Family Game Night

When I was growing up in the 1950s, Charades was a favorite game in our family.

We played in the living room. Mother was one team captain and Daddy was the other. Each captain "acted out" the book, movie, famous quotation, person place, or thing and scored points when their team correctly guessed the right answer in 2 minutes or less.

I especially loved "sounds like" clues. My brothers and I would get so excited sometimes that one of us might blurt out the song title or famous person's name even though we were on the other side's team. No telling what happened next. Either we'd roll off the couch laughing ourselves silly, or scream "No fair!" and try to pinch the culprit.

Years later Pictionary came on the scene. Instead of acting out, we attempted to draw a person, place, animal, action or something "difficult" (meaning the word was difficult to represent in a drawing) in a minute or less so our team could correctly guess what it was. The rules prohibited you from drawing pictures that contained any letters or numbers (such as a yellow car with "Taxi" written in the door) or using verbal clues about what you were drawing.

There were a couple of spin-offs--Fast Draw and Win, Lose or Draw. Or were they precursors?  I don't remember.

My sweetie and I are going to visit my brother and his wife at their get-away place outside of Dallas. I heard Hasbro brought back Pictrionary a couple of years ago, and I'm going to look for the game at Walmart, take it to my brother's ranch and see if Mark still has his artist's touch.

If Ronnie blurts the answer out of turn, I may pinch him. But more 'n likely, I'll just laugh myself silly.

Holiday Cooking

‘Tis the season for holiday celebrations, family traditions and making memories.

One of the most sacred customs is home cooking. Turkeys are the focal point for many family tables, but how the turkey is prepared depends on regional traditions—from deep fried turkeys with cornbread dressing to roasted turkey with oyster stuffing and every variation imaginable. The side dishes vary a bit also, but traditional recipes and menu selections run as deeply as family roots. 

Some of my favorite family stories come from my younger brother’s adherence to our mother’s choice of meal preparation. When Mark married Michelle, an ardent healthy eating homemaker, he introduced Michelle’s young son to at least two menu items he’d never experienced: white bread and beef. As Mark remembers, Kolby loved the purity of the white bread over wheat, and when the youngster tasted beef for the first time, he opined: “This is the best chicken I’ve ever eaten!”

In contrast, Mark is not as adventurous in his eating habits and resists changes to his diet. As I indicated before, he is faithful to the food he grew up with. Take, for instance, the first time Michelle cooked for Thanksgiving. She bought a free-range turkey, organic cranberries, and fresh green beans from the Farmer’s Market, among other things. Mark was mortified. “Where’d you get this stuff? Our turkey needs to be a Butterball! And this cranberry relish is all wrong. We have to have Ocean Spray cranberry sauce. And Del Monte canned beans, honey, you should have gotten Del Monte—and the string beans, not the fancy French cut.” (Oh the trials and errors we go through as newly married.)

I cooked for Thanksgiving this year. Yes, I cooked a Butterball turkey, made green bean casserole (made with Del Monte green beans, Campbell’s, cream of mushroom soup and French’s fried onion rings), along with Mother’s recipe for cornbread stuffing, Del Monte canned corn, fruit salad, and dinner rolls (with real butter not margarine). The pumpkin and pecan pies were “homemade” from HEB, but tasted as well or better than I could have done. I cooked for my man, my son and a neighbor. Afterwards Ronnie asked: “How did you know how to cook all this?” Why, from my momma, of course.

Since then I have asked my colleagues at work how they made their family holiday meal and I was so surprised to hear the younger ones (ages 30s and 40s) don’t have recipes. If they don’t go to their mother’s house, they buy the cooked turkeys and all the trimmings from grocery stores—or they take the family out to a restaurant or hotel. Okay, I Admit, I’ve done the same, but I do know how to do it myself and these friends are saying they do not.

I’m saddened. The holidays are times for family gatherings, and mealtime is the best part of it because everyone is at the same table and talking with each other… assuming the TV trays in front of the big screen and the smart phones are banned. I feel the tradition may be endangered, and that is not a good thing for us as a people.

