Our son was coming over after work, and I caught up with him on his cell while he was driving over.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“Steak,” I replied, happy I’d splurged and picked up some sirloins on sale. There was silence on the other end.

“How are you going to cook that steak?” he asked. I told him either pan fried or on the griddle.

“Got anything else?” he replied.

I was quite indignant. After all, steak is no bargain these days, and I thought he’d be impressed I was putting on the Ritz for him.

“No offense, Mom, but the way you cook steak is awful, and I mean awful with a capital A,” he said.

Ouch. I knew I wasn’t an outstanding cook, but awful. That one cut to the core, but I had to agree.

My descent down the culinary path to mediocrity began with a mysterious barbecue pit and a cowardly dog…

A few years ago, I noticed our pet dog, Sparky, sitting in front of the gas grill on our patio. Not known for his patience, Sparky was quietly looking up at the barbecue grill.

“What’s going on, boy?” I said, glancing at the pit. I didn’t see anything, so I thought I’d open the lid and look inside.

My son roars with laughter at this point, saying I was like one of those actors in a “B” horror movie and the audience is screaming “Don’t open that door! Don’t open that door!”

I opened the door. Only in my case, it was the lid to the pit.

And what a surprise I got. Not some lunatic with a knife. Nope. I came face to whiskers with a rat.

I slammed the lid shut, jumped back 10 feet and then screamed like my hair was on fire. The dog started barking and, at that exact moment, my cell phone rang. It was my husband.

“What’s all that screaming and barking?” he said. I told him what happened, and he said he was on his way home. He asked if there was anything I needed.

“A gun and a heavy-duty garbage bag,” I screamed between gulps of air.

Every time I tell the story, the rat gets bigger, it goes from cowering to snarling and poison is dripping from its ferocious fangs.

By the time my husband got home, the rat had escaped — probably as terrified as we were — and the pit was disposed of the next morning. Ever since then, I’ve refused to have an outdoor barbecue pit.

Every once in a while, though, I stroll through the aisles at the big box stores and invariably find myself in the barbecue pit areas. Instead of looking at knobs and opening lids, I bend down and look underneath the cooking area.

I’m checking the size of the hole to see if anything with whiskers can crawl or squeeze through it. Most of the sales people think I’m a bit kooky until I tell my story. Then they shudder and point me to the indoor gas stove department.

I do miss the flavor of dinner straight off the pit and the convenience of throwing chicken on the grill while puttering in the garden or enjoying the evening breeze.

So it appears I’ll be searching for a barbecue pit with a thick mesh wire firmly welded over the hole and, in addition to pot holders and barbecue tools, arm myself with a shield, whip and pistol to hold every time I open the grill.

And maybe I can go from a cooking grade of “A” for awful to “A” for awesome.

Originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

After days of torrential rains, the skies finally cleared up and blue skies were peeking through the gray clouds. I decided to lace up my sneakers, crank up the iPod and take a walk around our new neighborhood.

As I turned the first corner, I took a deep breath and immediately started sneezing. One thing the rains brought was a great deal of moisture which meant the ragweed was blooming.

Still, despite the sniffles, the warm air felt good against my cheeks, and I wasn’t the only one enjoying the day. Dozens of people were in their yards, planting flowers and pulling out all the dead plants from the winter.

Seeing all that activity reminded me that our new front yard resembled a graveyard for terminal boxwoods, and I made a mental note to start watching for shrub sales at the local nurseries.

I also noticed people were washing their vehicles, and my responsible voice said it was time to put some suds on my car. I can’t remember the last time I washed my trusty Altima, and the car’s true color is but a faint memory, hidden underneath a fine layer of dust, dirt and grime.

Still, the day was turning into a gorgeous one, and I refused to let the chore list dominate my thoughts.

Coming around the homestretch, I noticed a puddle of water on the sidewalk ahead of me. I smiled, remembering a scene one rainy afternoon many years ago. The boys and I were on our way back from their elementary school when we saw two youngsters walking home.

