Two camps -- crusts and no crusts

            I'm hosting a bridal shower for a friend's son this weekend, and I was talking over the menu with my mom. She's an entertaining expert and gave the green light to fruit and vegetable trays and my punch recipe.

            Then we got to the subject I was trying to avoid – the sandwich tray.

            In my experience, the "let's-give-a-shower" world is divided into two parts – those who cut the crusts off the sandwiches and those who do not.

            My mom is in the first camp – she wouldn't dream of having a social gathering without a tray of crust-less, triangular-shaped sandwiches.

            I danced around the issue but she's a cagey inquisitor.

            "It's easy to make sandwiches yourself," my mom said. "You know how to make chicken salad, right?"

            "Of course, Mom," I replied, thinking I'd stop by the grocery store and pick up two pre-made containers from the deli.

            "You're not thinking of getting that chicken salad from the deli are you," my mother said.

            Busted.

            "The only good chicken salad is the kind you make yourself," she continued. "You do have a food processor, don't you?"

            It's common knowledge in the family that I don't have a food processor. In fact, I am the only female in the entire Hebert family – cousins included – that does not own a food processor.

            "I can just use the hand mixer," I told her.

            "That won't work," my mother said. "You'll have to make that chicken salad the old-fashioned way – chop everything up nice and fine. Now back to that bread. You do have an electric knife to cut off the crusts, don't you?"

            I decided to be brave. After all, I've gone through natural childbirth three times. I've driven on the 610 Loop during rush-hour traffic. I've worn a bathing suit in public. I decided to come clean.

            "Mom, I'm not going to cut the crusts off the bread," I said.

            There was silence on the other end of the phone.

            "I don't think I heard you," she said. "I thought you said you weren't going to cut the crusts off the bread. Everybody knows that when you go to a shower, the sandwiches are crust-less. Leaving them on is strictly a no-no."

            I took another deep breath.

            "Well, I'm not going to waste a perfectly good part of a sandwich just so it looks good," I said.

            And there it was, the diving line in the chicken salad.

            There are those who do not cut the crusts off the bread. The only silver we own is in our mouths and serving food from the counter is perfectly fine. We wear faded shorts, color our hair with the assistance of Lady Clairol and believe 10-year-old T-shirts aren't old – they're vintage.

            And then there's the ones in my mother's camp. They polish the silver before family functions, put out pink and green dessert mints for every social gathering and wouldn't dream of putting crust-less sandwiches on a serving tray that wasn't first lined with white paper doilies.

            "You can do whatever you want," my mom said. "Just know that when your guests see those crusts on the sandwiches, they'll know you were either ill-informed about the correct way to put on a shower or you were too busy to do things the right way."

            A daughter knows when she's lost the argument.

            "Okay, I'll cut the crusts off," I said, sighing. "You win."

            Even we hippies know when to throw in the towel. In this case, as my mother informed me, that towel had better be a white linen one with a monogram on the front.

        This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Easter keeps hopping along

Due to an email glitch, my column didn't appear in the Fort Bend Herald this evening. Maybe it'll be in tomorrow, not sure, but Happy Easter!

            Easter is right around the corner, a holiday that's one of my favorites. After all, there's chocolate Easter bunnies, chocolate Easter eggs, chocolate Kisses and chocolate candy bars, all courtesy of a little bunny that hops around early Easter morning delivering all that for free.  

            Not a bad deal when you're a kid.

            Although I became the major underwriter for the Easter Bunny once I became a mom, the Easters from my childhood were carefree and filled with tradition.

            Easter egg preparation began the Saturday before Easter. My mom boiled the eggs right before Saturday night dinner, and it seemed like forever between the time she'd put those eggs on the stove and when we could all sit down and dye the eggs.

            Somebody always had to run to a neighbor's house for vinegar because we never seemed to have that key Easter egg dye ingredient to pour over the Paas tablets.

            We'd fight over the white wax crayon so we could write our names on our egg, but all of us cracked the shells, despite warnings from my mom.

