Children’s books are stacked high on the end table in our family room, and seeing them always makes me happy.

When our grandchildren were young, reading books together on the couch was a nightly ritual.

They’d pick out some of their favorites, and we’d snuggle under a blanket while I read the books aloud. Later, when they were learning to read, we’d take turns reading the pages. I never knew if they’d simply memorized the story or were actually reading. That didn’t matter. Reading aloud together was a perfect way to end the day’s activities.

When our sons were young, our nightly ritual always included books. At 8 p.m., it was bath time followed by snack time. Brushing teeth and picking up toys were next. The boys would climb into bed, and we’d read a story to them.

I wish I could say this idyllic setting was every night, but life gets in the way. Sometimes they’d fall into bed tired and dirty, and stories were put on the back burner.

I also wish I could say I was a Mary Poppins reader, but the boys would often catch me skipping pages because I was the one who was tired and dirty and only wanted to fall into bed.

Looking back, sitting next to my sons at bedtime, reading favorite tales and then tucking them in remains some of my favorite memories. Because I’m an avid reader, we visited the library on a regular basis. We had a variety of books to choose from at night, and having different books kept their interest alive in reading.

One of our favorite books was “The Monster At The End Of The Book,” a Sesame Street tale about Grover, the loveable monster who discovers he’s the scary monster at the end of the book.

I thought about that book a few months ago, and found it on the internet. The grands and I read it together, and they laughed at the end, just as my boys had many years ago.

Today’s books on the end table include a few “Pigeon” books by Mo Willems. A persistent pigeon tries to convince people he can drive a bus or he doesn’t need to go to bed.

The drawings are simple, but the kids laugh out loud every time we read about this stubborn pigeon.

My wonderful niece Hope is also an voracious reader, and she posts her favorite books on her Instagram account. I bought the ones she recommended, and she was right – the grands loved the stories.

One of their favorites is about counting monkeys who don’t appear until the last page. Watching the kids do hand motions, turn pages slowly and follow other suggestions to get rid of pesky critters in the story is fun for both me and the kids.

Not everyone enjoys having a book read aloud to them, however. I’m a fan of Louisiana writer James Lee Burke, especially his detective character Dave Robicheaux.

I was in the midst of working my way through the Robicheaux series when my mom had surgery. While she was recuperating, I told her I’d read aloud to her because she was still a little groggy.

Using what I considered my best Louisiana accent, I started reading to her. Suddenly, she put her hand on the book and said two words – “stop reading.”

Thereafter, my brother Jeff would threaten Mom with my reading the book if she didn’t take her medicine.

So I returned to the under 10 crowd who seemed to appreciate my voices and accents in our favorite books.

The next time the older grands come over, I think we’ll go through those books on the end table and reminisce about our favorite characters and plots. I can’t think of a better way to spend a hot summer afternoon than curled up on the couch with a favorite, familiar book.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Former publisher Clyde King had a tradition of writing about the Darwin Awards. The dubious award came up in conversations with my grandson this week. He’s studying to get his learners permit, and part of the curriculum is vehicle observation.

It’s easy to point out the difference between the dashed lines and the solid lines in the middle of the road and their meaning.

Even though parallel parking is tricky, it’s a lot easier than explaining why certain drivers attempt some of the hare-brained stunts we’ve seen on the roadways.

Here’s a few of the maneuvers we’ve witnessed this summer:  a small sedan crossed four lanes of heavy traffic at 60 miles per hour to make an upcoming exit.

Another man left a gas station and instead of turning right onto a divided highway, he turned left, the wrong way.

Luckily the light was red for oncoming traffic, and, in the midst of at least a dozen people honking their horns from three different directions, he was able to turn safely at the light.

We’ve seen people driving at least 90 mph on the freeways, tailgaters where I could make out their names on their shirts, people reading a book while behind the wheel and dozens of boneheads running stop signs and red lights.

These are the reasons I found myself explaining the meaning of a Darwin Award.

Established in 1993 by Wendy Northcutt, the Darwin Awards are given to people who are not only stupid but exceedingly stupid. There are rules for qualifying, including the person must no longer be living and the event must be true.

Writers of the website use humor to describe some of the dumb things people have done, resulting in a good laugh at people’s inability to see the results of their ridiculous decisions.

Keeping Clyde’s tradition going, here’s a few of my favorite Darwin Award winners.

In 2019, two Texas men decided to ignore the fact that the Black Bayou Drawbridge in Lake Charles, La. was closed to cars and open to boats.

Who could resist this challenge? Obviously not these two.

They tried a “Smokey and the Bandit” trick to vault over the open drawbridge, but, alas, their car fell short, dropped into the water and the men drowned.

Road rage will get you every time. Two vehicles were in a fender-bender in Poland in 2018, and the drivers jumped out of their cars and began arguing. That grew into a physical fight, and the two wrestled until they were facing oncoming traffic.