The taller child was a girl in my son’s class, and her younger brother was walking alongside her. Like a dutiful older sister, Ashley was holding Christopher’s hand, the two trudging down the sidewalk, their heads bowed as the rain gently fell.

As they approached a puddle, Ashley stepped to the side, tip-toeing carefully through the damp grass. Her brother, on the other hand, jumped up and down through that puddle with total abandonment.

The huge smile on Christopher’s face was clearly visible to all of us, and we chuckled about him all the way home. Most people would’ve sensibly gone around that puddle, but watching Christopher splash and smile his way through the puddle was reminder that sometimes, it’s good to let loose and have some fun.

As I approached a water puddle on the sidewalk, I thought about Christopher, so I stepped into the puddle, making up my mind to get a high splash with that first step.

Instead of splish splashing, however, my foot slipped on the hidden muck on the bottom, and I landed right on my behind, smack in the middle of the water puddle.

As I sat there, the back of my shirt covered with splattered mud and my entire rump sopping wet, I thought about Christopher.

I could either get angry or accept that if I’m going to go straight through life’s puddles, sometimes I’m going to get wet. Sometimes I’ll step through them with no problem, but all choices have consequences.

But if I can have a little hop, skip and a dance while maneuvering through life, and risk getting soaked, then it’s worth taking a chance. Whatever the outcome, it’s up to me how I react once I take that first step.

Walking home, my back covered with mud and water, I thought if anyone asked what happened, I’d simply say I decided to make a splash in life instead of taking the safe route.

Christopher would be proud.

Originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the first things I do in the morning is stumble into the kitchen and turn on the coffee maker. Soon the aroma of freshly brewing coffee fills the air, and my brain starts to wake up.

Nothing’s better than that first sip of coffee, so hot it practically burns the tongue, filled with the robust flavor only dark-roasted coffee can deliver. I’ve tried starting the day with hot tea or a cold cola, but a hot cup of coffee wins hands down.

My grandmother used to make coffee with a stove-top percolator. Modern automatic coffee makers can brew an entire pot in under five minutes, but using an old-fashioned percolator requires time and patience.

Her battered, white porcelain coffee pot stayed on top of the stove for years. First, she’d fill the pot with water, spoon dark brown grounds into a metal basket inside the pot and then turn the gas burner on high. Once the water began to boil, she’d lower the heat and wait.

I loved pulling a chair up to the stove and watching the water squirt up through the glass top, gradually turning darker brown as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air.

The coffee was finished when the water had turned a dark brown, and that deep, rich color is best acquired by using the brand by which all southern coffees are judged — Community.

Community Coffee has a long history in Louisiana. According to their Website, the company is the largest family-owned retail coffee brand in the United States and goes back 80 years. I don’t know a coffee lover in Louisiana who doesn’t keep a hefty supply of dark-roast Community Coffee in an air-tight canister in their pantry.

Sure there are other Southern brands — Luzianne Coffee in the yellow bag and the rich chicory-laced coffees from Cafe Du Monde in New Orleans — but Community Coffee is the king.

Over the years, others have tried to assert they offer the best coffee. I remember commercials featuring Juan Valdez and his donkey up in the “mountains of Columbia,” bringing the best coffee beans down from exotic coffee fields.

Then Seattle jumped into the act. Washington-based companies like Starbucks actively market to caffeine-addicts all over the world, claiming they have the best coffees.

Websites promise to ship the best coffees from Bali, Brazil and Ethiopia straight to your door. The plain, simple coffee bean has gone from the 50-cent-a-cup working man’s drink to a $3.99 cup served in fancy carafes. That once plain cup of Joe is now enhanced with almonds, hazelnuts, liquors and creamers.

The old corner coffee shops with faded Formica counter tops, doughnuts under a glass dome and bar stools with well-worn plastic seats have been replaced with sofa-filled coffee shops offering free Internet access and over-priced pastries and omelets.

