One of the perks of living in a southern state is the pride people take in their food. I grew up in the North where the food was secondary to the pomp and ceremony.

Here in the South, what’s on the plate is the star of the show, and it seems people south of the Mason-Dixon line have their own feelings about how to prepare the best Southern meal.

Growing up in Louisiana, knowing the proper way to cook Cajun food was much more important than knowing how to drive. It’s probably a requirement for anyone living in Louisiana to own a cast-iron pot as it’s the only cookware capable of turning out an acceptable roux, the backbone of almost every Cajun dish.

For those new to Southern cuisine, a roux is a mixture of flour and oil, cooked over a medium heat until it turns a caramel color. Ask any Cajun cook how to make something, and the first thing he or she will say is “make a roux.”

Right up there with mastering the art of making a roux is learning how to cook crawfish. In Yankee cooking magazines, they refer to these scrumptious crustaceans as “crayfish.” Use that word down South, and you’ll be tossed out along with your Schlitz beer.

Every Cajun cook worth his or her Tony Chachere’s has a secret recipe for cooking crawfish to perfection and all claim their way is the best way.

Some cooks cover the live crawfish with salt to purge them while others skip that step. Some add extra salt and red pepper to the crawfish seasoning packets right when the water starts to boil while others dump the seasonings in at the end.

There’s the debated method of throwing ice water on the crawfish when they’re finished boiling or just letting them steep in the seasoned water until they’re tender and juicy. Some cooks throw red potatoes and corn on the cob in with the crawfish, and there’s always heated arguments about the exact right time to add those ingredients.

But Louisiana doesn’t have the market cornered when it comes to heated debates around the pot. When we moved to Texas, we found Southern pride in preparing a barbecue dinner. All Texas chefs worth their own cooking rig guard the secret to their sauce more vigorously than guarding the secret to Coca Cola.

Some Texas chefs cook their brisket all night long while others use pecan wood or beer in the smoker to give the meat a sweet, moist taste.

Some add the barbecue sauce while the meat’s cooking while others wait until the last few minutes to completely smother the ribs and chicken while they’re on the pit. I’ve had barbecue cooked every kind of way, and it’s all fabulous.

The best part of any Southern meal – no matter if it’s cooked in Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi or Arkansas – is sitting down with friends and kinfolk to enjoy the fruits of one’s labor. Once the iced tea glasses are filled, many families bow their heads and say a blessing for the bounty on the table.

And right up there with enjoying the food is enjoying the conversation as Southerners love to argue politics, grumble about the high price of college football tickets and then go back for seconds.

Especially if seconds include another platter of barbecue ribs, a fresh mound of hot, spicy crawfish or that last sliver of pecan pie topped off with some homemade whipped cream.

Sweetie, when you’re lucky enough to be a Southerner, life doesn’t get much better.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

With windshield wipers waging a losing battle against the driving rain, I kept wondering why I hadn’t left for Louisiana the night before.

My theory was it would be easier to navigate across Houston traffic on a calm Saturday morning instead of a frantic Friday afternoon, but I hadn’t counted on a powerful rain system to come roaring along Interstate 10.

Still, I didn’t begrudge the trip as I was going to spend Mother’s Day with my mom in Baton Rouge. Driving across Houston, I found myself marveling at the city’s downtown skyscrapers, so majestic against that gray sky.

Once I left the crowded freeways, the fields between Houston and the state line were calming in spite of the miserable weather. The open rice fields along the interstate were filled with water, and hundreds of birds were swooping and diving, hoping to find breakfast.

Driving over the Atchafalaya Basin is one of my favorite parts of a trip to Baton Rouge because the area is truly unique.

The Basin is home to thousands of varieties of wildlife, from graceful herons to stealthy alligators. I saw dozens of boats out on the waters, and I thought about my dad and uncles and all the afternoons they spent in the Basin.

Those memories kept me company until I arrived at my mom’s, happy to be out of the rain. While in Baton Rouge, I was lucky to attend my great nephew’s graduation party, and familiar faces and people I’d never met before quickly blended together.

As an added bonus, Brennan’s family served up hot crawfish all afternoon. I can’t remember the last time I had fresh, boiled crawfish, and those little mudbugs were even more delicious than I’d remembered.

It wasn’t long before I had a nice mountain of empty crawfish shells in front of me, and I diligently worked to dig out the tender white meat from the claws.

Everybody has their own method for extracting crawfish meat from the shell, and I relied on my Cajun uncles’ brilliant suggestion to crack the shell and then use the sharp end of the claw to dig the meat out.

On the way back to Texas, I stopped at Pat’s in Henderson for some fried alligator for my daughter-in-law. Driving down the bayou road to Pat’s is a true slice of Louisiana as one passes quaint houses, people riding horses along the levee and boats and trailers in front yards.

Because it was Mother’s Day, the front hostess told me I couldn’t get a dinner to go, but the reservations clerk leaned over and told me to check in the bar. I went in and explained the order was for my daughter in law who’s expecting this winter, and the waitress looked at me for a long minute.

“Cher, don’t you worry. I’ll fix her right up,” she said. Ten minutes later, she returned with a heaping helping of fried alligator bits and wished me a safe trip.

When I stopped at Novrazsky’s in Orange, Texas for a late lunch, the server threw in a free drink, wishing me a happy Mother’s Day. The sandwich was stuffed with fresh meats and vegetables and I silently thanked the staff for going the extra mile for me.

No matter what state one lives in, there are beautiful sights to see – the majestic mountains in Colorado, the mysterious swamps of Louisiana, the wide open spaces of Texas.