            Eventually, we'd carefully lower our egg into the color and then the real fun began – transforming dull white eggs into works of art.

            Some of us gave our egg a two-toned look, while others thought if we left the egg in the same color dye for 10 minutes, ours would be the most beautiful in the carton.

            Hours later, with our eggs tucked into the fridge, we'd head off to bed, dreaming of giant chocolate bunnies and red jelly beans the size of a Buick.

            On Easter morning, we'd run to the living room before dawn to see what the Easter Bunny brought. We always knew which basket was ours because the Easter Bunny used the same baskets year after year, including the same shiny green polyester grass.

            Our bunny was generous, covering the grass with a liberal sprinkling of jelly beans and M&Ms.  We all got a tall chocolate bunny in our baskets and the order of eating said bunny was set in stone:  the white candy eyes were the first to go.  Next we'd snap off the ears and then we'd snap off chocolate body parts until he disappeared.

            Easter Mass we simply endured.

            Not because we had to dress up in stiff clothes and even stiffer shoes.

            Not because we knew the service would take forever.

            Not even because we were wearing Easter hats with a rubber band under our chins that cut off the circulation to our lips.

            The real reason was because for the two hours spent sitting through Sunday Mass, all we could visualize was our Easter basket, filled with half-eaten jelly beans and a dismembered chocolate bunny, calling our names from across town.

            Once we became adults with children of our own, we continued to hide eggs in my parents' back yard every Easter Sunday. After we moved to Texas, we did the same for our boys until the last one left for college.

            Of course, by that time, the Easter Bunny had to replace the chocolate candy in the plastic eggs with dollar bills, but the tradition remained.

            Although I'm no longer helping the Easter Bunny assemble baskets of jelly beans and Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles, I am keeping the bunny's traditions alive – there's green polyester grass in the bottom of an old Easter basket on the counter, waiting for someone to add jelly beans, M&M's and dyed, cracked eggs early Easter Sunday morning.

            Not a bad deal for the Bunny's underwriter.

            Denise Adams' email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com.

 

May the best player roll the dice...

            I looked in the closet the other day and spotted our old board game "Monopoly" on the top shelf. The Scotch tape on the corners was yellowed and cracked, and money and game pieces were scattered in the box, but the game brings back memories.

            As kids, we loved playing "Monopoly," but over the years, we amended the Parker Brothers rules and played by the Hebert rules.

            First, a $500 bill goes in the middle and all fines go in the middle. The first person to land on Free Parking gets all the money. Anybody who rolled "snake eyes" – two 1's on the die – got $500.

            By the book? Nope. But it sure was fun.

            In Scrabble, players could switch out tiles if the word still made sense. That way, we could use the high-ranking letters like "J" and "Z" more than once. Best of all, we could brag we racked up over 300 in Scrabble, conveniently leaving out that lagniappe Hebert rule.

            We played board games for years, mostly on Sunday afternoons where we'd all settle around the kitchen table and decide we could play a friendly game to pass the time.

            We were lying.

            When Heberts play board games, we play for blood.

            "Jeopardy" was our favorite because we all thought we knew more than anybody else in the room. Since we broke the plastic clickers the first time we played – repeated, heavy clicking will not ensure you are heard – every player had to find something to bang on the table to indicate they were ready to answer.

            That worked fine until my brother-in-law – as competitive as the rest of us – dragged in something that weighed five pounds and we all screamed foul.

            Usually it was the guys against the girls, but mostly it was who didn't want Dad on their team. He was a compulsive but fun cheater and would always try to con his way out of a wrong answer.

            Partial answers were dismissed as wrong by the opposing team; and no matter who won the argument, the loser would mutter that only people who didn't have a life would know the answer to the question.

            We also knew each others' strengths and weaknesses. My mother knew movie trivia as if she'd written every word about Hollywood glamour. My father remembered everything about the 1950s and 1960s.  My brothers were good at science, my sisters at literature and my brother Jeff at everything.

            Most of our Jeopardy games were evenly matched until we got to the Final Jeopardy question and each team had to decide how much to wager on the final question.