A huge truck came along and ended the argument, and the lives, of the two road-ragers.

The Darwin Awards aren’t the only place where people are recognized for their stupid antics. A would-be criminal in Atlanta tried to rob a nail salon, but nobody bought the fact that he was serious.

Eventually, the thief realized he wasn’t getting any reactions from the women in the salon, and he left without a dime.

Here’s one for probably the dumbest criminal in Texas. Undercover police were on a stakeout in Lakeway, hoping to catch a car thief.

When the thief tried to steal their unmarked police car, he found the vehicle filled with officers.

Busted.

As I explained to Alex, there’s no shortage of stupid people in this world. That’s why it’s best to always keep an eye on the road because, if you think somebody’s going to do something stupid, chances are they will.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Crawfish pistolettes.

Soft buns filled with a creamy, tangy cheese sauce, bursting with tender, perfectly cooked crawfish.

Heaven on a plate.

Ever since my drive home from Baton Rouge a few weeks ago, I’ve been obsessed with crawfish pistolletes, a delicacy I’d never eaten before but one that unexpectedly became my top seafood choice.

Leaving Louisiana without picking up a Cajun treat was not an option. Lake Charles, La. is one of the last big cities on I-10 heading to Houston, so the search for last-minute seafood was on.

All my life, my family is a food-driven one. Vacations are remembered for where we ate, not the sights we saw.

Get togethers center around what’s on the menu. There’s always the main course with at least six side dishes. Desserts are a must, even though most of us are trying to watch the fat intake.

My sweet tooth demanded I find a way to cut calories for a favorite dessert, banana pudding.

The old-fashioned way to make this dessert is with vanilla pudding, sweetened condensed milk, bananas and cookies.

I streamlined the recipe to using sugar-free instant pudding with skim milk, lots of bananas, low-fat Cool Whip and low-fat vanilla wafers.

Maybe not the full bang for the buck, but close enough.

Back to the pistolettes.

I’d never heard of this Cajun delicacy until that trip out of Louisiana in May. I stopped at a restaurant near the state line and went inside

The lady at the counter noticed I was taking a long time to make a decision. I told her I wanted a small snack, something to tide me over until I got home.

“What’s your favorite seafood?” she asked.

Instantly, I replied crawfish.

“A crawfish pistolette is perfect for you,” she said.

She described the appetizer as a white-bread bun with crawfish filling. Sounded basic so I ordered one to go.

I didn’t open the bag until I’d crossed the state line. One bite in, and I instantly regretted not ordering a dozen of those babies.

The cheese was hot, creamy and smooth. The crawfish were plump and had the right amount of Cajun seasonings. The bread was the perfect vehicle for that filling. To say I was hooked was an understatement.

After I got home, I searched for restaurants near my home for pistolettes.

Nothing.

I expanded the search to the greater Houston area.

Nothing again.

So I went online to find the recipe. I’m not a good cook. In fact, if there’s more than five ingredients, it’s off my list. But these pistolettes are worth the trouble.

The closest recipe called for lots of real butter, evaporated milk and processed cheese.

I didn’t mind that the recipe needed cooked and peeled whole crawfish tails. Those are for sale in the frozen section of every grocery store I visit.

Before I headed to the grocery market, I had a revelation.

I was going to Baton Rouge in July and could buy some pistolettes already cooked. The problem was I couldn’t remember the exit or the name of the restaurant where I got them.

I looked up crawfish pistolettes around Lake Charles and hit the jackpot – The Boiling Point.

My grandson and I pulled into the empty parking lot on our way back and my heart sank.

The sign on the door stated they were closed.

I found two more seafood restaurants in the area that advertised pistolettes.

The first one was boarded up. The second one was also closed.

This must be a sign that the fat-ladened, totally delicious crawfish pistolettes are not for me.

I think I’ll take another look at that recipe and see if I can low-fat that one. Then it’s look out, cher, this Cajun girl is hauling out the cast-iron pots.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

She was just a dog.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

Our 18-year-old “mutt,” Channell, took her final breath today under the gentle hands of our veterinarian. Letting her go was much harder than I ever thought it would be, especially as I’m not a pet person.

Then Channell came into our lives.

She wasn’t our dog at first.

A tiny puppy was thrown into a ditch on a rainy night, and our daughter-in-law rescued her. She kept Channell until her husband needed to go to school out of state. I volunteered to take care of their pet for the eight months they’d be gone.

At first, my husband wasn’t sure about this arrangement. But this brown-eyed mixed-breed puppy was friendly and never jumped on the furniture or chewed up shoes.

It wasn’t long before Channell and my husband were best buddies. If he went outside without her, she’d stand at the door and cry until he came back in.

When the eight months were up, the dog was no longer our daughter-in-law’s – she was ours.

Even though Channell was basically around two older adults for most of her life, she was great when the grandkids came over. She didn’t mind if they pulled on her ears or tail, and she never growled or nipped at them.

