Laughter + Love = The Best Dish

Food has always played a significant part in get togethers for my family, especially for my mother's relatives. Her parents were Lebanese, and stuffed squash, tabooley, kibbee and chicken and rice were Sunday dinner staples.

My mother kept up the tradition, and all of us drop everything for a chance to have dinner at Mom's house, those ethnic dishes an integral part of every mealtime.

When my mom visited us this summer, she spent a Sunday afternoon showing my sons how to cook some of those family-honored meals.

When my nieces heard about our afternoon, they good-naturedly demanded a "Cooking with Delores" session as well.

My mom obliged and most of the female members of my family gathered at my mom's for an afternoon of chopping, slicing, simmering and learning.

My mom said in the old days, her mother would rise early to boil a chicken and pick the peppers and mint from her garden. We took a modern short cut and picked up an already roasted chicken and raided the produce section at the local Winn Dixie.

We all helped take the chicken off the bone and hollow out the peppers and squash. My mom showed us how to mix rice, tomato paste and seasonings together to stuff the bell peppers and yellow squash.

As we worked, the aunts entertained the nieces with stories about our childhood, each story growing more grand with subsequent tellings, the laughter practically nonstop.

In the background, my mom was carefully arranging the peppers and squash in a pot, and I remembered watching my grandmother perform the same ritual. Her kitchen smelled heavenly as she cooked, and now my mom's kitchen was smelling the same way.

My youngest sister took notes as my mom explained how to make the dishes but, she tried to sneak a few moves past us, claiming it was faster to leave out the little details and share the big picture with us.

We good-naturedly accused her of trying to keep all the recipes to herself, and then we remembered our grandmother was the same way with her recipes. Truth be told, I haven't shared any of my favorite recipes with my sons, so I guess that tradition lives on.

As more family members arrived, nieces, aunts, sisters-in-law and sisters chopped, told jokes, reminisced about the old days and eagerly shared news about what was happening in their lives.

Boyfriends and husbands talked about LSU football, fishing and the best way to fry a turkey, Louisiana style. And, of course, there was lots of kidding and laughter, as is the way when my family gathers.

One of the last dishes we made was the kibbee, and I finally found out how my mom created the mystery middle layer of that baked meat dish – she sautéed seasoned meat, onions and pine nuts together and placed that scrumptious mixture between the two layers of raw meat.

The baked layer – the one that had been seasoned and taken to the end stage – held the entire casserole together. It seemed fitting we ended our cooking lesson with the kibbee because that's how we were that afternoon.

We all tasted the dishes and declared them the best we'd ever had.

That afternoon, laughter, good-natured kidding and many-times-told family stories, shared between four generations, bonded us together, just as sharing foods from our childhood connected us with our roots and our heritage.

When all the food was on the table, we stood back and took photos of our handiwork. You'd have thought we were documenting a gourmet meal in a four-star restaurant. For us, it was a banquet, but not of fancy canapés or grand soufflés.

Ours was a family banquet held together and served up with love and laughter.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Transporting the Tots

Whenever I'm getting ready to leave the house, I put everything I think I'm going to need in my purse. That includes my car keys, the current grocery list and letters to mail.

In under a minute, I can pick up my purse and head out the door.

I was reminded how few things I need on the road when taking my daughter-in-law and grandchildren out for lunch. It doesn't make sense, but the lighter and younger the child, the more equipment he or she needs, even for a quick trip.

First, there's the car seats.

Having children safely secured in a vehicle is of the utmost importance to me, and manufacturers make sure infant and child safety seats are not only reliable but trendy. Most models feature a five-point harness, chest slips, a built-in recliner and holders for a sippy cup.

These mini Barcaloungers are surprisingly heavy.

Wishing to be helpful, I volunteered to carry my grandson in the car seat to buckle him in, and I might as well have been in the gym. The car seat alone weighs over 20 pounds. Add in a 10-pound baby, and we're talking a work out that'll put wrestler-sized biceps on anybody.

