Feminine Wiles

The Ties -- And Bracelets -- That Bind.

wilesc@aol.com — Sun, 19 May 2013 17:52:09 PDT

I have a special bracelet.

My bracelet is so special that some 360 days of the year, it remains nestled, safe and snug, in my top right dresser drawer. On those rare annual occasions that I release it from captivity and dare to parade it out in public, it is my piece of jewelry that friends and strangers notice and admire the most.

About an inch and half wide, my special bracelet is silver with pearls and aquamarine crystals. It hugs my wrist. Although it wasn’t all that expensive, it is absolutely precious. Utterly irreplaceable. And it comes with a great story.

I always – and I mean always -- receive lavish compliments when I wear my special bracelet. No other piece of jewelry comes close. This is the winner. Hands down.

Such a special bracelet, as you might have guessed, is custom-made. As you might not have guessed – as no friend or stranger ever guesses – my special bracelet was carefully constructed from a conglomeration of silvery safety pins. The aquamarine “crystals” are pressed from plastic. And with each wearing, the fabricated “pearls” lose their iridescent finish, one shimmering flake at a time.

I’ve had the privilege of knowing the artist for many years. He made the bracelet when he was eight years old and in elementary school. It was a Mother's Day gift. He is now 18. And graduating from high school.

This Friday, one of us will be processing to Pomp and Circumstance, as one of us will be weeping in the stands. One of us will be looking, eagerly, toward the future. One of us will be looking, wistfully, at the past. One of us will be bedecked in a cap and gown. And one of us will be wearing a deceptively inexpensive bracelet.

Made of safety pins.

Not the world’s most powerful fastener, but in my mind, yet another way that me and my firstborn will remain pinned together.

Please, please, please. Please pass the Kleenex.

Crying At The Drop Of A Cap. And Gown.

wilesc@aol.com — Mon, 06 May 2013 16:28:38 PDT

I can cry at the drop of the hat.

That’s not always been the case. At least, not since I was a hormonal teenager and could cry over spilt milk, Coca-Cola commercials (remember Mean Joe Green?), unappreciative siblings, unthinking classmates, and the possibility that I’d somehow disappointed my parents. Even 30 years later, navigating the wretched waters of divorce and single parenthood, I wasn’t much of a crier. (Which is a good thing, because although my beloved fiancé can handle many, many things, tears aren’t among them.)

But that was then. This is now. Now, now, now, now. NOW.

Carter graduates in a few weeks. (Eighteen days and 22 hours and 56 minutes, because, yes, I’m counting. And because, yes, there’s an app for that.)

To be certain, Julia and DB and I are over the moon to know that Carter will attend the University of Georgia this fall, particularly when the deal has been sweetened with a scholarship. I’m in awe that Carter earned the rank of Eagle Scout in this, his senior year. I’m grateful that he’s handling this period with grace and diligence and, more important, patience and humor. Our home bubbles with laughter. I should be reveling.

But then, I look out my bedroom window, and glimpse a shiny-eyed Carolina Wren cautiously flitting into the eaves of my back porch with tidbits of mown grass and dog hair, and my eyes well. As she prepares for her babies, one of mine prepares to leave.

So yes. I can cry at the building of a bird’s nest. And that’s not all. In recent days, I’ve cried at the addressing of graduation announcements. At the humming of Pomp and Circumstance. At the purchasing of graduation gifts. And at the dropping of a hat. Particularly when that hat is part of a cap and gown.

As Julia once said, I need to “build a bridge and GET OVER IT.” There is, after all, an upside, right? ‘Cause let’s face it, when a hat drops, I am the only person in the family trained to pick it up. One fewer person in the house probably translates into me picking up 13 fewer hats.

When Carter goes off to college, I’ll only have to run the garbage disposal for one other person, not two, because, after 18 years, I remain the family member who has unraveled the mystery of how and when to flip that switch.

When Carter goes off to college, Julia and I will be able to speak freely about “girl” stuff, like who’s going to prom, who wore the best dress to the Oscars, who needs to put down the hummus and eat a cheeseburger, and who is plainly having “that time of the month.” OK. Truth be told, we do that already.

When Carter goes off to college, DB and I won’t have to keep count of the beers in the fridge. (If you have to ask, please don’t.)

And let's not forget that, when Carter goes off to college, so will his friends, whom I’ll no longer have to simultaneously regard as fun-loving-18-year-old comics with fabulous taste in music and potential-18-year-old predators in a house with my 16-year-old daughter.

Sigh. Who am I kidding? I can’t “build the bridge,” much less “get over it.” I love these guys. I love my son. I love witnessing this time in his life.

Eighteen days, 22 hours and 42 minutes to go.

Anybody have a Kleenex? And for Pete's sake, can't somebody pick up that hat?

Cream Of Cauliflower Soup

Although Carter is an adventurous eater (octopus sashimi comes to mind), vegetables in general, and cauliflower in specific, are not his favorite. Julia and I, however, love this soup and will enjoy it much more often -- when Carter goes off to college.

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 medium onion, chopped

1 rib of celery, chopped

1 carrot chopped

3 tablespoons flour

1 teaspoon kosher salt

½ teaspoon fresh ground black pepper

¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper

1 bay leaf

1 quart of chicken broth

1 head of cauliflower, cut into bitesize pieces

1 potato, peeled and diced

½ cup cream (optional)

Fresh chives, minced

Curry powder (optional)

In a large, lidded saucepan, heat butter and olive oil over medium heat. Lightly sauté onion, celery and carrot until softened, but not browned. Stir in flour and seasonings. Sauté a few minutes, until thick and pasty. Gradually stir in chicken broth. When fully incorporated, drop in cauliflower and potato, and bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer until vegetables are very tender. Remove about a cup and half of cauliflower florets and set aside. Use an immersion blender to purée soup. Taste for seasoning. Return reserved cauliflower florets to pot, and stir in cream, if using. Serve hot, garnished with fresh chives and (optional) curry powder.

The Moon Is Shiny.And Josie Is Josie.

wilesc@aol.com — Sun, 05 May 2013 09:11:53 PDT

I am dog tired, tuckered out, and doing the 12-second blink. I daydream about sleep. I crave it, plan it, fantasize about it. But I’m not getting nearly enough of it.

It’s not just because this 50-year body is built for eight-hours a night. And it’s not because I lay awake thinking of my high school senior marching across a stage to the sounds of Pomp and Circumstance.

It's because of our four-legged family member, Josie. J-Dog. Simple Dog. Josie-The-Rescue-Dog. Or most often "Just Josie."

We “rescued” her some three years ago. Ours was the first home she'd ever been inside, and we suspect that we were the first humans who, in her memory, didn't starve or strike or otherwise abuse her. We give her food and water. We give her attention and love. We’ve even given her training. Not once, but twice. Not that it took, but still. Twice.

Josie has never had it so good. But from what we can tell, she doesn’t how to give back. So she repays us with what she has to offer: uncertainty, disregard, and barking. Barking, barking, barking. Bark, bark, bark.

Bark.

But only at night.

1:30 a.m. is her time of choice. And why does she bark? Well, if we had to guess, we'd say her thought process runs along these lines:

“Is that the moon?

I think it’s the moon.

It’s bright and shiny and, wait, is somebody calling me?

Hey, there’s the moon.

Where are the lizards?

There was a lizard here earlier today.

Maybe if I bark, the lizard will come back.

And bring his lizard friends.

I like lizards.

Wait. Is that the moon?

Why does that person keeping hollering?

Who is Josie?

Ooh. A raccoon. Do I like raccoons?

Where is that lizard?

Is that the moon?

I wish that person would stop calling and whistling.

It makes it hard for me to focus on the moon.

And the lizards.

See that moon? It’s shiny.

Lizards are not.”

Pretty much sums it up. The moon is shiny, lizards are not, and Josie is just Josie. Repaying us with everything of which she is capable. And hopefully, much better for it.

Zucchini Crisps

For dinner tonight, it's just me and Josie, so I'm having zucchini, which I will share with Josie, and pinto noir, which I will not.

1/4 cup panko bread crumbs

1/4 cup freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano

1 medium zucchini, cut in thickish rounds

1 tablespoon olive oil (break out the good stuff)

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

lemon wedges

Preheat over to 400 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper (which makes cleanup a snap). Combine bread crumbs and cheese on a large dinner plate. Toss zucchini slices with olive oil, coating well. Place zucchini slices on crumbs, and press extra crumbs on top of each slice. Place on parchment lined baking sheet. Season well with salt and pepper. Bake for 10 minutes or until golden brown. Remove from oven and serve, with lemon wedges.