She was one smart and clever dog. She figured out the best way to corner squirrels – her deadly enemies – and would patiently wait for them to miss seeing her and jump to the ground.

That was their last mistake.

Channell particularly enjoyed teasing our neighbor’s two terriers. Whenever they were in their back yard, Channell would run along the fence until they were chasing her. Then she’d stand back and watch them bark themselves hoarse.

I could practically see the smile on her face.

Channell was an expert escape artist. She jumped the fence in the back yard a few times, kind neighbors keeping her until we could come get her. Once I came home and she was sitting in the driveway, having scaled the fence again.

After that incident, my husband built a dog run underneath the back-yard shade trees for her. A couple of years ago, we admitted her fence jumping days were a memory, so she had the run of the back yard.

Channell was a top-notch “snake dog.” One afternoon, I heard her barking furiously in the back yard and went to see what was wrong. She’d spotted a coiled-up snake in the grass.

When she was sure I knew of the danger, she ran back to the door where two of our grandchildren were standing, and she stayed in front of them until the snake was gone.

Channell was a fast runner. Whenever we took her out to the country, she would run at full speed for hours, only stopping when she was exhausted. Even in her older years, she could outrun rabbits and left a couple of them on the back porch as prizes for us.

The only thing Channell was afraid of was loud noises, particularly booming fireworks and thunder. Every Fourth of July and during bad thunderstorms, we had to keep her in the innermost room of our house until the commotion ended.

She lost her hearing a couple of years ago, something we realized when a loud thunderstorm passed over the house, and she didn’t seem to notice.

She loved to swim in the pool, and when her arthritis and age made it hard for her to get in and out, she stopped. Not even tossing her favorite tennis balls into the pool could coax her into the water.

Over the past few months, we knew she was failing. We could no longer wait for nature to take its course – the strain was too much on her. So we made the painful decision to end her suffering.

In the beginning, she was just a dog.

In the end, she was our companion, our fierce protector, our silent sounding board and, the simplest title that sums up so much more than I can describe, our dog.

Rest in peace, girl. You’ve earned it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Traditions bind generations together. That belief is the central theme of the musical “Fiddler on the Roof” where traditions connect family members.

Recently, our family hosted a baby shower for our son and daughter-in-law. Our eighth grandchild is due at the end of July, and we cannot wait for this little girl to make her appearance.

Since her older siblings are boys, we wanted to be sure Alle had “girly” gifts, and my daughter-in-law and I were in charge of putting on the shower. We didn’t think we had the decorating talents of Alle and our other daughter-in-law, Ingrid, but we gave it our best.

Pink and delicate were the overall picks for the occasion. Erin took the lion’s share of the decorations, and she did a beautiful job.

Erin’s two daughters, Kylie and Katherine, were called on to help, and along the way, we passed on family stories.

In the china cabinet are plates and bowls I seldom use, mostly because they’re elegant and we’re not a fancy family. But today was the right day to haul out the “good stuff.”

The girls were with me as I opened the doors and gently took out a sugar bowl, part of a set of china my sister found for me. I reminded them how important they are to each other, just as my two sisters are to me.

Also in the cabinet was a gift my brought me from Lebanon years ago.  We talked about their Lebanese heritage and why those gifts held such a sentimental attachment for me.

Also in the cabinet were a few china cups and saucers my aunt gave to me years ago. These had been chipped or broken, but I never had the heart to throw them away. Instead, I glued them back together and saved them in the cabinet.

I began collecting china cups and saucers because of my Aunt Bev, and I have quite a few. The girls and I picked out pink cups and matching saucers for the shower. We placed the freshly washed and dried sets on a runner Alle’s mother brought us from Mexico.

The sugar bowl was filled with sugar cubes, the tea kettle on a warming pad, and the hot tea station was finished. I looked at the display and how the light caught the silver and gold on the cups.

I thanked my Aunt Bev once again for giving me a love of those pretty cups and for passing on a tradition of antiquing and collecting she loved. I thanked Alle’s mom for passing on a gift from her culture and smiled at how two different families meshed together seamlessly.

Erin had bowls and platters from her mom, and I loved hearing her tell the girls about the wonderful parties her mom held when she was growing up. Erin’s mom is a delightful person, and her annual Cookie Day is a not-to-be-missed event.

As the girls helped us set the table, we gently guided them, but they’d been at their mom’s side many times and knew how to set a pretty table. Watching guests from my family and Alle’s use the keepsakes we treasured brought the traditions full circle.

Erin made beautiful thank-you gifts for the guests. Inside a pretty tulle bag was a tea strainer, loose tea and a small gold teaspoon. They were the perfect ending to a wonderful afternoon.

As we cleared the table after the last guests left, I thanked our female ancestors for taking the time to teach an important lesson we are passing on to this next generation: traditions connect us.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.