Then there's the diaper bag. Forget tucking a single diaper and some wipe ups in one's purse. No, today's parent has to carry at least six or seven Sesame Street disposable diapers, skin-sensitive wipe ups, ointment, swabs, non-perfumed powder, toys, extra pacifiers, two or three changes of clothes, a blanket and two or three spit-up towels.

That alone adds another five pounds to mom's already backbreaking load.

And let's not forget the stroller.

I remember an old pram my mom had in the attic. The oversized buggy had big wheels, and it bounced up and down like a trampoline, an activity my siblings and I enjoyed immensely, especially when a younger brother or sister was inside the pram.

Over the years, manufacturers streamlined prams, morphing them into strollers. But no ordinary strollers. They're now promoted as travel systems, featuring modern swivel wheels with a suspension system that creates a sleek, smooth ride, the Rolls Royce for the younger set.

A basic stroller, I mean travel system, sets parents back about $180. They weigh 22 pounds, that's without the baby, and come in three or four parts. And, yes, it requires a degree in mechanical engineering to put them together.

And then there's the baby accessories. Just as a teenage girl needs her cell phone and lip gloss, modern babies have their own must-have items for an outing.

Let's start with the outfit.

When I went shopping for baby clothes for our grandson, I was shocked at how the prices have risen over the years. A simple outfit – a shirt and shorts – starts out at $14.95. No well-dressed little prince is complete without the baby Air Jordans, and those shoes retail for $47.

That's right – almost 50 bucks for "pre-walks," shoes that never hit the pavement. Throw in some "baby bling" for the girls, and a pair of pink glitter sneakers for our little princesses will set buyers back a minimum of $45.

After 30 minutes of filling the trunk with the diaper bag, stroller, extra clothes for two children and the back seat with the uber-heavy car seat, a "Pinkalicious" book, a pink toddler car seat and a bag of Goldfish crackers for our granddaughter, I thought we were finally ready to head out.

Until I realized I'd forgotten my purse.

Heading back into the house, I realized that when and if more grandchildren join the family, we're going to need a truck just to haul around baby stuff.

A big truck.

This column was previously published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The price for freedom

They were on a quick nighttime mission.

Thirty Americans, trained and fully equipped to defend themselves, were shot down over Afghanistan. Those lost included 22 Navy SEALs – 20 from SEAL Team 6, the unit that killed Osama Bin Laden – three Air Force members and a dog handler and his dog.

They were on their way to help Army Rangers under fire when their Chinook helicopter came under attack and crashed. The event became the deadliest single loss for U.S. forces in the war in Afghanistan.

But the loss is more than a news release and statistics.

The losses, as in all wars, are personal. There's Matthew Mason, the father of two young sons. Mason was a former high school athlete who'd lost part of his left arm while fighting in Fallujah.

Twenty-five-year-old Michael Strange enjoyed snowboarding, running and being part of the SEALs. Tommy Ratzlaff left behind two sons and a baby on the way.

Most of the time, casualties during wartime are referred to as statistics. According to the American War Library, over 25,000 soldiers were killed during the Revolutionary War. During World War II, over 408,000 soldiers gave their lives, and over 58,000 soldiers died during the Vietnam War.

To compare, the city of Denver has 467,000 people and the cities of Richmond and Rosenberg together have almost 50,000 people. Imagine losing everyone in those areas in a violent manner.

I'm not naive enough to believe warring nations can sit down calmly at a negotiating table and solve their differences peacefully. Nor am I blind to the reality that meeting force with force is often the only route dictators understand.

But when I read the biographies of the Navy SEALs and tally up the number of the dead and wounded from military action over the course of our country's history, I cannot help but imagine a face for every one of those grim statistics.

They were somebody's son or daughter, a father, mother, sister or brother. They gave their life to defend our country and the freedom of people around the world.

In addition to the soldiers whose lives were lost while in combat, there are those who served and returned. The veterans I know are proud they served their country, but the scars and horrors they witnessed stay with them for the rest of their lives.