Ready Or Not: Pomp And Circumstance Is About To Play

wilesc@aol.com — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 06:30:57 PDT

Carter graduates in five weeks. OK. If you do the math, he graduates in five weeks, three days, 11 hours and 30 minutes.

I know. There’s an app for that. But I’m doing my level best not to keep track. What possible good could come from remembering that he leaves for college in precisely three months, three weeks, and one day?

I don’t want to know. Despite my role as family planner, overbearing maestro and queen bossy-pants, I’m doing my level best to avoid “knowing.” Let the court consider this the prime piece of evidence: Did I not manufacture the ultimate distraction by packing up and moving to the Lake smack in the middle of Carter’s senior year?

As I deal with the aftermath of moving – the lost and misplaced items, the never-ending stream of household repairs, my struggle to understand the inner-workings of new appliances and systems, and the boxes, the endless stacks of still-packed boxes -- these past six weeks have bubbled over with even more distractions.

In March, we hosted a French exchange student, celebrated Carter’s 18^th and Julia’s 16^th birthdays, and traveled with 26 other families to spend Spring Break in the Dominican Republic. So far in April, we’ve celebrated Carter’s Eagle award and hosted 30-some kids for an after prom party. Today alone, my car broke down, the septic system alarm sounded, the icemaker broke again, and the garage door refused to close. Still, I know I’ll wake up tonight, just like nearly every other night, with the same mournful thought: He’s almost gone.

I didn’t see this coming. In fact, I’ve always claimed I’d celebrate as my kids scoot the coop. For me, parenting teenagers isn’t merely challenging and thought-provoking, it’s flat-out wearying and exhausting. I, for one, am tired of staying awake ‘til my chickadees get home from the game on Friday nights. I’m worn out from riding herd on hormones and keeping up with social media. I’m tired of talking about colleges and testing and AP exams. And talking about which classmates have the most fabulous clothes, cars, houses and trust funds? Don’t get me started.

But as we hurtle toward graduation and college, I don't want this time to end.

I’m going to miss Carter. Julia and I both will. For all his hard-headed habits and maddening methodology (did he really think that putting his shoes in the freezer would make them smell better?), Carter brings levity and mirth (now there’s an SAT word!) to our home. Carter is, in fact, an entire test-full of SAT words: obstinate, persistent, petulant, disdainful, belligerent, mercurial, contrary, truculent, vociferous, ingenious, assiduous, sublime. He makes me think, and he challenges me. He harasses Julia, and he supports her. He teases us when we watch “Crazy Stupid Love” nearly every weekend, and then, he watches it with us. He takes out the trash. He makes playlists for me to listen to at work. And this week, for the first time ever, he included a photo of me on his Facebook page.

Out of nowhere. Which made me cry.

Whatever will I do without him?

Rosemary White Bean Dip

One thing Julia and I agree on is that, when Carter leaves for college, we'll eat a lot more "chick" food, including this super-easy, super-tasty, and super-cheap dip!

1 can of white beans (cannellini) drained

1 teaspoon fresh rosemary, minced

3 tablespoons (good) exra virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1/4 teaspoon hot sauce (or more to taste)

Pulse all ingredients in a food processor, or, even easier, blend with an immersion blender until mostly smooth. Serve with chips.

Three days before Thanksgiving, and we are counting our blessings.

wilesc@aol.com — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 08:39:30 PST

First things first. Everyone’s fine. Okey dokey. Hunky dory. No worries. Move on, dot com.

OK. Second things second. My teenaged children, Carter and Julia, were in an accident today. Someone turned out in front of them, crossing two lanes of traffic, and there they were – both my eggs in one little white 5-speed Volvo basket, cruising at 30 mph into the side of a Toyota SUV whatever-the-hell, because to be honest, although I later had the opportunity to stare at it for a good 40 minutes and can recall the color of it, I can’t recall the model.

Fifteen-year-old Julia is the one who called. “Mom?”

“What’s wrong?”

And then, I just listened. Um, maybe not, because if I’d been listening, I’d remember at least 20% of what she said, right?

So I suppose I just talked. Um, right. Maybe not. I know I tried to sound calm. I know I made a real effort to sound as if I knew what was going on. I know I tried to project confidence.

But in hindsight, it’s possible I just vomited questions. Seriously. It's entirely possible I just spewed hot, sloppy, verbal projectiles à la Linda Blair. “Are you OK? What happened? Where are you? What happened? Where’s your brother? What happened? Did you call the police? What happened? OK. It’s OK to be scared. I’m getting in the car right now. Talk me in.”

And as I regurgitated questions, I snatched up a key, my license, some shoes, and went to find my children.

Remember. They were fine. No harm, no blood, no air bags, no foul.

Still, I can’t help thinking of what “could have” been. As the driver, 17-year-old Carter inevitably thinks about how the accident wouldn't have occurred if only they’d stayed an extra 30 seconds at school or if only they’d stopped to get gas or if only he'd gone to the gym to workout, and I, well, I can’t help thinking … just thinking.

But everyone’s fine. Not exactly able to focus on tomorrow’s World History and AP Euro tests, but fine. We’re just a couple of days before Thanksgiving, and we are already counting our blessings.

Of which, as we have been well-reminded Chez Wiles, we have plenty.

Sausage Scramble
In the aftermath of the accident, we had "brinner" -- breakfast for dinner -- which was quick, easy and comforting for all of us!

1/2 pound bulk breakfast sausage (we prefer Neese's)
1/2 small onion, finely chopped
6 eggs
2 tablespoons water
kosher salt
fresh ground pepper
1 tablespoon minced fresh chives

In a large skillet over medium heat, brown sausage and onion until crumbly. Meanwhile, whisk eggs together with water in a medium bowl, season with salt and pepper. Drain excess fat from skillet, and then, pour beaten eggs on top of sausage mixture. Reduce heat to low, and cook, stirring, until eggs are set. Sprinkle with chives and serve with toast and grits.

An Adventure At Age 50.An Adventure At Any Age.

wilesc@aol.com — Thu, 04 Oct 2012 16:33:45 PDT

I choose to refer to it as an "adventure."

True, I turned 50 two weeks ago. I turned 50, sold my house and put a contract on a house on the Lake. And yes, it is Carter's senior year of high school, which means we're pretty busy here with the whole college and graduating "business" (and it is a "business," but that's a topic for another post), and yes, it will be just me and Julia at home next year, and yes, I fully intend to make DB live up to his promise to marry me when Julia graduates. Which means, yes, I'll be moving to Charleston in three years.

Still, moving to the Lake in the interim doesn't necessarily signal a mid-life crisis. Nor is it "insanity," or "impetuous" or "rash."

"Adventure," remember? "Adventure" is the word I'm looking for. Or, in a pinch, "carpe diem."

Julia and I are keenly aware of the gaping hole we'll face when Carter heads to college next fall, so listmakers that we are, we maintain a "When Carter's Gone" list. For example, "When Carter's gone, we'll eat more salad." "When Carter's gone, we'll take yoga." "When Carter's gone, we'll get an exchange student," which sounds just like getting a kitten, in that we'll be dealing with language neither of us speaks, but better, because there's no litter box.

A few months back, Julia tacked something new on the list, "When Carter's gone, we'll live at the Lake."

To which, Carter, who was entirely in favoring of dodging salad and yoga and exchange students, responded, in essence, "What the aitch? I wanna live at the Lake."

The way I see it, I only have a couple more years -- or in the case of Carter, months -- of full-time, hands-on parenting. I'll always be their mom, of course, but God willing, they won't always be under my roof. They won't always be my funny, thoughtful, insightful dinner companions. They're already slipping away, moving on, spending less and less time with me. It's not that I want to cling to this time. I want to cherish it.

So yes, we're moving to the Lake. Yes, I understand the transaction costs. Yes, I understand the longer commute. Yes, I understand that I'll no longer be able to walk to Starbucks. And yes, moving is a colossal, miserable, unremitting pain.

But it's also an adventure. I'm 50 years old, and I'm heading out on an adventure. With my kids.

Carpe diem.

Three-Way Caesar Dinner

I don't have any regrets about relocating to the Lake, but I do need to watch my budget to make everything work. Using a single ingredient as a marinade/sauce/dressing is tasty and budget-friendly, to boot!

Caesar Dressing/Marinade/Sauce

1 clove garlic

2 teaspoons anchovy paste

1/4 cup fresh lemon juice

1/2 cup olive oil

1/2 teaspoon hot sauce

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon fresh ground pepper

3 boneless chicken breasts

12 oz medium chicken noodles

1 bag romaine "salad"

Make dressing/marinade/sauce but combining garlic, anchovy paste, oil, lemon juice, hot sauce salt and pepper in a blender. (Or, even easier, combine using an immersion blender until smooth.)

