin or Elvis Presley?

Perhaps we believe we’re not as talented as other or we don’t want to look like we’ve lost our marbles, so we deny ourselves the opportunity to cut loose and lose ourselves in the joy of the moment.

The singers on stage, however, hadn’t forgotten what it was like to belt out a tune and love every minute of the experience. One of the choir members, Ernestine, is in a wheelchair, and I know choir is her favorite class of the day.

Her radiant smile reflected the joy in her heart, just as my granddaughter’s dancing reflected the happiness in her soul.

These two were not afraid for others to know they’d embraced the joy of the moment and were not going to let anything — not social mores, an audience or the thought of being judged by others — stop them from immersing themselves in feeling fabulous.

Toward the end of the show, my granddaughter began trying to sing with the choir. She didn’t know any of the words, but that didn’t stop her.

When I asked her keep her voice down a bit and let the choir sing, she gave me a questioning look.

“But I need to sing,” she said. “I just need to.”

And with that, I sat back, smiled and told her to go ahead and sing.

And dance.

And let the joy in her heart blossom.

Oh how I envy her.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Last Sunday, my family came over for dinner and to visit. After we’d eaten, I realized the dishwasher was already filled so we’d have to wash the dishes by hand.
As the sink filled with soap suds, I remembered the days when everybody washed the dishes by hand. When I was a young girl, my mom’s family gathered every Sunday after church for dinner at my grandparents’ house, and everyone chipped in for clean-up duties.

My relatives had the assembly line down pat, and I’m not sure if today’s young people  — reared on paper plates, take-out Styrofoam boxes and cheap plastic cups — know there’s a system for efficiently washing dishes by hand.

When heated debates about politics and football ended, everyone chipped in for kitchen duty. Some cousins were charged with scraping the food into an old milk carton so it could be added to the compost pile, and the uncles put the leftovers in smaller bowls and then in the refrigerator.

My grandfather was always at the head of the line to wash the dishes. He taught me to fill the sink with hot, soapy water and put a tablespoon of household bleach in the water to serve as a disinfectant.

Wash the glasses first, he said, because they needed the cleanest and hottest water possible to stay sparkling clean.

He showed me how to wash the inside of the glass, being careful to swab the bottom of the milk glasses. Next he said to wash the rim and then rinse the glass in clear, running water.

After all the glasses were clean, my grandfather said to refill the sink with hot soapy water, add a bit of bleach again, and then wash the utensils.

“Think about it,” he told me, holding a fork up to the window. “People put this in their mouths. Make sure they’re really clean.”

As the glasses, utensils and plates moved on to the dish drainer, aunts, who talked nonstop, took turns drying them and putting them away in the cabinets.

Last but not least were the pots and pans. Before the invention of rice cookers and microwaves, there was always a stack of heavy-duty cleaning on the drain board.

Washing pots and pans was usually unpleasant if we’d forgotten to fill the pans with water so they could soak. It took a lot of elbow grease and the trusty Chore Girl scrub pad to loosen baked-on rice in the bottom of a pot or on the side of my grandmother’s blue enamel roaster.

As the assembly line moved efficiently in the kitchen, someone made sure the leaf came out of the dining room table and my grandmother’s bowl of plastic fruit was back in the center of the table.

When the last pot was dried and the drainer was empty, my uncles retired to the living room to watch football and my aunts sat around the kitchen table, sharing hot coffee, pie and more talk.

They’d reminisce about the old days, give each other advice about life and relax now that the work was finished. Those days are some of my favorites from my childhood, and I’m glad I was part of a large, extended family that laughed, argued and cried together.

As I washed the dishes and my daughter-in-law dried them, our sons, granddaughter and my husband cleared the table and took care of the chores that accompany a family dinner. All the while, we laughed and talked.

There’s a rhythm in a kitchen, the give and take of seemingly mundane talk of family and friends that accompanies worthwhile tasks and puts a finishing touch on a slow Sunday afternoon.

This article originally appeared in the Fort Bend Herald.

As usual, I was running late on a Sunday morning and found myself too far away from town to attend church services at my home parish. Luckily, I was crossing Wallis’ city limits and pulled into the parking lot at Guardian Angel Catholic Church two minutes before Mass started.

A few years ago, Fort Bend Herald Photographer Russell Autrey and I collaborated on a story about the historic church, and that outing was one of our favorites. Russell captured the majesty of the church in his photographs as well as the intricate workmanship evident in the interior’s every arch and graceful curve.

Founded in 1892, the church is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and, according to the city’s Website, the chapel was one of the last painted churches built in Texas.

The current building is the third one erected on the site — a tornado destroyed the first one and the congregation outgrew the second. Construction started on the current church building in 1913 and was completed in 1915.

Seventy-five families contributed toward the wooden building, and the Gothic style church was mostly built by volunteers. The generous townspeople who gave of their time also donated incredible talents, as the church is gorgeous from ceiling to floor.

First and foremost is the altar. Catholic churches built before the 1960’s often contain elaborate back altars, and Guardian Angel’s is no exception. The altar resembles a cathedral with scaled-down yet delicate arches and spires. Statues of humble angels adorn the altar, and painstaking workmanship is evident in their expressions, hands and robes.

