The joys of baking cookies

            While rushing through the grocery store, I tossed a bag of Oreo cookies in my shopping basket. For so many years, I've been stocking our pantry with store-bought cookies that I'd almost forgotten it was possible to actually bake cookies.

            But then last weekend, my granddaughter asked if we could make cookies with pink sugar on top. I knew what she was talking about and hoped I could remember how to actually make sugar cookies from scratch.

            When my sons were young, we always made sugar cookies for the holidays. But when they grew older, the well-worn cookie cutters were put in a bag and tossed into the back of the cabinet, forgotten until my granddaughter spotted them.

            Next to the cookie cutters was my old cookbook. It's been years since I've used that book; but when I opened it to the baked goods section, I saw dozens of hand-written recipes for cookies, cakes, pies and desserts.

            I came across a yellow hand-written card with a recipe for butter cookies. One of my Cub Scout mom friends shared her recipe with me when my now-grown sons were young. I still remember how much we all loved her cookies, and the memory convinced me this was the way to go.

            I scrounged around in the pantry for the necessary ingredients – flour, baking powder, salt and sugar and breathed a sigh of relief when I spotted a necessary cookie component in the back.  

            One year, the Fort Bend Herald's family editor, Betty Humphrey, brought me a bottle of vanilla from Mexico. She said there was nothing like real vanilla, so I placed the bottle next to the eggs and milk on the counter.

            My granddaughter knew how to fill the measuring cups and how to rake her hand across the top to make sure the cups were precisely filled. She'd learned how to make cookies from her mother and her maternal grandmother, and I remembered cookie making sessions with my mom.

            With seven children, there were constant battles as to who would get to lick the beaters. This practice was before the scare of eating raw eggs; but despite licking the bowl with our fingers and getting every drop of cookie dough batter off the metal beaters, we never got sick.

            I creamed the butter and then she cracked the egg into the bowl. Slowly but surely, my grandchildren added the dry ingredients, dipping their fingers in the bowl for a taste when they thought I wasn't looking.

            As the oven heated up, I showed them how to spread a light coat of flour on the wooden pin before we rolled out the cookies. Then we used metal cookie cutter tins to cut out stars and rocking horses.

            My granddaughter carefully put the raw dough on the cookie sheet and, 30 minutes later, we had a stack of hot, delicious sugar cookies just begging for a topping. I'd come this far with from-scratch ingredients, so I hauled out the butter and 10X sugar and we made our own frosting.

            While we were munching on our creations, I thought about my niece's upcoming wedding shower. Instead of fancy dishes or silverware, I think I'll buy her a sturdy cookie sheet, some flour, salt, sugar and real vanilla.

            Her mom is the best baker in our family and making sure my niece has everything to keep Janet's tradition going beats anything I could purchase from a wedding registry.

            It might take time and effort to bake cookies at home but the benefits, ah the delicious benefits, far outweigh the trouble.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A little comfort in Comfort

            When my husband and I arrived at Joshua Springs Park and Preserve in Comfort early in the morning, the park was deserted. But soon, Junior came trotting along and stayed with us for our entire visit, hoping for a food hand out.

            Junior is a young fawn who was abandoned right after the preserve opened seven months ago. It's obvious Junior's been around people as he showed no fear and seemed to prefer our company to solitude in the brush.

            On the other hand, I was looking for some peace and quiet over spring break, and heading to the small town of Comfort, right in the heart of the Texas Hill Country, was exactly what I needed.

            Our stay at Meyer Bed and Breakfast on Cypress Creek was a blissful getaway experience. We stayed in the 1857 Ernestine Meyer cabin, and we loved walking around the grounds, especially swinging in a wooden swing on the creek bank, watching the sun go down.

            Breakfast was served family style with everything from pancakes to fresh fruit to home-made bread pudding. Later in the day, we enjoyed window shopping in downtown Comfort and dinner at the local mom-and-pop eateries.

            One of the areas I wanted to visit was the Joshua Springs park as I love taking nature photos. We hoped we'd not only take pictures but also have the chance to spot migrating birds and emerging wild flowers.

            The park has well-groomed walking trails that meander through gentle hills. Informational signs let visitors know what types of grasses and flowers grow in the park and the types of frogs and snakes hiding in the native grasses.

            We spent a peaceful morning in the preserve, and I happened to have a nice conversation with a man heading out to the pier, fishing pole in hand. He recommended a nearby place for lunch, and we took him up on his offer, heading out to Po Po's restaurant in Boerne.

            Located at the crest of a hill, the restaurant dates back over 40 years, and we did a double take when we walked in the front door. Every surface of the inside of the building is adorned with decorative plates in all shapes and sizes. According to our knowledgeable waiter, there are over 2,500 plates inside the building, a collection started by the original owners.

            The food was great and we headed out, tummies full, to visit a few nearby wineries. California's long been known as the wine capital of the United States, but Texas wines are quickly gaining on the West Coast and for good reason – the wines are fabulous.

            At Singing Waters winery, we spent a couple of hours sitting underneath some shady live oak trees, enjoying a nice breeze. We stopped at  a small grocery store on the way back to our room and picked up cheese, summer sausage and crackers to go with the wine we purchased.

            We ended the day back on our favorite swing, watching a Texas black squirrel explore the live oaks. My mind kept circling back to Junior. Plans are for this little fawn to be released  around a herd of white-tailed deer who should take him in and teach him how to survive in a world where he belongs.