Place raw chicken breasts in a zippered plastic bag with one third of the caesar dressing. Allow to marinate at room temperature for about 30 minutes.

Grill chicken until done.

As chicken grills, boil noodles in a large pot of very well salted water until done. Drain and toss with one third of the caesar dressing.

When chicken is done, allow to rest for 10 minutes, before slicing on the diagonal and tossing with hot noodles. Toss salad with remaining dressing, and serve alongside chicken and noodles.

Soap -- It's NotJust For Washing Any More

wilesc@aol.com — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 11:49:41 PDT

I sleep with a bar of soap.

It's not what you think. Unless you think that a white cake of Dial or Irish Spring (but not Ivory or Dove) has magical, medicinal powers, fending off muscle cramps, back spasms, migraine headaches, and perhaps, even the common cold, in which case, it is exactly what you think.

This past August, in the wake of my questionable decision to sign up for the Cooper River Bridge Run, I threw out my back. It was a kind of routine injury for me, but this time, I really did it good -- teary-eyed and crumpled on the floor, before being driven to the doctor by my teenaged son.

Few things bring on unsolicited advice -- both medical and not -- like a doctor's visit. Well-meaning friends and family suggested all kinds of cures -- heating pads and ice packs, exercise and bedrest, hot tea and Scotch, massages and chiropractic treatment all made the list. As did soap.

No kidding. A close family member suggested that I tuck a bar between my mattress and box spring. She even went so far as to suggest that I get some of those little hotel soaps and keep them in my pocket. And since the "advisor" was my mom -- with 20 years actual medical experience -- I did.

And wouldn't you know it? About eight weeks later, my back issue was resolved. Of course, it could've been the months of physical therapy. Or, it could've been the prescription drugs, which, at the very least, altered my thinking sufficiently so I found it entirely reasonable to order $300 worth of "Steals and Deals" from The Today Show website one Thursday morning. While I was at home. Not at work. In other words, squandering money while not making money.

Or, it could've been that little white cake of Dial.

In any event, I got back on my feet, and in January, got back into training. Now, tomorrow morning, I aim to complete a 10K run across the Cooper River Bridge.

And, yes, tonight I'll be sleeping with a bar of soap. Just in case.

Sadly I haven't lost a single pound (what the aitch?) while preparing for the run, even though I've been eating pretty healthily. One of our current favorites is this simple Caesar Salad with Parmesan Crisps. I'll post the recipe soon -- but for now, I've got to run!

Darling Daughter At Age 15

wilesc@aol.com — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 11:33:49 PDT

Yesterday, Darling Daughter turned 15.

Today, she got her driver’s permit.

She’s stretching her wings, while I’d prefer to snugly swaddle her once again in the sweet pink jersey blanket her grandmother bought when she was born and which is, even now, tucked under the pillow on her queen-sized bed. She’s ready to take flight, while I’m reminiscing about her very first self-assured steps across the hardwood floor of our family room.

As the two of us leave the surprisingly uncrowded and pleasant DMV office, I’m worried – near frantic. I realize I’m not done with her yet. There’s still so much I want her to know – so much I want to teach, so much I want to share.

But Darling Daughter is already a teenager. I know less and less about the daily details of her life. Does she have a French test this week? Does she like her English teacher? Did she eat all of her lunch today? Does her backpack need to be cleaned out? Is she out of deodorant? Are her socks too small?

Beats me. She handles all that on her own – quietly, gracefully, uneventfully.

She’s taller than me, she’s stronger than me, she bristles at my parenting style. But I’m not done.

I haven’t yet taught her to shake a little cayenne pepper into chocolate cake batter and a little salt into chocolate frosting.

I haven’t yet revealed that guys are impressed with a girl who knows how to drive a boat. And that it doesn’t matter what guys think.

She doesn’t yet know that she’s smarter than she thinks and more capable that she realizes. I haven’t made it clear that she can do oh-so-much more; but that she doesn’t have to do anything more for me. She's funny, she's insightful, she's wise. She is control of her own happiness, her own joy.

As we drive back to school, freshly-minted driver’s permit on the backseat, I know she has no idea of the blessings and pride she brings into my life. And then, abruptly, she asks, “Are those chickens?” I squint at the 18-wheeler five or six car lengths ahead of us. “I don’t think so. I think they are turkeys.”

And sure enough, we find ourselves at 50 miles an hour, trailing a truckload of turkeys, headed to the next, um, “exit.” “OMG. What is he doing?,” Darling Daughter squeals, “Is he peeing?”

And sure enough, one of the turkeys empties out enough urine to make a racehorse prance with pride. But not on our Honda Pilot. We smoothly change lanes, as the Jeep Cherokee beside us is christened with poultry urine.

Always look ahead. Lesson number one for Darling Daughter’s 15^th year.

Assuming I can share a lesson-a-day with her this year, that’s three hundred and sixty-four to go.

Happy birthday, Julia Wiles. I hope you can bear with me. I still have a lot to share. And from you, I still have a lot to learn.

No new recipe today, as we celebrated the birthday girl's special day with dinner out and her favorite Chocolate-Chocolate-Chocolate Cake. Just click to find the recipe. And be sure to sprinkle a little cayenne in the batter and salt in the frosting.

Mom On The (Bridge) Run

wilesc@aol.com — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 11:32:11 PDT

What was I thinking?

Or really, when I signed up for the 35^th Cooper River Bridge Run, was I thinking at all?

Apparently not, because my registration packet has now arrived via USPS and even though I haven’t yet “been there and done that,” I do have the t-shirt, along with a race bib with “Cheryl” imprinted on it and a computer timing chip built-in.

Let me be clear: I am not a runner. I'm a 49-year-old mom who would never be confused for a runner. A single glance tells all: I am not built for speed. If anything, I’m built for sauvignon blanc. Or, in the right company, single-malt scotch. I didn’t run track in high school. I’ve never run away. I’d never consider running for office. I’ve never even run out of gas.

OK. I have had my share of runs, but that was back in the days of pantyhose, and I can assure you that a silver "egg" of Suntan Sheer Energy L’Eggs did nothing to prepare me to run 10 kilometers in a pack of 43,999 athletes from Mt. Pleasant over the (new) Cooper River Bridge and into downtown Charleston.

I am, however, making an effort. I have a training schedule. An eye-popping neon yellow top so Cougar Bait can rescue me after race. And new shoes. I know. In most situations, "new shoes" would cure all ills. But when it comes to running shoes, maybe not so much. My 17-year-old son's response to my recent "mile-time" stat was, “Gawd, Mom. Were you even trying?”

Was I trying? Did my hunched-over hobble to the sofa not give it away? Where are crutches when you need them?

With the run now two weeks away, I am verging on panic. Yesterday, I pushed to prove that I can go the distance. The good news is that it turns out that I can. The bad news is that the weather must be perfect, that I’m on a course I know like the back of my hand, and that 43,999 other people aren’t running with me.

Maybe I just need to eat better. Something like this Seared Ginger-Lime Salmon with Slaw.

Nah. What am I thinking? It can’t be that easy. It can however, be pretty darn tasty!

Seared Ginger-Lime Salmon with Slaw

I use the same, super-flavorful mix for both the marinade and the dressing. This amount will work with up to four salmon fillets.

Pieces of salmon fillet

Napa cabbage, sliced in ribbons (1 heaping cup per serving)

Red bell pepper, sliced in thin ribbons (1 quarter pepper per serving)

Feta cheese, crumbled (2 tablespoons per serving)

Pignoli nuts, toasted (1 tablespoon per serving)

Marinade/Dressing

Juice of two limes

1 large clove of garlic, chopped

2 inch knob of fresh ginger, peeled and roughly chopped

2 tablespoons rice vinegar

2 tablespoons soy sauce

1 teaspoon toasted (dark) sesame oil

1/4 cup vegetable oil

Combine marinade/dressing ingredients in a blender and blend until very smooth. Pour about half (1/4 cup) into a zipper-sealed plastic bag with salmon pieces. Marinate, at room temperature for 15 minutes. Drain and remove salmon pieces. Sear in a nonstick skillet over medium heat, until done and flakes easily. Set aside, covering loosely with aluminum foil while you assemble the slaw.

In a medium-sized bowl, combine remaining "marinade/dressing" with napa cabbage and red bell pepper (for four servings, use one small head of napa cabbage, plus, one bell pepper). Toss well, serve with salmon, garnishing with feta cheese and pignoli nuts.

What's So Special About 17?

wilesc@aol.com — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 06:35:51 PDT

Carter celebrated his 17^th birthday this week, but according to him, 17 is nothing special. No big deal. It’s not 16, it’s not 18, it’s just kinda whatever.

I disagree. Vigorously. For me, 17 is momentous.