            We girls were conservative and would only bet half of our winnings. The guys, my maverick dad overriding everyone else's objections on his team, always bet the whole pile of money and yelled out an answer before they could discuss the question.

            When they got it wrong – which was most of the time – no amount of protest on their side would get us to let them give a second, group answer.  We'd walk away, high fiving each other, leaving the boys to pick up and vow revenge the next week.

            As I put all the faded Monopoly money back in the right holders, I thought about those Sunday afternoons. Before I grew too nostalgic, though, I remembered my sister's favorite trick at the end of a Monopoly game after she'd win.  

            She'd pick up the game board by both ends and flip all the money, hotels and playing pieces into the air proclaiming "Loser picks up."  

            Gotta love those Hebert rules.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.            

Bustin' the Fat Myths

                I was listening to National Public Radio, choking down some tasteless fiber cereal with fat-free milk, when the clouds parted and the sun came through. A new study claims a low-fat approach to life might not be all that great.

            Walter Willett, chairman of the department of nutrition at the Harvard School of Public Health, stated that when people replaced saturated fat with carbohydrates, there was no reduction in heart disease.

            I looked at the cardboard cereal floating in pale milk, put it in the sink and hauled out the Frosted Flakes and whole milk, all the while wondering why I totally revise my life based on what so-called experts tell me is the best thing to do only to find out later they might've been mistaken.

            For instance, I found an reputable article stating that fruits and vegetables cause 46 percent of all food poisoning, and leafy greens, like spinach and lettuce, are the biggest culprits because we tend to eat them raw.

            Just as I was shaking my head in disbelief, I saw a headline for an article that exercise might not be all that good for you.

            For years, we've been told to get off the couch, lace up those expensive $150 running shoes and get out the door. But a new scientific study claims that when it comes to rigorous exercise, more isn't always better.

            As someone whose DNA is infused with guilt, these revelations should be cause for celebration, but I've got to face the truth. People who exercise, even just a little, have a lot firmer backsides and thighs than I do.

            I started thinking of some other health myths I've heard over the years. My dad used to tell us that if we watched television for too long, our eyes would grow together until we looked like a Cyclops.

            Untrue, Dad. I watched Saturday morning cartoons for years with no ill effects except I still judge people by which character they think is funnier:  Bugs Bunny or Daffy Duck.

            I've seen every episode of "The Andy Griffith Show" at least three times and I still have two eyes.

            We were told chocolate would make our faces break out and one bite – yes one bite – of a chocolate bar would be our doom.

            Not true.  

            Eating an entire package of candy bars will put on the pounds, but a few Hershey's Kisses will not send you into an immediate heart attack. Nor will a night curled up with the boxed set of "Cheers" DVDs.

            I'm not a doctor, dietician or expert. I'm just sitting at my computer, slurping up the last few soggy flakes at the bottom of my Bugs Bunny cereal bowl, aggravated at all the scientific gobble-de-gook I've accepted at face value over the years.

            I'm mad at myself for drinking weak no-fat milk when I could've had a cup of rich hot chocolate made with whole milk.

            I'm aggravated I gave up double-stuff Oreos for ginger snaps I could use to tile our roof and recently considered buying tofu instead of steak.

            Moderation, I believe is the key. If you want that bowl of ice cream, do so but perhaps after you've ridden on the stationary bike for 20 minutes.

            If you want to watch back-to-back episodes of "Gilligan's Island," do so without worrying about your eyesight.

            Worry about your IQ, but not your eyesight.

            And if you want to jog around the block when you finally drag yourself off the couch, go for it.

            Tony the Tiger would think that's great.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Saving Mr. Hebert

      One of my favorite movies is "Mary Poppins," and I've watched Julie Andrews glide over the houses on Cherry Tree Lane at least a dozen times.

        I'm also a huge Tom Hanks fan, and I own more of his movies than any other actor. So when the movie "Saving Mr. Banks" came out, I was one of the first ones in line.

        I was looking forward to seeing how movie producers coaxed Pamela Travers, the prim author of "Mary Poppins," into allowing Walt Disney to make a singing-and-dancing movie about her beloved nanny.