            We can all learn a lesson from Junior:  although it might seem more comfortable where everything's handed to us, sometimes making our own way in the world, accompanied by friends, is the best way to go.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

What a ride we had

            In a small Southern town, high school athletics are often the biggest draw. Football stadiums are packed, and people sit in the same spot year after year. They know how to avoid the obnoxious fan who not only screams at the coaches but knows exactly what plays the coach should call each and every time.

            It's the same with basketball. Fans and supporters pack the gymnasium,  and referees take the same verbal beating the football refs take – they're blind, they missed the call and they must be working for the opposing side.

            With every win, the town celebrates. With every loss, the town mourns but remains hopeful that next season will be the magical one.

            The team that will put them in the headlines and bring pride and honor to the town.

            The team that'll bring home that impressive state trophy. 

            And that's exactly what two high school basketball teams in our area did this past week up in Austin. B.F. Terry High School clinched the 4A UIL state championship title, and Travis High School earned the 5A UIL state championship trophy.

            I was lucky enough to go to the Terry game, and we arrived early at the Erwin Center on the University of Texas campus. The arena was packed with fans, scouts from colleges all over the United States, UIL officials and former players.

            Excitement was in the air as the 2A teams, White Oak and Brock, were on the court. On one side of the arena were fans from White Oak, a small farming town outside of Longview and on the other, the cheering section from Brock, a town west of Fort Worth.

            The score rocked back and forth the last five minutes, and when White Oak won that exhausting game, the cheering from their student section raised the roof.

            When it came time for Terry to take to the court, three entire sections were packed with excited fans wearing red T-shirts, the words "Ranger Pride" on the front. They faced a formidable team, Dallas Kimball, a two-time back-to-back state championship squad.

            Going into the half, the Rangers were down, but they came back like steam rollers the second half, took the lead and never looked back.

            When the final buzzer sounded, the on-their-feet fans refused to leave until the boys hoisted the state trophy over their heads.

            After the game, fans waited near the Terry bus for almost an hour, and families, schoolmates , players and coaches took pictures with everybody, the trophy at the center of almost every shot.

            That devotion was the same for the Travis Tigers. After losing the state title last year, this young team went back to Austin determined to bring home that title. And they did exactly what they set out to do accompanied by their fans who never stopped believing that trophy would find a permanent home in the Travis lobby.

            Over the years, high school athletes graduate and move on. Seasons change and turn into years. For the faithful who go to games year after year and sit in the same seats, one day, there might be somebody new sitting next to you.

            When you introduce yourself,  there's a chance the wistful face has a history.

             "I was on that state championship team back in 2013. And, man, what a ride we had."

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Leaving our fingerprints behind

                When I was a teenager, I always looked forward to the weekends. School days were a round robin of getting up early to catch the bus and staying up late to finish homework. During the week, I often felt like a zombie, so my weekend goal was to put some Z's in the sleep bank.

                Saturday was the one morning of the week when I could curl up under my bedspread and try to sleep until noon. That was impossible, though, thanks to my mom.

                By 8 a.m., she was banging around in the kitchen which was right outside my bedroom. It was impossible to sleep with all that clanging going on and, as I'm motivated by guilt, most of the time I grudgingly got up and helped her. Back then, I wondered why she couldn't just leave everything alone until the afternoon.

                When I got older and spent weekdays chasing toddlers, running errands and cooking meals, I realized Saturday mornings were the one day of the week when I could get caught up with the dishes, laundry and bathroom chores.

                Although we're now empty nesters, old habits die hard, so this past Saturday, I grabbed my cleaning bucket and headed down the hallway. I glanced at the walls and noticed tiny fingerprints about two feet off the ground.

                I recognized my granddaughter's fingerprints and remains of the peanut-butter and honey sandwich she'd been eating while telling me a story. Then I saw my grandson's fingerprints on the wall going up the stairs.

                I started to clean those off, but then I remembered how happy my granddaughter had been while recounting the story about the princess dream she'd had.

                My grandson's handprint was made while he was learning to climb the stairs all by himself. Looking at those little handprints, I smiled for it wasn't so long ago that I was cleaning their father's fingerprints off walls.

                In the house where my sons grew up, the bedrooms were upstairs, and when the boys came down the stairs, they dragged their hands down the side walls of the stair case.

                One overhead section became a good-luck slapping charm, and all three would touch that section of the wall when they came down the stairs.

                As a result, that one tough-to-paint section had a permanent gray spot from their handprints. I complained incessantly about the dirt, yelling at them to stop putting their hands all over that one unreachable spot.

                But when our youngest son went off to college and we put the house up for sale, I looked at that spot over the stairs, the gho

sts of their fingerprints bringing back memories of my life when my boys were still under our roof.

                We leave fingerprints all over the place in life, at the milestones we commemorate with hugs, handshakes and hearty pats on the back. Many of us talk with our hands, spreading our hands wide when asking a question and our palms thrown upward when we're fed up.

                Our hands check to see if our babies have a fever, smooth the hair away from our spouse's face and tickle our children while tucking them into bed at night.  

                So I think I'll leave my grandchildren's fingerprints on the wall for a while. People leave traces in our lives in the most unexpected places. We can either wipe those fingerprints away, ignore them or smile and remember how the people who own them touched our souls.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.