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.