        As the story unfolded, I became more and more uncomfortable because the movie wasn't what I expected.

        The film wasn't about a nanny; "Saving Mr. Banks" was about Ms. Travers' life and that life was eerily similar to my childhood, a time I usually visit only on the outskirts.

        I've seen movies about alcoholic fathers and their daughters, but none resonated as deeply and as painfully as this movie because my father was so much like Travers' father and I was like Pamela.

        Just like the father in the movie, my dad spun tales of magic that delighted everyone.

        He danced on air like Fred Astaire, told jokes like the best comedian on television and, to me, was as handsome as any movie star. I loved him with all my heart and soul.

        Over time, the booze alienated most people and I realized this bigger-than-life person was the most damaged person in my life and his as well.

 

Acceptance

        My siblings and I have accepted that our father did the best he could. He stumbled a lot, hurt his children deeply, but he finally put away the booze and promised to stay sober.

        For the first few years of his sobriety, I didn't believe that he'd stopped for good. But as he stayed clean for almost 25 years, I came to understand how difficult that decision was to make and how much harder it was to keep that promise to himself and to us.

        When my dad was dying, I felt I'd forgiven him for not being the magical prince I thought him to be.

        But I never lost the anger and I didn't realize that until the closing credits of "Saving Mr. Banks" when I couldn't stop sobbing on my brother's shoulder.

        Over the next few weeks, I accepted the wounds are still there, but more importantly, I realized I was wrong.

        For so many years, I thought I'd risen above the harsh reality I had to face about my Dad and I thought I needed to forgive him.

        What I really needed was for him to forgive me for not being more accepting of his weaknesses, more supportive of his recovery and happier in his redemption.

        I cannot forget the stumbling man who came in smelling like beer nor can I forget the man who built up so many dreams for himself and then, one by one, watched them crumble to dust.

        But I can forgive, and it's about time.

        So if my father was here, I'd ask him to come with me on an adventure. Not as magical as the tales he spun for me when I was a child, but something a little more practical.  

        Let's go fly a kite, Dad, up where the air is clear and there are no recriminations, anger or blame.

        Just unconditional love and acceptance for the flawed yet unforgettable man who made me believe in the importance of two intangibles – magic and make believe.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

       

A Sweet Little Creamery

            As impersonal chain stores dot almost every retail corner, finding mom-and-pop businesses is becoming harder and harder. I had the pleasant opportunity recently to speak with Vernon Brian, an 80-year-old who still gets up at 6 a.m. to milk cows on his family-owned dairy, Feliciana's Best Creamery, a family-owned dairy in Louisiana.  

            I heard about the dairy through my youngest son. He's a big fan of the dairy's Cream Line Whole Milk. The difference between this milk and what's sold in supermarkets is the Cream Line milks are hormone free and pasteurized, not homogenized.

            That means the milk is safe, but the milk needs to be shaken so the cream floating at the top incorporates into the milk mixture. On a recent trip to Louisiana, I decided to visit the dairy myself and see if what I'd read about the Creamery was true.

            I maneuvered through winding back roads in Feliciana Parish to where the dairy is located. A cow dog accompanied me down a gravel road past tan and white cows, lazily grazing on green grass.

            The road ended at a small shed with a sign on the door – "Come on in." Inside there were two small refrigerators, and a wooden table had a metal cash box with a hand-written note taped to the top.

            The paper instructed customers to pick out what they needed from the fridge and put the money in the box.

            I was pleasantly surprised to see there are still people in this world who not only trust the customer but that there was money in the cash box from people who'd gotten there before me.

            A cardboard sign was tacked to the wall with prices for the dairy's offerings – fresh, churned butter, heavy cream, whole milk, chocolate milk and low-fat milk. I loaded six gallons into an ice chest and put my money in the cash box.

            About that time, an elderly gentleman, wearing faded overalls, a straw hat and a big smile, came my way.

            "Hi there, I'm Vernon Brian, the one who started this dairy," he said.