First of all, as Carter himself said to me few months ago, “Look, Mom, I’m not smart yet, but my stupidity is on the decline.”

Thank you, Jesus. And please don't take offense, because that’s not blasphemy. That’s genuine gratitude. Maybe not every mom would consider herself blessed to have a child with “declining stupidity,” but since I live with two – count ‘em, two – hormonal, impulsive, illogical, unpredictable teenagers, “declining stupidity” sounds pretty darn good. Particularly in the face of my own hormonal, impulsive, illogical and unpredictable behavior.

Mostly though, Carter’s 17^th birthday reminds me marvel at the man he is becoming.

When he was just a toddler, and I was pregnant with Julia, a friend remarked, “I am SO glad you’re having another baby!” Then, she shared this insight, “Now you’ll realize that you don’t get to take all the credit for what your child is or does. And you don’t have to take all the blame, either. They are who they are. They just come out that way.”

They do. For 17 years, I’ve tried to guide and shape and nurture. I’ve tried to teach and encourage and motivate. And I’ve tried to predict. Lord knows how I’ve tried to predict. Carter used to devour books: English would be his favorite subject! Until he was four, he wouldn’t poke a toe out of bed until I came to get him: He would never be a risktaker! He loved whole fruits and vegetables: He’d never succumb to fast food!

Riiiigggghhhtt. Or actually, wrong. Wrong, wrong and wrong.

He's not crazy about English, he's well-acquainted with risk-taking, and more often than not, he'll drive through, rather than drive by, a Chick Fil A. But I'm awestruck as he makes his way toward becoming the man he chooses to be. He’s bright and funny and irreverent and opinionated. He’s mellow and outrageous, devil-may-care and fiercely devoted.

He just came out that way. Or, he just chooses to be that way.

Either way, I don’t get to take the credit. I simply get to appreciate the person he is.

Happy birthday, son. Being a parent to you at age 17 is something special, indeed.

New Year's Traditions: Dick Clark, Hoppin' John And A Plunging Pickle

wilesc@aol.com — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 17:46:48 PST

I'm a fan of holiday traditions.

I always watch Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve – although I’m not entirely averse to channel-surfing now that I recognize so few of the featured performers. (Sorry, Nicki Mirage, er, Bling-Blaj, um, Minaj. Does your mother know you left the house wearing that outfit?)

I always have Hoppin’ John (for luck), collards (for money) and ham for New Year’s dinner.

I always bet on the bowl games. (However, given that I make my picks based on teams in towns I’d to visit, or teams at schools I wish my kids would attend, or teams wearing any color other than orange – take that, Clemson -- I can’t claim much success. Although all that would change if I just ate enough collards.)

Indeed, I’m so bound to holiday traditions that the kids often use it against me.

You never make us listen to Christmas music until after Thanksgiving!
You always let us open at least one gift on Christmas Eve!
You can’t go to bed early! We have to go to the 10:30 p.m. service – it’s tradition!
But we always have sausage bread Christmas morning!

With 49 years of tradition behind me, it’s hard to consider embracing another, but for “The Pickle Drop,” I just might. That’s right, “The Pickle Drop.”

Don’t know how I hadn’t heard about this before, but it turns out that for the past 13 years, Mt. Olive, North Carolina has hosted the New Year’s Eve Pickle Drop at the corner of, no kidding, Cucumber and Vine. Partygoers feast on hot chocolate and pickles (provided by the Mt. Olive Pickle Company, natch), before watching the lighted, three-foot pickle descend a flagpole. Again, just to be clear, no kidding.

And did I mention that big event occurs at 7 p.m.? That’s right. Seven-oh-clock in the evening, which means that, provided you don't over-indulge in pickles, you get a decent-night’s sleep -- on New Year's Eve. I’m thinking Mt. Olivians are my kind of crowd.

Maybe my rigid, tradition-based mind could be a bit more flexible. In fact, I’m thinking I’ll add one more item to my New Year’s menu – this comforting corn chowder, crusted with bacon crumbles. But no pickles. At least, not until next year.

Jalapeno-Lime Corn Chowder

Four slices bacon, chopped

1 medium Vidalia onion, chopped
1 small jalapeno pepper, seeded and ribbed, minced
1 large clove garlic, minced

3 tablespoons flour

1 large baking potato, peeled and cubed
1 quart chicken stock
Juice of ½ lime
Corn cut from three cobs (or one 10-ounce frozen package)

1 cup heavy cream
salt
pepper

In a large, heavy, lidded skillet, sauté bacon over medium-low heat until crispy. Remove browned bacon bits, to be used as a garnish later. In remaining bacon grease, sauté onion until translucent, stir in jalapeno and garlic. When vegetables are tender and fragrant, sprinkle with flour. Continue stirring until flour is well-combined and slightly browned. Stir in chicken broth, potato, lime juice and corn. Bring to boil, then, reduce heat to low, and simmer, lidded until potato is very tender -- about 20 minutes. Stir in cream, season to taste and serve hot, garnished with reserved bacon bits.

Holiday News From The Wiles. Or, At Least, The Bits We Can Share.

wilesc@aol.com — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 08:58:53 PST

Julia and Carter, Christmas 2011

Dear Friends and Family,

For most people, today would be seven days too late for a holiday letter. To that, I say, bah humbug. December 31 is actually the traditional seventh day of Christmas, landing it squarely mid-merriment and prime for festive greetings, right? Provided, of course, that I am also serving up seven swans-a-swimming and figgy pudding.

Truthfully, 2011 has been terrific. However, unlike in years past, I can’t tell you much about the kids because:

Teenagers are keen on privacy,
I respect my teenagers’ privacy,
Teenagers’ actions aren’t always suitable for publication,
Which is all to say that teenagers’ actions aren’t always suitable.

Still, we made it through 2011 without extended hospital stays or negative impact on “permanent records,” so I’m declaring the year to be success. As Carter says, “Mom, I may not be smart yet, but my stupidity is on the decline.” OK. Hardly a ringing endorsement, but OK.

Carter is in his junior year of high school, so allow me to speak on his behalf: He doesn’t know where he wants to go to college; he doesn’t know what he wants to major in, he doesn’t know his class rank, he isn’t sure of his GPA, and he doesn’t know where he’ll apply. But go ahead and ask him yourself. Every English-speaking friend, family member, casual acquaintance and complete stranger in the tri-state area does. And Carter loves it. Absolutely adores it.

In fairness, he has identified a few criteria. He likes schools with large football programs. He doesn’t like coats, hats, gloves and scarves. He likes schools with a high proportion of females to males. He doesn’t like studying. But mostly, he really, really, really wants to go to college. Otherwise, what would he do? Work? He did that this summer – as a country club lifeguard – and it was really hard. Like, they wouldn’t even let you text while five-year-olds were jumping off the diving board. Isn’t slavery supposed to be illegal in the United States?

Julia is in her freshman year of high school and can now fit in nearly all my clothes and shoes. But “gross.” Except for my boots, heels, and sweaters. On occasion, my jewelry’s not altogether hideous, either. But even so. Eww.

Seriously, Julia is a diligent student, maintaining an absolute focus on the two topics most critical to freshman success – getting her driver’s permit and finding a dress for the next dance. And shoes. Really fabulous shoes. That no one else has. They don’t have to fit. They just have to look good. Tossed in a corner of the floor. Because no one actually dances in shoes. How could you not know that?

I guess I ended up with the biggest news of the year. Cougar Bait (David Bonner) took full leave of his senses, giving me a surprise birthday party and then, proposing. Marriage. Silly him. According to all accounts, I didn’t draw a full breath before snatching the ring, slipping it on, and asking, repeatedly, “Did I say ‘yes’?” Whatever. The ring is mine. And so is he.

Plainly, 2011 has been a year of blessings for us, and we hope the same has been true for you!

Much love and happy holidays,

Cheri

Braces? Or A "Wait" Problem?

wilesc@aol.com — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 20:28:23 PDT

11:45 a.m. -- Darling Daughter just walked back for her appointment with the orthodontist. An innocent bystander might think she was being escorted to the gas chamber. But in fact, she’s supposed to have her braces removed today.

11:46 a.m. -- Everything hinges on “supposed to.” DD hasn’t told her friends. She hasn’t told Cougar Bait. She hasn’t told her brother or her dad. Partially because she wants to surprise them. And partially because, well, she’s my girl, which means she won’t be convinced that those braces are coming off until they’re rattling around at the bottom the orthodontist’s bright orange trashcan of hazardous bio-waste.

11:50 a.m. -- So for now, I sit here, heart pounding, hands clammy, trying to concoct a reason to peek into that back office and find out what’s going on. Or perhaps, stride back there and demand, as a parent, to know what’s going on.