While those are memorable, the people one meets while there and along the way are what makes a state unforgettable. I encountered wonderfully kind people on my journey, and for that, this was a Mother’s Day I’ll long remember.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I settled down in my seat on the front row, waiting for the high school choir’s spring concert to begin. One of the perks of being the designated photographer for events is getting to sit up front and often tip-toeing around behind the scenes.

From that vantage point, one sees the preparation, nervousness and frantic activity that goes on before the curtain goes up, and it’s always amazing how poised young people appear when they’re on the stage performing.

As a parent in the audience, I think I was probably more nervous than my boys before a performance, starting with pre-school.

Over 20 years ago, I remember sitting in the audience at St. John’s School for Little Children, nervously waiting for a pre-school performance where our youngest boy was a ferocious, yet cuddly, lion.

All the parents were snapping away with their cameras as our boys and girls sang – a little off key – and growled and roared as jungle animals for their end-of-the-year performance. It wasn’t Shakespeare, but we thought they were absolutely wonderful.

Then we moved on to elementary school, and I’m still in awe of teachers who can take 25 first graders, somehow teach them speeches, songs and dance moves and then coax them onto a stage to perform for an audience.

In junior high, our middle son decided to try out for “Little Orphan Annie,” and he earned the role of the swaggering Daddy Warbucks, a little bit of a surprise as our son was a quiet, shy adolescent.

When he confidently marched out on to center stage, bellowing orders to the staff, I jumped back in my seat. I’d never seen this side of him, wondering how in the world his theater teacher, Ms. Wanda Harrell, coaxed that level of confidence out of him.

As he sang a solo to Annie, I quietly cried with pride, joy and appreciation for the wonderful opportunity he’d been given to express himself artistically and to be part of an ensemble that created magic on the stage.

Our youngest son was also interested in performing; and when my rebel landed the part of the conservative father in “Bye, Bye Birdie,” I laughed because he was definitely playing someone out of character. But when he sang to his stage children, I cried again, watching him push himself farther than he’d thought possible.

Both boys were active in theater at Austin High School, and although they didn’t have leads, they loved being part of the theater family, headed up by teachers Brad Cummons and Tress Kurzym. From there, they learned to love the behind-the-scenes aspect of a concert and live theater, connected to high school through the arts.

I remembered all those concerts and plays as I watched the teens on stage at Terry High. For this one night, they were part of a larger ensemble, expressing their feelings through song.

Choral director Rhonda Klutts coaxed music from the hearts of over 165 students at that concert, and their faces radiated with joy. Some will never sing on a stage again, but many will, either with a church, a community group or professionally.

For some, they’ll decide to add acting to singing, and their high school or college theater director will convince them to step into a fictional character’s shoes, just as fine arts teachers have been doing since the one-room schoolhouse days.

A love of music and the fine arts stays with youngsters their entire lives. That spark was ignited because a teacher encouraged them to step out in front of the lights and take a chance.

Dim the lights, please.

The magic’s about to begin.

This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

Looking at the newspaper last week, I saw the list of new television shows the networks are planning to cancel. Viewership is down, so shows launched over the past few months that aren’t performing as well as trashy reality shows will probably get the axe.

Although there are tons of reasons why a show gets canned, the primary culprit is bad writing. So when a terrific story comes along, it’s gold – think Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, Atticus Finch, Sherlock Holmes and Peter Pan.

A great story can make up for bad acting, poor lighting and cheesy sets. Readers and audiences will stay up late, book or Kindle in hand, tune in week after week and hang on every word when the story’s an intriguing one.

It’s easy, though, for good storytelling to fall by the wayside as we look for ways to trim corners and speed up life. We want the abridged edition, and many are only willing to sit still for highlights at the top of the hour or a few lines that scroll across the top of our computer or television screen.

Good stories take their time, and good storytellers understand the fine line between drawing out a story to have more time in the limelight and letting the story gently unfold.

Great stories lay a foundation and build on it word by word. Great storytellers understand magic happens through those words, and their job is to dispense those words with emotion, great gestures and the enchanting whisper.

They never forget that the story line comes before the way they pronounce their words or the timbre of their voice.

The truth is great stories allow us to see ourselves in the tale, and they inspire us to be a little bit nicer, a little bit braver or a little more aware of what’s around us. They capture our imagination from the first few words, hold us in their spell and then leave us hungry for more at the end.

My grandmother was a terrific storyteller. Her voice would rise and fall as she talked about her pampered childhood in Lebanon, her and my grandfather’s tumultuous path to America and their lean days during the Depression.

The basic story was fascinating – growing up on a silk farm and how, as young newlyweds, she and my grandfather had to prove my grandfather’s innocence when someone accused him of being a bigamist. Turned out a girl who’d liked my grandfather found out he’d married, so she decided to try and ruin his honeymoon.

She embellished the story every time, fine tuning it as writers do today on a computer or a laptop. I’d sit next to her on the couch at night, waiting impatiently for the tale to begin. She never disappointed, and I’d make her tell me those stories again and again.

I thought about her the other night when my granddaughter picked up a spiral notebook and a pencil and began scribbling on a page. After a few minutes, she said she’d written a story and wanted to read it to me.

She began with “once upon a time” and “read” me the story she’d written. Her voice was filled with pauses, whispers and sound effects, and I could tell she was enjoying the telling of the story as much as having a captive audience.

After a few minutes, she paused, smiled and said “the end.” I clapped, realizing she has a true gift for both writing and telling a story, just like her ancestors before her.

And, in the end, that’s what keeps all of us connected from generation to generation – our story.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.