The Patriarch

            Vernon told me his great-grandfather bought 500 acres back in 1908 in Slaughter, La. Vernon decided he wanted to have his own dairy, and he slowly built a reputable business on the family land. In 1990, his son, Mike, decided to work the dairy full time with his family.

            Over the years, the Brians bought all the equipment to process and bottle their own milk on their property. Four years ago, the Brians cut back the herd to only 37 milk cows – mostly raised by their children through 4H – so they could continue to run the dairy the old-fashioned way.

            That includes having all members of the family involved in the business. Photos on the dairy's website show three generations working together in the dairy and on the land. They're working to create a product they believe is healthier and a reflection of an honest days' work.  

            It's refreshing to come across a family-owned business that doesn't take shortcuts and believes in hard work. These types of businesses are the backbone of our country, and they constantly fight against impersonal conglomerates that often sacrifice customer service for lower prices.

            Those old-fashioned values of a family sticking together to create a product they're proud to call theirs is as satisfying as a slice of hot apple pie accompanied by a glass of ice-cold milk.

            And if that milk has a layer of thick cream at the top, then that's some good livin'.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Looking beyond stereotypes

            I just finished watching the well-written and well-acted HBO mini-series “True Detective.” Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson were the stars and executive producers, and the story slowly unfolded, surprising viewers each and every episode.

By the end, we were rooting for these two flawed detectives and, at the same time, left with images that the back roads and towns of Louisiana were filled smoke-spewing oil refineries and ignorant, evil people.

            Not true.

            It’s easy to think Louisiana is nothing more than a concrete highway dotted with Popeye’s Fried Chicken franchises. Beyond the interstates and main highways, though, lies a beautiful state with a generous people.

            On recent trips to Baton Rouge, we’ve taken detours up highways west of the capitol city to avoid the traffic backups over the Mississippi River. The diversions are a satisfying choice as the landscape is a welcome relief from rushing casino-bound traffic.

On quiet roads, we’ve traveled past densely-packed sugar cane fields as far as the eye could see. Majestic oak trees, their Spanish moss swaying in the branches like a woman’s silk scarf, line up like sentries through these small towns.

Houses are located away from the highway, and most feature an inviting wrap-around Acadian-style front porch. That style of architecture dates back dozens of years to early settlers who spent evenings gathered on the porches to enjoy the breezes, courtesy of the state’s many rivers and bayous.

            We’ve stopped at small antique shops, and the shopkeepers couldn’t have been nicer. People milled through the stores, and their Cajun-accented conversations were delightful to the ear. The air was filled with laughter and exchanges with us and other people in the store.

            A trip over Spring Break took me past parks and baseball diamonds filled with youngsters ready for spring ball. No voodoo or backwoods people here – the parking lots were filled with Suburbans and mini-vans, just as they are in every other state.

The state’s tried to make a name for herself with shows like “Swamp People” that draws thousands of visitors, but they leave people with the impression all Louisianans walk around muttering “choot-em.”

            While the former governor, Edwin Edwards, humiliated himself with a show about him and his young wife, most people cringed knowing this charlatan was once again milking somebody for money at the expense of his own dignity and, ultimately, that of a state that put her trust in him and had it betrayed time and time again by those who sacrificed a good people for a quick buck.

While I applaud the producers of “True Detective” for bringing their money to the state, I’m saddened thinking those not familiar with the South would believe those dark, dingy bars, crooks and backwoods people are all that make up the Bayou State.

It’s the same with those who think Texas is nothing more than braggarts and women with big hair who spend every other day in the nail salon or that people from New York are rude or people from Wisconsin walk around with a fake block of cheese on their head.

We need to stop judging states by what’s on the surface and take a look at the lifeblood of each and every state – the people and families quietly going about their business.

The next time you head east through Louisiana, take a side trip off the concrete chute and leisurely tour the back roads. Take time to savor a cup of café-au-lait and beignets and visit with the owners. Find the beauty that’s shyly hiding in a state that’s often painted with a narrow brush.

You won’t be disappointed, cher.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.