The leaded, stained glass windows were created in Italy, and each window contains the names of parishioners, written in Czech, as well as emblems that reflect a Catholic belief. These gorgeous windows allow the sun to illuminate the church in a soft, amber glow, and electric lights are almost unnecessary.

In newer construction, ceilings are acoustically sound, but they’re often a boring, institutional white. Not at Guardian Angel.

The tall, domed ceiling is decorated with intricately painted medallions featuring saints. For this mostly farming community, the saints are those farmers hold dear, and the names are written in Czech and English.

Although the parish has a long history, the service was filled with young families, grandparents, young adults and teens, and it seemed everyone knew everyone.

After the Mass was finished, I spoke with people who were life-long parishioners. They said they treasure the church building, even though they sometimes take for granted the beauty of the interior.

The current pastor, the Rev. Twee Nguyen asked if I knew about the hidden statue of Christ inside a side altar, and I remembered that little known fact from my last visit. The statue is only revealed on Good Friday, and it’s a replica of Michelangelo’s “Pieta” sculpture.

So many other details hide themselves from those visiting the church on a quick visit. But in the quiet of the church, after the congregation had gone home, there was a definite feeling of warmth and home inside those old, wooden walls.

For once, I was glad I was running late for it gave me a chance to catch my breath and refresh my soul. From the worn spots on the wooden pews, I figure I’m not the first wandering soul to seek refuge from the storms of life.

I unexpectedly found that serenity at a quaint, wooden church in a small, country town.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. Note that Guardian Angel Catholic Church is open daily for tours. Call 979-478-6532.

The laughter coming from our table was almost embarrassing. Four of us were having dinner at a local restaurant, and we were reminiscing as only friends who’ve grown older together can do.

We’ve known Mike and Carolyn for over 20 years. Our boys were in Boy Scouts together, and the guys spent many weekends camping or canoeing.

We chuckled remembering how our boys survived their summer Scout camp in Texas and the times we’d sat down together at pot-luck dinners and evening campfires.

After our children were grown, though, we gradually grew apart, keeping up through Christmas cards or chance encounters in the grocery store.

Three years ago, Carolyn called me when she heard our son was getting married. She extended a gracious offer — she volunteered to help at the rehearsal dinner at our house.

For hours, Carolyn refilled glasses, threw away paper goods, kept the food hot and handled all the hostess jobs, freeing me to visit with my family.

That night, I realized how fortunate I was to have someone like Carolyn in my life. But I’m not the only one who’s benefitted from Carolyn’s generosity. A family in need will always find Carolyn there with groceries, home repair supplies or clothes in hand.

Mike is just as gracious, and if we ever needed someone to help us with a tough chore, Mike was there, his dry wit and hearty laugh accompanying every adventure.

Recently, we were drawn together under sad circumstances, and I realized once again the strength of Mike and Carolyn’s commitment to friendship.

Friends from the Boy Scout troop lost their son unexpectedly, and we were all devastated. Just as she did for my son’s rehearsal dinner, Carolyn worked behind the scenes, coordinating the food for the wake and quietly overseeing details, from packing up food boxes for out-of-town visitors to gathering the information for the funeral program, typesetting it and then making copies for everyone.

When we saw Mike and Carolyn at the funeral home, we spent time catching up with each other — where our children were living and the unexpected joys of being grandparents. But that short conversation left us wanting more, so we met up later at a local restaurant.

We reminisced about the old times and added more stories to our collective memories. We laughed loud and we laughed often.

Maybe it was with relief from the stress we’d all been under at the funeral. Perhaps we’d been reminded that life spins on a dime, and we’d better reach out and embrace happiness when it comes our way.

As we drove away from the restaurant, my face sore from laughing so much, I thought about all the people I’ve let drift away over the years, whether it’s because we’ve moved, our children grew apart or we just got too busy.

I realized how much I missed having long-time friends in my life for they are irreplaceable. They remember our true hair color and the cars we drove when we were toting around lawn chairs and baseball bats.

When they come to visit, they never say a word about the dog hair on the couch, the pile of backpacks and wet tennis shoes by the back door or the big dent in the fender, courtesy of a teen-age driver.

If we’re lucky and we live long enough, we have old friends in our lives. Because of them, we realize the world’s not coming to an end of we linger a bit over a plate of beef stew, laugh until our sides hurt and remember bygone days.

And remember to give thanks for having long-time friends of the heart.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The old wives’ tale is that bad things happen in threes, and such is the case in my life recently. Two out of the three had happy endings. One is a “to be continued.”

A few weeks ago, I purchased a four-gig flash drive to easily transport cumbersome documents. What I love about this flash drive is it fits easily in my wallet or pocket. What I dislike is the same thing — it’s so small, I forget where I put it most of the time.

The last time I used the flash drive, I was in a hurry. I slipped the device in my pocket and forgot it was there. Days went by, and I kept wondering where I’d left it.

The mystery was solved when I threw a load of clothes in the washer and found that brand new flash drive in the bottom of my washing machine.

After the washer had finished its extra-rinse power cycle.