I believe the importance of Thanksgiving and Christmas and other December family celebrations ought to be embraced and cherished. It is a time for us to reacquaint ourselves with one another in our immediate family and/or our family of choice, along with our extended family. We do this best over a beautiful meal prepared by loving hands.

I will yield to the idea that the holiday menu does not necessarily have to be rigidly followed, from mother to daughter ad infinitum, and that even favorite sons should be more open to the gifts of their wives. Michelle eased Mark away from his questionable tastes by replacing the traditional dinner of his childhood with a delicious one fit for his manly tastes, and now a tradition in their home. Among other things, it includes a prime rib roast instead of a Butterball turkey.

As for my family here in Navasota, my guys will joyfully eat anything I prepare, but I know their favorites so I think, for Christmas, I’ll prepare the first thing I ever learned to cook as a young girl in Texas: chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and cream gravy. Oh, and canned green beans and corn… you know which brand.

HAPPY HOLIDAY COOKING, Y’ALL.

Family dogs

My sweetie and I recently moved to Navasota, and with us came three dogs. We're a blended family--Lucy, the oldest, is his; Jazz, the smallest, is mine; and Riley, the fast-growing pup, is ours. Labrador, Shih-Tzu, and Springer.

Riley is rambunctious, rowdy, and the life of the party. He's 11 months old and leaps, like a jack rabbit or antelope, rather than runs. He love-bites Lucy, pounces on her like a kid bushwhacking an older sibling, and chases around the yard like a dust storm. Lucy is subdued and maternal, sort of like a menopausal mom. She's patient and will rough-house with Riley, tugging with a rawhide or squeaky toy, until she gets tired. When that happens, her growl will change from playful to a don't-mess-with-me tone, and Riley backs off.

Jazz, who was an only dog for six years and still hangs onto that notion, is stand-offish with the other dogs. She flops off by herself and watches the frolicking with tepid interest. She's used to being pampered, not pawed, and she sees no logic in pretending to like Riley's attention.

My sweetie fenced in the yard and put a wire kennel on the back porch for the dogs. Lucy and Riley pile together inside the kennel. There's plenty of room for Jazz, too, but she sleeps outside on the porch by the back door. What can I say? She does not share well; she wants her own space. My sweetie, who understands that every dog is as unique as its paw print, is building her something to fit.

When we leave the house for errands, I bribe the dogs with milk bones so they won't whimper and yowl. Lucy gobbles her treat in three bites. Riley takes longer, but he chomps it down pretty fast. Jazz, on the other hand, grabs her treat with her sharp little teeth and retreats under the picnic table. Like a princess having her own private tea party, she mouths the treat and takes tiny bites, making it last. Lucy will eat as many as you give her, but she won't steal from the others. Riley? Well, that's another matter. With his eyes averted, he takes the sand crab approach, walking sideways but moving closer to Jazz. Jazz isn't fooled though, and she growls around the treat that sticks out of her mouth like a slim cigarillo, letting Riley know that she'll take a piece of him before he will get a piece of her treat.

I sit in the backyard with them in the mornings while my sweetie does his man chores. Riley will pounce around the yard with a chewy bone in his mouth as a challenge to Lucy or Jazz. Sometimes Lucy will chase after him. If the chew bone drops and they continue to parry and play, Jazz will walk over, get it, and scoot back where I'm sitting in the shade of a Bartlett pear tree. She'll nestle between my feet and gnaw on the bone, confident that the other two will consider her off limits. Doesn't matter. Riley is more interested in having a good time than in chewing a gnarly old bone crusted with dirt. Lucy tires before Riley and drops in a cool bed of clover. Riley paws at her, trying to get her back in the game, but she ignores him. He gives up and bounces over to the fence to play sentry guard, checking the perimeter. The neighbor's cat, hidden in the monkey grass, is startled to its feet, and Riley howls. All three dogs are suddenly in hot pursuit, but the cat fires through the fence to safety.

My sweetie is a former police officer, so he's adamant about locking the house and securing the gates. He thinks there's an element out there in any community that, given the chance, will rob you blind, so he believes in canceling their chances. I'm more trusting, but my trust is in our dogs. They're sweet and loving and loyal. But I have no doubt, they'd eat you alive before they'd let you burglarize our home. They're territorial and protective. Just ask the cat.