There's no way we can ever repay someone for putting their life on the line to defend our freedoms. There's no way to give these men and women back the nights they spend huddled in a fox hole, on the front lines or far away from their families.

We cannot give back eyesight, legs or arms to those who lost them to grenades or enemy fire. Many of them volunteered, but has the price they paid ever felt personal to us or are they just names in a news release?

I was in the airport over the weekend, and I saw a soldier waiting for a flight. She was on the other side of the security ropes, and I wondered about her life. Perhaps she'd just visited her family and that was the last time she'd see her loved ones.

Would she be one of the soldiers called upon to give everything to defend my freedom? There is no way I could ever repay that debt unless I honor what she puts her life on the line to fight for.

Americans need to stand whenever the American flag passes our way. We need to support our soldiers for the choice they made to do their duty to their country and ours.

We need to remember to say thank you whenever we see a soldier and to continue to believe that freedom is a sacred responsibility every one of us is required to safeguard in our own way.

Most importantly, we need to remember that these soldiers are men and women who made the choice to step up to the line for you and me.

That's no longer a line in a news release or a statistic in a history book. That price, that soldier, that choice, is someone's son, daughter, mother, father or friend.

Let's hope we make the price they're paying worthwhile.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

In the blink of an eye

In the blink of an eye.

That's how long it takes for life to change.

With one phone call, we went from a leisurely dinner to a white-knuckle drive across Houston to see our daughter-in-law and granddaughter in the hospital emergency room.

Later that week, we found ourselves back at the hospital to welcome our grandson. We thought his arrival would be a quiet affair; but in the blink of an eye, that home delivery turned into an unexpected, middle-of-the-night trip to the hospital.

But those worries were forgotten the minute we held young James in our arms, everybody safe and sound, and we knew we'd passed a significant milestone in our family.

Big events are tough to miss. They're anticipated for weeks, circled on the calendar and then heralded with numerous emails and phone calls. But they're over rather quickly, remembered through photos or videos.

It's the filler days where life provides some of the most significant moments of our lives, and we often miss what's happening because we're busy waiting for the red-letter events.

We impatiently endured our teenage years because we were waiting for our 21st birthday. Adults were the ones having fun, we thought, so we hurried our way through those years, often forgetting to savor the firsts that only the teenage years bring – our first driver's license, our first kiss and our first official paycheck.

Then we became young adults, and we spent so much time establishing ourselves in the work world that we often missed the nuances that formed us into adults.

We don't remember the day we threw away our tie-dyed T-shirts in exchange for button-down Oxfords or cleared away the stuffed animals from our bed and replaced them with coordinating pillows.

But those were the significant moments when we crossed from one phase of our lives into another. Those phases often sneak up on us and are gone before we know it.

Parenthood especially provides so many memorable moments, and we can immediately recall the milestones of our children's lives – their first step, their first day of school and their high school graduations.

But I forgot to take my time during some of the most significant days of my sons' childhood – what their faces looked like while playing in the dirt or sleeping peacefully in their beds at night. I witnessed those events, but I didn't appreciate the fleeting sweetness of parenthood.

In the blink of an eye, they were babies and then they were grown and on their own. Now I watch my grown sons as they talk with each other, not for what they're saying but memorizing how they sound when they're laughing and how their eyes sparkle when they're having a good time.

I watch my granddaughter skip and listen to her sing so I'll remember what her voice sounded like when she was a happy, carefree little girl. I'm watching my grandson as he adjusts to the outside world and committing to memory those first smiles.

For sure, I'll remember the milestones in our family's lives, but I want to make sure I'm paying attention to the seemingly mundane because those moments are the defining times.

In the blink of an eye, life can go from happy to tragic, confusing to clear or worried to reassured. We remember what happens after we blink, but often little of what happened before.

For the second half of my life, I'm going to try and not miss as much as I did the first half because life isn't just about the red-letter days.

Life happens in the every-day moment, when we're least prepared and changes in the blink of an eye.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.