11:57 a.m. -- It’s been 12 minutes, which is 12 minutes too long. Or, which means, that in addition to needing to drop five pounds, I have a wait problem.

High noon -- W. T. Aitch? I could’ve taken those braces off of DD and three other needy teens by now. Probably should have. What? You don't think I could do it? Really? Is my degree in communications worth absolutely nothing?

High noon-oh-three -- What if the reason I haven’t yet seen DD is because they’ve told her the braces need to stay on another two years? Or so? What if she’s sobbing, wretched, inconsolable? What if she is so distraught that she’s disoriented and can find her way back to me?

12:05 p.m. -- This is ridiculous. Really. How did I end up with a kid old enough to have braces – much less old enough to have them removed? Wasn’t it only yesterday that she didn’t even have any teeth at all?. Sigh.

12:11 p.m. -- What are they doing back there? They must be fitting her for headgear. In which case, they may as well go ahead and fit me for a strait jacket.

12:23 p.m. -- Whoa. What’s that? "Show me. Show me! SHOW ME!"

And then, because she’s my girl, she shows me this.

And later, this.

Smile.

We're On A Boat. And We're Engaged.

wilesc@aol.com — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 04:38:17 PDT

When I was a kid, I wanted – desperately – to be surprised. I craved a surprise party (complete with party horns, streamers and a tiara). A surprise vacation (to France, first class, please). A surprise kitten (blue-eyed with long gray fur). A surprise concert where the leader singer pulled me up on stage to dance. (I love you, Philip Bailey!)

But I’m no kid. I’m 49. The only surprises I expect nowadays are bad ones. So imagine my astonishment when, last week, I celebrated my birthday with a surprise party (on a 90-foot party boat filled my nearest and dearest family and friends) and a surprise marriage proposal (from my nearest and dearest “Cougar Bait,” a.k.a. David R. Bonner.)

Hoo boy. I could go on and on about what a totally unexpected and fun evening it was. In fact, “going on and on” is kind of what I’ve specialized in these past few days. And I could go further on and on about what a darling, conniving, dead-sexy secret-keeper CB is. In fact, anyone who knows CB can tell you that he’s the first to describe himself as “dead sexy.”

But one week after the fact – and the surprise and the engagement (well, of course I said “yes”!) – the “stun” is now a manageable “glow.” Looking back, I can admit that I even learned a few things that evening, including:

Everything is better on a boat.
There’s an entire untapped demographic audience for Depends. (Let’s just say that surprises can really, well, take a girl by surprise.)
Not many 49-year-olds can say they are engaged.
Not many 49-year-olds have friends who are engaged.
Whether you have been engaged for two seconds or two years, someone – no, make that everyone – is going to ask, “When are you getting married?”
I don’t know when we are getting married.
My friends don’t eat enough.
15 pounds of barbecue – plus turkey breast and beef tenderloin and birthday cake and heaven-knows-what-else -- goes a long way. (All the way, in fact, back home to my refrigerator.)
My kids’ ability to keep secrets is somewhat frightening.
Everything I know about love, I’ve learned from a man I met in kindergarten.

I am one lucky girl.

Thanks, Harry Potter. It Was Magic.

wilesc@aol.com — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 13:39:09 PDT

It’s 5:30 a.m. and Carter and Darling Daughter just went to bed. Five-thirty in the morning, and we just returned from the movies – an experience easily summed up with a single word – magical.

I’m referring only in part to the movie Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part Two (or, in devotee shorthand, HP7.2) – the final installment based on JK Rowling’s books set in a world of wizardry and magic. HP7.2 was, far and away, the best in the series, by turns demoralizing and compelling, poignant and playful, thunderous and hushed, terrifying and ultimately, uplifting.

More magical for me, though, was that Carter and DD were willing to tug their sleep-deprived, teenaged selves from bed at 2:15 a.m. so we could make the show. I tried not to make a big deal about it, but I was thrilled – or more apropos of the occasion, charmed, or perhaps, enchanted – that they’d deign to go with me and be among the first audiences in America to say goodbye to magic and Muggles, quills and Quidditch, witches and wands, and horcruxes and hallows.

As the final credits rolled, I was unexpectedly overcome with emotion – not because of the ending (which is faithful to the book – full of promise and hope), but because it struck me that I was marking another “last.”

I’ve made mental notes of “last” times for some 17 years now -- ever since I became pregnant with Carter. Over the years, I sadly noted the "last" time I'd experience the delight of an unborn child hiccuping inside my belly. The last time I’d ever nurse a baby. The last time one of them would be small enough to heft on my hip. The last time I'd be able to get them into coordinating Christmas outfits. The last time I’d be acknowledged as the family computer expert. The last time I’d reach down – rather than up – to administer a hug.

Over the years, we read the Harry Potter books together, questioning our own “muggle-ness” and magical powers. We were so smitten with the world set in Hogwarts that Carter once directed a barber to cut his hair "like Harry Potter." And of course, we’d watched all the movies. In fact, in preparation for HP7.2, we’d “re-watched” all of them.

HP7.2 was the last one. Another “last.” Another reminder that – at ages 16 and 14 -- my “kids” won’t be “kids” much longer.

Driving home from the movie, the adrenaline rush that had been sustaining us collapsed. The kids were subdued. Drained. Exhausted. As I tried to initiate some post-movie chatter, Carter said, “It was great and I’m glad we went, but Mom, it’s 5:30 in the morning. Can you stop talking?”

Once home, the kids crawled back into bed for a few more winks before Carter heads to his summer lifeguard job, and DD meets up with friends at the mall.

I headed to Starbucks. As I waited for my latté, the barrista listened to my story about getting the kids up for the movie. And then, she said the best possible thing, “Wow. They’ll remember that forever.”

Hmm. Not so sure about that. But I'm pretty sure I will. It was the last one. And it was magical.

Double-Chocolatey Rice Krispy Treats
The best recipes have a magical life of their own. I adapted this one from my friend Janet in Charleston, who got it from her sister-in-law, Lisa, who got it from her mom, Sandra. (Aren't moms always the source of great recipes?) Although these unusual rice krispy treats don't include any marshmallows, they are plenty sweet. Plenty easy. And sure to, ahem, "disappear."

4 cups crispy rice cereal

1, 12-ounce package white chocolate chips

1/2 cup smooth peanut butter

1, 12-ounce package milk chocolate chips
1/2 cup chopped roasted peanuts (optional)

Lightly spray a 9 x 13 glass pan with baking spray. Set aside. In a large glass bowl, microwave white chocolate chips for 30 seconds. Stir, and continue microwaving and stirring, in 20-second bursts, until well melted. Stir in peanut butter until thoroughly combined. Gently fold in cereal. Spread mixture evenly in prepared dish and allow to set -- about 3-4 hours. When treats firm up, melt milk chocolate chips in a small glass bowl or measuring cup, using the same microwaving technique described above. When well melted, spread over treats. Sprinkle with peanuts, if using. Allow to set another 3-4 hours. Cut into small squares and serve.

“Close The Door.” Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

wilesc@aol.com — Sat, 09 Jul 2011 04:46:57 PDT

“Close the door.”

I’ve been a mom for some 16 years now, which means, without exaggeration, I’ve uttered those three little words some 5,840 times.* In fairness, like most newborns, my firstborn couldn't actually close a door -- much less tee-tee in the potty -- for his first 18 months, but when you consider all the variations of "close the door" -- “Why's the car door still open?” “Stop standing in front of the open refrigerator,” “Am I the only one who knows how to close the pantry door?” and “I’m not paying to air-condition the backyard,”** -- I’m pretty sure 5,840 represents only a sliver of the actual figure.

Sigh. Those were the days. As a parent of two teenagers, I’ve gone from “Close the door,” to “Open the door,” to “What are you doing in there?” to “Well, if you're not wrapping a present for me, then open the door,” and ultimately to, “Open the door. Dammit.”

Of course I don’t really say that last bit. Not out loud. I hope.

Still, I don't understand how this happened. I'm struggling. " Close the door" was my mantra. "Open the door" doesn't roll off the tongue nearly so eloquently. Besides, what is this need for privacy? What’s the secret? What are they doing in their bedrooms? Believe you me, my kids are not wrapping gifts. Presents to me are far and few between. Besides, between the two of them, I believe only one knows where to find the scissors and scotchtape.

It's comforting, then, to know that after all my rapping and tapping, and pounding and nagging, I still have a predictable way to pry those doors open -- if only temporarily. I pour myself a glass of wine, and send the following text message, "Dinner's ready."

Hear those sounds? Those are doors. Opening.

* Once a day, 16 times 365 days a year.

** An homage to my dad. Re-worded to omit profanity.

Lemon Spaghetti (Spaghetti Al Limone) with Pan Seared Shrimp

After pork, pasta is my kids' favorite food group. The shrimp is optional.