In case coffee lovers can’t get to a fancy coffee house, the Internet offers hundreds of articles on how to make the perfect cup of coffee. Only use ice-cold water and grind your own beans in an expensive grinder.

Forget that battered percolator. Top-of-the-line, fancy coffee makers must be used to brew the best cup around. And no more of that plain Half-and-Half creamer. Now fancy lactose-free International creamers fill the dairy case.

While a fancy cup of coffee might seem appealing from time to time, nothing beats a simple cup of rich Community Coffee. Throw in a sunrise and the quiet of the morning, and, as we Cajuns like to say, cherie, that’s some livin.’

My goddaughter graduated from high school this month. I wrote her a letter in my weekly column, published by The Fort Bend Herald. Here it is:

The big day has finally arrived, your graduation from high school. As the adults in your life arrive at the ceremony, they’ll look at you, pinch your cheek and say “Where did the time go?”

The time went into making you what you are today, my dear niece — a bright, intelligent young woman with a compassionate heart and a beautiful soul.

As you celebrate this milestone, you’ll be receiving lots of advice.

And you’ll probably shrug off that advice, just as we all did at your age. We all believed we knew everything at the age of 18, but as your godmother, here’s a few morsels of advice that might come in handy.

First, stop and give thanks every day. There will be times when you’ll feel nothing is going your way. But always look for the silver linings in those gray clouds.

Throw a load of clothes in the washer and dryer every other day. Tossing them in a pile in the corner seems easy, but when you’re lugging dirty clothes to the washateria, you’ll be happy if you wash molehills instead of mountains.

Make a new friend every week. While the friends you know now are treasures, life is filled with interesting people who’ll give you a glimpse into worlds unknown. Remember, though, to carefully choose which friends to keep and which acquaintances to avoid.

Keep your word. Whether it’s doing your fair share in a study group or paying back the dollar you borrowed from your roommate, you’ll be judged by your willingness to honor your commitments.

Be thrifty. Granted, as a young adult in this world, you’re forced to count your pennies, but make it a life-long habit to watch your money and spend it wisely. Unless, of course, you’re at the local ice cream shop. Then go for the banana split. Life, as they say, is short.

Watch children play. Children on a playground remind us to take turns, hang upside down and, when you’re on the swings, to reach for the sky.

Work hard. Yes, that’s a trite saying from the adults in your life, but it’s true. On the flip side, when your work is finished, find a way to relax and have fun. You’ll need to recharge your batteries and you can’t do that if your nose is always buried in a textbook.

Laugh out loud at least twice a day. If you look for the humor in life, you’ll find those chuckles.

Show up. Whether it’s attending class, going to work or hanging out with friends, if you say you’ll be some place, be there, especially when you don’t feel like it. The old saying that showing up is half the battle is true.

Travel. See this fabulously huge world, my dear niece. Cross the horizon from time to time and see how others live, work, laugh and eat.

Make memories. Whether it’s spending quiet time with friends or walking the unfamiliar streets of a big city, experience enough of life so that in the barren moments, you can close your eyes and remember the beauty you discovered because you were an active participant in life, not a nonchalant passenger.

Forgive, both the people in your life and yourself. You’re going to make mistakes, but use those blunders as learning experiences. People will let you down from time to time. Forgive them and don’t let anger run your life.

Life is a splendid ride.

Enjoy every minute.

It’s been two years since I’ve posted anything on this blog. I had to blow the virtual dust off the site and wonder about all the changes that have happened over the past two years. I did visit Taiwan, and it was beautiful. I finished my third year as a teacher, and it was a great year with great students. We have a beautiful granddaughter and we’ve moved to a new, smaller house. I’m very, very blessed.

I just created a blog, believe it or not. I’m a 50-something year old writer from Texas who’s embarked on a second (or probably fourth or fifth) career as a high school journalism teacher. I’m not quite sure what I’d post here, but it’s nice to have somewhere to post thoughts, musings and questions abut the world.