No way that flash drive was going to work, I thought, but I put it underneath a fan, crossed my fingers and let it sit there for a few hours.

I wasn’t hopeful because I’d tried the same thing when I found my iPod in the bottom of the washing machine after the rinse cycle. I put the iPod underneath a fan overnight, tried drying it with my hair dryer and even waved my granddaughter’s magic wand over it, but the device refused to return to life.

A friend suggested I put the iPod in a bowl of dry rice. Apparently the rice will magically suck the water out of a device.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, so that iPod’s currently buried under three inches of Uncle Ben’s rice, and I’ve got my fingers crossed.

When it comes to technology, luck plays a huge part in my success because I have to see how things fit together to understand how they work.

I understand a needle and thread. After vacuuming up a sock, I understand how dust and dirt will accumulate inside a hose behind an obstruction, thus create a huge mess when the hose is disconnected from the vacuum cleaner.

But the Internet? That’s an magical universe of atoms that can infect a computer without ever sneezing on it.

On the Internet, I can instantly see the beach conditions in Gulf Shores, Ala. With two clicks of the mouse, I can talk to my son in Taiwan for free — that’s just amazing.

So when my computer refused to log onto the Internet last night, I was stumped. I hadn’t washed it like my iPod or flash drive, and everything looked in place from the outside.

I ended up dragging the tower into the computer store, waiting in line and then listening to the pleasant technician tell me it was the connection at home, not my computer.

As I pushed the heavy cart back to my car, I gave that tower a stern warning.

“Listen here, buddy, you’re too heavy for me to carry in and out of the repair shop, so I suggest you find some kind of way to get along with what’s coming out of the wall.”

Apparently, that mom talk did some good as I reconnected everything when I got home, tightened up the wires and I could connect to the Internet.

I have no idea why my computer now works.

I have no idea what I did differently than what I did yesterday to make it work.

All I know is my computer is working. My flash drive works. My iPod’s drying out in a bowl of Uncle Ben’s rice. And I’m reconnected to the world.

Two out of three ain’t bad.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

(My brother, Jeff, is a wonderful cook who’s not afraid to try new dishes. Thanks, younger brother, for the culinary tip!)

On a recent visit to my brother’s house, he whipped up a fabulous dinner of chicken simmered in raspberry chipotle sauce. I’m not exactly sure what a chipotle is, exactly, but it’s delicious.
So now I’m on a new kick — if it can be grilled, fried or sautéed, I’m smothering it in chipotle sauce.

In a few weeks, my husband will mutiny, and I’ll have to find some new cooking binge.

That’s the way it goes in my kitchen, and it all started with ketchup.

My dad loved ketchup with everything — scrambled eggs, fish, potatoes — almost everything was covered in Heinz 57.

As a result, I’m a ketchup fan. I don’t have fries and a burger — I have ketchup with a few fries thrown in and two layers of ketchup with a hamburger patty in the middle.

I also love ketchup and mustard on a hot dog, which brings to mind my love affair with mustard. We grew up on plain, yellow mustard. In my 30’s, I discovered two words that would change the way I looked at a bottle of mustard — Grey Poupon.

Once hooked, I branched out and discovered honey mustard. For years, I was on a honey mustard kick, ordering a bit of lettuce with four containers of honey mustard dressing.

Then I read the calorie count.

No wonder that dressing tasted so good.

Then I discovered lemon pepper. I first tasted lemon pepper on broiled catfish. Growing up in Louisiana, we had catfish fried, baked and in gumbo.

But eating that lowly fish with lemon pepper took the dish to a new level. I was hooked and bought a huge bottle of lemon pepper seasoning from one of the wholesale clubs.

I proceeded to put lemon pepper on everything — chicken, steak, hamburgers, roasts — everything off the stove and from the oven was a shade of black and yellow.

After a while, my family hid the bottle, but I’d already moved on to Old Bay Seasoning. Created from 12 herbs and spices, Old Bay actually pushed the hallowed, giant bottle of Tony Chachere’s seasoning out of the forefront of my cabinet for a while.

Old Bay was my new passion. I’d seen that rectangular can in the store for years, but I thought it was for chowder, not southern cooking. I was wrong.

Everything that came out of the oven was covered with Old Bay. Someone hid the can after an extra heavy dosing on a chicken one night. So I resurrected Tony from the back of the cabinet, and proceeded to fall in love with that Cajun staple once again.

Then I read the sodium content on the side of the bottle.

Hello Mrs. Dash. After one use, it was Goodbye, Mrs. Dash.

I’ve only skimmed the surface when it comes to sauces and seasonings. There’s the whole world of allemande and Bechamel sauces and habanero and white pepper spices.

There’s even an chipotle chile seasoning. I could probably prepare a chicken with the chipotle chile seasoning and then cover it in chipotle raspberry sauce. My mouth’s already watering.

As with all culinary crazes, this one will run its course, sooner rather than later, because while I was shopping this evening, I wandered down the spice aisle and saw an intriguing bottle, “Chinese Five Spice.”

Something tells me a new adventure awaits my family.

Pass the Alka-Seltzer.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.