1 pound spaghetti

1 palmful of salt, plus additional for seasoning

1/4 cup olive oil
1 pound shrimp, peeled and deveined (optional)

2 cloves garlic, minced

One pinch of red pepper flakes

2 lemons, zested and juiced

1/2 cup heavy cream

1/2 cup minced parsley

1 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil with the palmful of salt. Stir in spaghetti and cook just until done.

As pasta cooks, in a large non-stick skillet, heat oil over high heat, tossing in shrimp, seasoning well with salt and pepper, and cooking until barely done -- about 3 minutes per side. Remove cooked shrimp and set aside, reduce heat to low, and stir in garlic, red pepper flakes and lemon zest. Saute until garlic is very fragrant and very lightly browned. Before draining cooked pasta, stir two ladlefuls of pasta water into skillet with fragrant oil. Drain pasta. Stir cream, lemon juice and parsley into garlicky oil sauce in skillet. Cook down -- about a minute or two. Quickly stir in cooked pasta and herbs. Season with salt and pepper as needed. Toss with cheese, and serve hot!

Ten Things Learned During Exam Prep

wilesc@aol.com — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 05:45:32 PDT

Exam prep continues apace Chez Wiles. As you might imagine, in such a serious and focused and studious atmosphere, Carter and Darling Daughter are learning by leaps and bounds.
Even I have learned a thing or two these past few days, including:

Lionel, the 12-pound indoor cat does not choose to be worn as a hat
The refrigerator contains the very same items it did 15 minutes ago.
Ditto the pantry.
The Rapture may not have occurred last weekend, but in one mom's humble -- no make that, "absolutely accurate" -- opinion, Facebook forebodes the end of all learning, focus and individual advancement.
Nobody else’s mom is as mean as I am.
French is easy. French exams? Not so much.
Josie-the-Rescue-Dog will eat green beans. And broccoli. And asparagus. And people of all ages will laugh.
Cleanliness may, indeed, be next to godliness. But it’s not next to my kids. Or their rooms. Not this week.
Oreo milkshakes are magic – which, sadly, does not translate to higher grades.
Everybody has a system for studying. For some people (to whom I gave birth), “system” translates into “a lack thereof.” I’m just sayin’.

In all honesty, I shouldn't poke fun. No amount of studying would help me successfully pass Darling Daughter’s eighth grade exams – much less Carter’s tenth grade ones. And so, I cook. Tonight we had Grilled Ginger Lime Chicken – a new favorite, and super easy.

Grilled Ginger Lime Chicken
Try serving this with savory Cinnamon Lime Rice.

Juice of two (juicy) limes
¼ cup canola oil
2 teaspoons freshly grated ginger
1 pinch cayenne pepper
½ teaspoon kosher salt

6-8 boneless chicken thighs or breasts

Combine all ingredients in a plastic bag and allow to marinate 30-60 minutes in the refrigerator. Remove chicken from bag (discarding marinade) and grill, over indirect heat, just until done. Do not overcook.

The Power Of Studying, And Well, Power.

wilesc@aol.com — Tue, 31 May 2011 05:08:26 PDT

Yesterday morning, I sectioned three grapefruits, sliced two Fuji apples, diced a couple of pineapples, and snipped two pounds of grapes into single serving size clusters.

I stocked the pantry with Triscuits and Cheez-Its and Oreos and pretzels and vanilla frosting. The fridge is chockfull of pickles and yogurt and baby carrots and Gatorade, but nary a caffeinated soft drink. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.

Yep. It’s exam time Chez Wiles, and this ain’t my first rodeo. The drama, the distraction, the disruptions and occasionally, the diligence, it’s all coming back to me. My role remains unchanged: I grease the rails -- fending off Facebook, disregarding unmade beds and feeding souls and stomachs alike – serving up snacks throughout the day, picking up dirty dishes and glasses, giving Carter and Darling Daughter absolutely, positively no reason not to hit the books.

Turns out, though, I should’ve added one more thing to my exam prep to-do list – keeping the power on. Oopsy daisy.

That’s right. Last night, the lights went out in Charlotte. Or, at least, Chez Wiles. Or, at least, some of them.

What. The. Aitch. Power to the computer, our internet router, the TV, the oven and dishwasher, the washer and dryer, and the kids’ bedrooms – all gone. Panicked, I checked the breaker boxes, and called Cougar Bait, my dad, my neighbor, and eventually, a 24-hour electrician, who gave me an estimate for over $3,000 in repairs – which would take three days to complete. Then, he turned off the air conditioning in the house, which wasn’t safe to run, charged me $300 for the estimate itself, and told me to call him the next day with my decision.

OK. First of all, $3,000? That’s not the kind of cha-ching found in my sofa cushions. And second, did I not mention that it is exam time Chez Wiles – and we now have no air conditioning, no major appliances, no internet, and no lights in half the house?

To his credit, Carter continued studying – lighting enough candles to set the stage for a cheesy romantic comedy. I half expected Monica and Chandler (Friends) to walk in. Not to my credit, and lacking sangria, I poured an extra large glass of sauvignon blanc, called Cougar Bait ... and cried.

As Cougar Bait predicted, things looked better in the morning -- although I wasn't one of those things. Tear-streaked cheeks, swollen eyes and mascara-stained jowls do me no favors. Nevertheless, I packed up my MacBook, headed to Starbucks for a no-foam, Skinny Vanilla and to take advantage of free internet. Within a few clicks, I found not one, but two emergency electricians to come by and give me another quote. (Big shout-out to White Electric and Hill Electric here in Charlotte!)

Both agreed on the repairs needed. And both agreed that repairs wouldn't require days and thousands of dollars, but instead, hours and hundreds of dollars. Not that I have a few hundred dollars laying around, but yes, I can manage.

So now, with air conditioning and internet and a functioning dishwasher, I can get back to the important things in life – like this terrific Strawberry Spinach Salad with Orange Dressing – which the kids won’t touch, but at this point, with fruit and crackers and Gatorade and air conditioning, I've done my job. Studying is up to them.

Strawberry Spinach Salad

Salad

One, six-ounce bag raw baby spinach

1 quart strawberries, washed and sliced

1 four-ounce log black pepper goat cheese, crumbled

¼ cup sliced almonds

Dressing

3 tablespoons canola oil

2 tablespoons fresh orange juice

1 tablespoons raspberry vinegar

1 tablespoon orange marmalade

½ teaspoon kosher salt

freshly ground pepper – a lot

Whisk dressing ingredients together in a small mixing bowl. In a large salad bowl, toss with chilled salad ingredients and serve.

It Is -- Shudder -- Time To Tug One On.

wilesc@aol.com — Wed, 18 May 2011 11:57:07 PDT

I have met the enemy, and the enemy is me – or really, my body, stuffed into and sadly overflowing a seasonal Lycra tourniquet.

Yes, bathing suit season is upon us. Nine months of the year, I alternate between camouflaging, concealing, and then, refusing to even acknowledge my 48-year-old form in the bathroom mirror, much less behold it in the blinding light of a summer day.

But as May approaches, the rising mercury and my own unpredictable internal thermostat force me to peel back the layers. I’m obligated to behold – and then, lift and separate and compress and flatten. Still, I’m reminded of a tube of Crest. Those parts of me that have worked their way out and spilled over the top of my jeans and back of my bra, can’t possibly be stuffed back in. And smoothing out that aging, sun-damaged skin? Better to try and return a wadded up ball of tissue paper to its original sleekness. No iron in the world could make things right.

I’m not the only one cringing. According to a recent survey in The Daily Mail, we women would rather that women of a certain age keep it covered up. Indeed, my own Darling Daughter agrees. Here are a few of the survey results, plus DD’s 14-year-old perspective.

The Age Women Believe You Should Stop Wearing …

A bikini? 47. According to DD, however, the two-piece should be tossed once a woman graduates from college.
A mini-skirt? 35. Or, in DD’s opinion, if you’ve graduated from anything, the mini-skirt is out.
Stilettos? Age 51. If I recall, DD’s exact words were, “Mom, take those off. Now.”
A see-through chiffon blouse? Age 40. DD’s comment? “That’s not really a question, is it?”
Swimsuit? Age 61. But as DD sees it, at age 48, I’m long past my swimsuit years and should stick to wearing shorts. But not too short.
Leggings? Age 45. Or, to quote DD, “That’s stupid. No grown woman should ever wear them.” Sigh. Even under a really, really, cute dress. That I love. Even when the leggings look like tights. No fair.
Leather trousers? Age 45. Or, finally, a reprieve from DD, “Um. 300?”

Whatever. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m appalled by “see-through blouses” at any age. However, I’ll be tugging on a bathing suit – and complaining about it – for the rest of my life. Sometimes you’ve got to go against the flow. Like in this unexpected flavorful, savory rice dish. Rice? With lime? And cinnamon? You’ve got to, got to, got to try this. Even DD agrees. (But only a small serving for me. Did I not mention that it’s bathing suit season?)

Cinnamon Lime Rice

1, 14-ounce can chicken broth + ¼ cup water

1 cup raw rice

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon olive oil

½ teaspoon kosher salt

1 pinch cayenne pepper

zest of one lime

Combine all ingredients in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil over high heat, stir once and reduce heat to low. Put lid in place, and cook for 13 minutes. Remove lid, fluff gently with a fork and serve.

Naming Kids. And Boats. And Strippers.

wilesc@aol.com — Tue, 31 May 2011 18:30:12 PDT

Nearly 17 years ago, as soon-to-be-parents, and before settling on "Carter," we considered a number of names for our son, including Cooper, Conner and Fisher. (OK. That last one was just me.) Two years later, for Darling Daughter, we considered Cecelia, Eliza, Lila and Larissa. (Again, that last one was all me.)

To make the cut, a name had to meet certain criteria. Given our single-syllable last name, the first name had to be polysyllabic. I wasn’t looking to raise a Jane Doe or Don Ho. Furthermore, the name had to be easily spelled. Think about it. I’m “Cheri.” With a “C.” No, a “C.” One “r.” No “y.” “I,” not “i-e.” “S-H-E-R-R-I-E”? Whatever. Close enough.

So far as I can tell, though, when it comes to naming a boat, no rules apply. According to FirstBoat.com, the top 10 most popular boat names in the United States are:

1. Serenity

2. Happy Ours

3. Feelin' Nauti

4. Family Time

5. Liberty

6. Black Pearl

7. Andiamo

8. Knot On Call

9. High Maintenance

10. Just Chillin'

For my own boat, which is now a year old, friends have also suggested, “Cheri’s Jubilee,” “MeanWhiles,” “Worth Wiles,” “Always Write,” “Cougar Bait,” and, more than once, “Wiles Ride.”

What to do? Well, when I first began writing Feminine Wiles, it was to let friends and family know that I was all right. When it comes to schoolwork, I always tell the kids that, if they are able to write, their grades in every class – with the possible exception of math – will go up. And when I landed a job – after spending a decade as a stay-at-home mom – it was as a copywriter.

Yep. “All Write” it is.

But then, as I was in the midst of writing this post, I heard from Super Sis . She’s an elementary school principal, and her work ethics and behavior are beyond compare. So imagine my surprise when she texted the following message:

“This morning, a parent shared with me that, if she were a stripper, her name would be Tess Tickles.”

Tess Tickles? Tess Tickles? TESS TICKLES?

Nah. Just kidding. I'm still "All Write"!

Shrimp Tacos with Apple Slaw

This recipe has absolutely no bearing on kid names, boat names or stripper names. It's just really, really good. Really, really unexpected. And really, really, easy. Or should I say, it's "all right"?

Slaw

1 large granny smith apple, cored and cut in quarters, and then, cut in matchsticks

2 cups of shredded Napa cabbage

1/4 cup canola oil

Juice of one lime (1-2 tablespoons)

1 pinch cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon honey

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

In a medium sized mixing bowl, toss together apple and cabbage. Whisk together remaining ingredients and toss with apple and cabbage. Keeps, refrigerated, at least one day.

Shrimp Tacos

1 1/2 pounds raw shrimp, peeled, deveined and cut into bite-size pieces

1/4 cup canola oil

Juice of two limes (2-3 tablespoons)

1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon chili powder

flour tortillas

bottled salsa verde

Stir all ingredients (except tortillas and salsa) together, combining well. Heat a large skillet over high heat. In batches, stir fry shrimp just until done -- 4-5 minutes. Serve hot, in tortillas warmed one-by-one in the microwave --about 15 seconds each. Drizzle salsa verde over top and serve with Apple Slaw.

"How Do You Learn To Cook?"

wilesc@aol.com — Wed, 11 May 2011 04:34:31 PDT

To be honest, I don't like being asked questions. I don't like being cornered. I don't like thinking I may not have the "right" answer. All that said, there is still one question I could answer over and over again: "How do you learn to cook?"

The question was posed by Darling Daughter -- twice -- this week.

Fair enough. I'm always sad to realize how many people -- kids and adults alike -- never realize the satisfaction of preparing a meal for a loved one, of peering in the fridge and coming up with a dish on the fly, or ultimately, having someone ask, "Can I have the recipe?"

C'mon. Cooking's not hard. I'll grant though, that it can be intimidating. And for some folks, that's a game-ender. There's an absolute learning curve, and I'm the first to admit that there will always be, um, "mistakes." So why risk the inevitably salty soups and slightly charred chocolate chip cookies, much less the bizarrely-seasoned steaks? (Word to the wise: Filet mignon + nutmeg = Domino's extra large double pepperoni.) After all, Harris Teeter is chockful of frozen meals requiring little more than a microwave and a fork.

I'll tell you why. Because cooking lets you nourish the body, the soul and the ego.

I've written about the first meal I ever cooked -- which resulted, but didn't end, in tears and sobs. Even then, though, I did what nearly every cook has to do. I based the meal on what we had on hand.

I still believe that's the key. You look at what you have, and you see the opportunity.

A few weeks back, Cougar Bait, my 200-mile-away-lifeline, who, although wise and strong and fun beyond reason*, is not yet a Top Chef, called me up. "I bought a package of pork chops," he said, "Now what?"

"Now what," indeed. Before I even blinked, I was thinking sage and proscuitto and apples. Potatoes and gruyere and thyme. Rosemary and parsley and garlic. But that's not Cougar Bait's pantry. In fact, neither is he likely stocked with the precise measuring spoons and razor-sharp Wusthoff knives and Emile Henry baking dishes that line my shelves. But are those necessary?

Absolutely not.

So together, on the phone, we came up with a quick dish, based on what he had on hand. Later that evening, he reported the rave reviews to me as if I had been the chef.

But it wasn't me. And it wasn't hard. And next week, 14-year-old Darling Daughter will give the same recipe a shot. Because that is exactly "how you learn to cook."

No question.

*Cougar Bait would also like me to mention that he's "drop dead sexy." But that seems to be revealing too much.

Brined & Barbecued Chops

Although it sounds "fancy," brining is a simple technique that adds loads of flavor and juiciness. Other recipes make it sound ridiculously difficult and time-consuming, but it doesn't have to be. Just get started 2 to 6 hours in advance.

2 cups hot tap water

2 tablespoons (one palmful) salt

2 tablespoons (one palmful) sugar

4 tablespoons (one healthy pour) plain white or cider vinegar

1 big pinch red pepper flakes

1 bay leaf (or not)
4-6 boneless pork chops

bottled barbecue sauce

In a large bowl, combine all ingredients, except pork chops and barbecue sauce. Stir until sugar and salt are dissolved. Now, stir in another two cups of cold water. Drop in pork chops and allow to brine, refrigerated, for two to six hours. Remove from brine and pat dry. Grill over indirect heat, 5-6 minutes per side. Baste liberally with barbecue sauce and continue grilling just until done -- an additional 3-4 minutes per side. Do not overcook.

A Mother's Day Story

wilesc@aol.com — Sun, 08 May 2011 19:23:35 PDT

Dear Mom ,

It was me.

I can’t -- and my somewhat protective, surely selective memory won’t -- recall the exact circumstances, but do you remember that sophisticated crystal vase from the Daffodil Shop? The one that was so elegantly angled and curved that you received as a Christmas gift when I was about 11?

It was marked with the distinctive “Daffodil Shop” sticker and a lush, richly relaxed yellow satin ribbon. Inside, the vase itself was nestled in an extravaganza of tissue paper – sheets and sheets more than a frugal family like ours would ever tuck in a box of common socks or shirts. After opening, you left it on display under the tree, in its whiter-than-white gift box with the sticker tucked inside, as a reminder of the “special” origins of the gift.

To this day. I don’t exactly remember what happened next, but I suppose we kids were messing around – or, truth to tell, tormenting each other. One thing lead, as it always does, to another. And yikes. Next thing I knew, I was scavenging through the “junk” drawer, desperately seeking the SuperGlue, so I could reattach the base.

But to you, I never said a word.

Inexplicably, except for a brief interrogation of all three of us kids, you didn’t either, although I suspect you knew all along.

I’m sorry.

A few years later, when I was old enough to drive, I stopped by the Daffodil Shop, naively hoping to find – and afford – a replacement. Silly me.

For these last 16 years, I’ve been a mom, too. And I’ve been fortunate enough to learn “how” to be a mom from a host of role models. From friends who brim over with wisdom. From kindergarten teachers with 10 times my experience and expertise. From neighbors who never knew I was observing (and learning). From unrealistic and optimistic TV shows. From my sister who is both an educator and a mom. And, of course, from my own mom – who, on occasion, but not very many, let me “slide” – and, as a result, learn an unforgettable life lesson.

Thanks, Mom. I love you.

Freedom, Responsibility and Filling 'Er Up

wilesc@aol.com — Tue, 03 May 2011 11:43:55 PDT

The day before yesterday, I watched as a stranger drove away in my car. Had it been necessary, I’d have had no problem picking him out of a line-up; he was an exceptionally fit young man, tanned, blue eyes, sporting his brown hair in what appeared to be a fresh buzz cut.

It was Carter, of course, my 16-year-old son. And I’d even helped wield the razor on that buzz cut. Still, the sight rocked me back on my sensible mom heels. I blinked – more than once – as if I could “refresh” my vision the same way you “refresh” a website – but nope, there he was, backing cautiously out of the driveway before driving himself to school.

What a week.

In the space of a few days, Carter earned his driver’s license, interviewed for and was offered a summer job (lifeguard), and shaved his distinctive shaggy brown hair into a high and tight buzz. The transformation couldn’t have been more remarkable than if he’d morphed from a black-and-yellow-striped caterpillar into a Monarch butterfly.

In more ways than one, though, I guess he did get his wings – lots of freedom wrapped up in lots and lots of responsibility.

He’s not the only one. I got more freedom wrapped up in even more responsibility, too. On the one hand, having another driver in the household slashes my chauffeuring duties in half. On the other, I can hardly form a complete thought when I know he’s on the road. And I pity the innocent soul who calls when I know Carter is en route. Before I can eek out a frantic “hello,” I’ve already imagined countless “what if” scenarios – none of which bear repeating here.

I’m proud and terrified. Excited and devastated. Thrilled and saddened.

I love my boy. And I need him to know that he still needs me. But then, unexpectedly, I get a text message, “What side of the car is my gas tank on again?”

Sigh. Not exactly what I was looking for, but yep -- he still needs me.

Salmon With Curried Cauliflower Couscous

When Carter was little, his most-requested birthday meal was grilled salmon, sliced cucumbers and steamed broccoli. This meal is somewhat more sophisticated -- appropriate, perhaps for someone earning his first paycheck.

Grilled Salmon

salmon filets

rice wine vinegar

hoisin sauce

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

Sprinkle fish liberally with rice wine vinegar (or, in a pinch, squeeze fresh lemon wedges over). Baste with hoisin sauce, and season well with salt and pepper. Grill skin side down, over indirect heat, about 10 minutes, or just until done. Try not to overcook.

Curried Cauliflower Couscous

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

1 1/2 cup uncooked Israeli couscous

1 (14 ounce) can chicken or vegetable broth

2 cups raw cauliflower, broken into small bitesize pieces

1 teaspoon curry powder

1 pinch red pepper flakes

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

In a lidded saucepan, heat oil over medium high heat. Stir in raw couscous and sauté 3-4 minutes. Stir in broth, cauliflower, curry, salt and red pepper flakes. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to low and cook 6-7 minutes. Stir, remove from heat, and allow to stand an additional five minutes (or until all liquid is absorbed) before serving with salmon.

Mom vs. Chick Fil A. And The Winner Is ...

wilesc@aol.com — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 03:34:53 PDT

I may be a 48-year-old single mom, but you may call me The Conqueror, for I have vanquished Chick Fil A.

OK. “Vanquish” may be a tad aggressive, but you be the judge.

Sixteen-year-old Son called (by which, of course, I mean “texted”) me after track practice. He was riding home with a friend and wanted to know if he could stop for his usual “number five combo, large, 12-count with Dr. Pepper.” And no, I’m not embarrassed to know his order by heart. I’m only embarrassed to admit it.

So could he stop for dinner? “Well sure,” I tapped back, “as long as you use your own money.”

A few minutes passed – almost surely because I rank rock-bottom in the texting cue – before I heard back from him, “np” (no problem).

Doggedly, I clicked on, “The thing is, I’ve already made dinner.”

Another few minutes passed, reminding me of my low texting rank, before he asked, “What did you make?”

This was like shooting fish in a toilet bowl -- ridiculously easy, although not always advisable. On this night, though, I knew I had a winner. Just for effect, I paused before typing back, “Not So Dirty Rice.”

His response was instant, “Oh. haha nevermind i’ll just grab a milkshake and eat with you.”

Game, set and match. Cheri: 1, Chick Fil A: 0 – provided you don’t count the previous 1,314 encounters.

Still, on this night, I emerge victorious.

Pardon me while I bask.

I’ve already posted the recipe for Not So Dirty Rice, but this Simple Red Rice With Shrimp – without any suspicious tomato bits – is another surefire winner Chez Wiles.

Simple Red Rice With Shrimp

1 onion, chopped

1 rib celery, chopped

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 cup raw rice

1 14-oz can chicken broth

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon Tabasco sauce

1 8-oz can tomato sauce

1/4 water

1 lb. raw shrimp, shelled

In a large skillet with fitted lid, sauté onion and celery over medium heat until onion is translucent. Stir in rice, broth, salt and Tabasco. Reduce heat to low. Put lid in place and gently cook for 10 minutes. Remove from heat and gently stir in tomato sauce, water and shrimp. Replace lid and cook an additional 10 minutes until rice is done and liquid absorbed.

Divorce Etiquette For Every Day Use.

wilesc@aol.com — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 11:15:38 PDT

On the bookshelf in the house where I grew up, there was, snugly tucked between Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, and Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid To Ask), a copy of Amy Vanderbilt's Complete Book of Etiquette.

Go ahead and laugh, but as a teenager, I all but memorized Miss Vanderbilt’s 700-page opus. I mastered the proper placement of seafood forks and marrow spoons. I understood that a "real" lady would never deign to use stationery pre-printed with the words “thank” or “you.” I was primed to meet both elected officials and foreign royalty. And should I ever be invited to travel abroad with the family of a boarding school pal, I was poised to prepare, or at least host at a fine restaurant, a dinner party to convey my gratitude.

As it turns out, though, my real life hasn't required a single curtsey. My most used seafood utensils are my fingers. I wouldn't know where to procure a pair of everyday white gloves – much less ones (with delicate embroidery and fastened with a single pearl) for formal occasions. And “boarding school pals”? Puh-leeze.

Not that there isn’t a profound need for etiquette in our society. There is. However, I think we need to hone our manners and civility on more practical and useful levels. The guide for me, for example, might be titled, Divorce Etiquette for Every Day (DEED).

DEED might help me deftly maneuver such tricky situations as, how to refer to the person to whom one once was married? “My ex” can sound harsh and oddly possessive, yet “the kids’ father” might imply children born out of wedlock.

DEED would also provide examples of how to respond to someone (i.e., everyone) who questions the reason for divorce. “We grew apart” doesn't work. We're not shrubs, we're humans. And yet “Our other option was dueling machetes at high noon” plainly cuts a little too close to the bone.

And what about situational divorce etiquette? How best, for example, to handle a phone call from one’s former spouse, in which he asks if you’ll drive him to the emergency room? If only I had a copy of the DEED in hand right now. Seriously. Because I'm currently in the emergency room. With the person to whom I was once married.

If I remember correctly (and I trust me, I do) Miss V. doesn't broach this particular topic.

Please. Of course I drove him to the ER. And after a couple of tests, a couple of prescriptions, a couple of hours, and a couple of confused looks from the ER staff, I drove him back to his home. Who wouldn’t?

But now what? Where’s Miss V when I really need her? Do I call tomorrow to check on him? Do I offer to have prescriptions filled? Do I call his family to let them know?

It’s a sticky one, but in the end, I’m guessing I'll do what I always do: cook. This quiche is one that I often make for folks in "times of need." It's a complete meal that can be eaten hot, at room temperature, or straight from the fridge -- with or without utensils.

No etiquette required.

Shrimp & Broccoli Quiche

One unbaked pie shell (I use Pillsbury's)
1 1/2 cups cooked, peeled shrimp, well-drained and cut into bite-size pieces
1 1/2 cups lightly steamed broccoli florets, well-drained and cut into bite-size pieces
1 1/2 cups grated gruyere cheese
1 1/2 cups half and half
3 eggs
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Preheat oven to 350. In medium mixing bowl, whisk eggs together. Stir in half and half, salt and cayenne pepper and combine well. Sprinkle half of grated cheese in bottom of pie shell. Top with broccoli, then shrimp, then remaining cheese. Pour egg mixture evenly over all. Bake for 30-35 minutes, until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.