Feminine Wiles

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.

The Kindness of Friends, Family, Strangers -- And Eggs

wilesc@aol.com — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 15:44:46 PST

Last week was wretched. Miserable, horrible, terrible. So very bad that, if it hadn't had been so very awful, it would been comical. But not very.

I don't want to re-live all the details, but suffice to say that divorce is devastating. Being a single mom is gut-wrenching. And being kids of divorce is worst of all. At some point last week, everyone Chez Wiles was enraged or tearful or both.

Then, Cougar Bait (my 200-mile-away lifeline), who was recovering from the flu, came down with pneumonia. I ran out of shampoo. Son's Eagle project got tanked two days just before he finished the proposal. The dog peed on the rug. A dear 87-year-old friend passed away. I left a raw chuck roast on the counter overnight. A much-needed therapist was hospitalized. And although all these things were true, I plainly couldn't even prioritize which things were worth grieving.

I was wretched. At one point, I called in "wretched" to work. Some people call in sick. I call in sobbing.

To clear my head, I decided to go for a walk-run on a 5K trail in another part of town. Historically, this doesn't always work in my favor. A few months back, I made a similar choice and ended up with a fractured elbow. (See "Worst Mom Ever Falls Down And Goes Boom.") This time, though, I finished with a more peaceful attitude, a fresh perspective and tear-free eyes -- that is, until I got to the parking lot and found my rear passenger window shattered and my purse gone.

Shap. Shap, shap, shap, shap, sh*%!

I couldn't even think what to do next. Who to call? After initially dialing CB, I hung up to call the police. Shap. Then CB. Then "All-Knowing Neighbors."

And suddenly, things began falling back into place. When the officer arrived, and I glumly said, "Tomorrow will be a better day," he smiled and said, "C'mon now. Tonight will be a better day." (To my credit, I didn't even point out the difference between "night" and "day.")

Before the policeman had even finished his report, CB had already ordered a new window and made arrangements -- with Jordan, my new friend, who has no problem with crying women -- for repairs.

"All-Knowing-Neighbors" brought gracious plenty cash. And the sandwich bags and bread I needed to pack lunches the next day. And the number to the DMV, so I could get my license replaced. And wine. A whole bottle. It's hard to say which was more needed.

"Beloved Family" called and sympathized, saying to me what I'd been preaching to the kids all week, "Not to worry. You're strong. You're smart. You can handle this. It'll be OK."

So I cancelled the credit cards, notified my bank, and tried to think of what else had been in my purse. (Duh. Health insurance cards. Two prescriptions -- one filled and one not. An unreasonably large check made out to me. And -- my Costco and Starbucks cards. Sigh.)

Then, no kidding, some young kid in a button-down and tie shows up in my driveway. He works for Enterprise Rent-A-Car, and when he stopped for a Big Gulp on his way home from work, he found some of my cards -- including my license -- strewn through the parking lot. I could've cried. And I probably did. I'd already cancelled the credit cards, but still, it just felt good to get some of my stuff back. And even better to know that someone would be kind enough to bring them back. Even if I didn't have any cash to give him as a reward.

Turns out the police officer was right. With the love and support and bank accounts and wine cellars of friends and family -- not to mention the kindness of strangers -- "tonight was a better day."

We're going to be just fine.

Shrimpy Eggs

Tough times call for comfort food. Wretched times call for comfort food in a hurry -- and nothing's quicker or more satisfying than eggs. In Charleston, we'd have variations of this dish for breakfast -- based on leftover shrimp from the night before -- but it's also a terrific dinner dish all on its own.

For every two eggs, you'll need ...

1 teaspoon butter or olive oil

4-5 raw shrimp, peeled and cut into bitesize pieces

2 tablespoons chopped red bell pepper

1 tablespoon minced fresh chives

salt

fresh ground pepper

1 tablespoon crumbled goat cheese (optional)

Heat butter over medium heat in a medium-sized nonstick skillet. In hot butter, saute shrimp and bell pepper until shrimp is pink. Whisk eggs together with salt, pepper and a small splash of water. Stir into skillet, with chives and goat cheese (if using). Cook, scrambling, until eggs are done to your likeness. Count your blessings. And savor.

A Tale Of Two Boys.

wilesc@aol.com — Sat, 05 Feb 2011 03:57:33 PST

A guest post by David R. Bonner, a.k.a., "Cougar Bait."

The story begins May 6, 1988.

Easy for me to remember, because it was the day my son Matthew was born. Funny thing though -- one of my sister’s best friends was in the room next to us birthing her own son, Benjamin. The boys were born within minutes of each other.

What timing. We all had been in Lamaze class together and as luck would have it, the boys came into the world on the same day. We pledged to stay in touch and make sure the boys played together as they grew up. But like most good intentions, it just did not happen. We had led different lives before, and I guess we settled back into them.

We stayed in touch a little, I guess. Went to each other’s birthday parties and such. And of course, we knew that Ben was diagnosed with liver cancer when he was 2 years old. 2 YEARS OLD! I was shocked and scared -- one because I worried for Ben, but I couldn’t help but wonder whether this horrible disease would strike my son also. After all, they were born right next to each other. Fortunately, Matthew was fine. And eventually, so was Ben. Ben was strong and feisty and quite frankly kicked cancer’s ass. Again at 2 YEARS OLD! But some small lingering heath issues have remained -- the result of chemotherapy on a toddler. As recently as last week, though, his doctor gave him a clean bill of health.

Both boys did well throughout their teen years. Ben went to Bishop England High School, Matthew to James Island High. Ben went to the Citadel. Matthew went to the College of Charleston.

Currently, Ben’s hair is what you would expect of a Citadel man, high and tight. Matthew has hair down to his shoulders. They truly look like the odd couple. Ben’s father and I exchanged stories concerning both of them today. Oh yea, did I mention that we put the boys on a flight for three-month visit to Costa Rica today? Did I mention neither of them has a job there, or an apartment, or any idea what they are going to do, other than surf, chase girls, and go clubbing?

Matthew has dreamed of doing this since he was in college. Ben shared a similar dream of spending time in the Virgin Islands. Last year, almost 22 years after they were born, they ran across each other at the Hibernian Hall March 17th banquet. Matthew told Ben of his plans and Ben said what any red-blooded young man should say -- Hell yeah, I’ll go with you!

For a while, we weren’t sure they were actually going to make it happen, but Matthew worked and saved his money, and Ben knocked off a Brinks truck (Just kidding).

And finally the day came. Ben’s father and I took them to the airport and dropped them off. We chatted on the way home and made some side bets on who would crack first, Ben or Matthew. Then a phone call came. It was Matthew. Small change of plans. They meet a woman in the airport and she owns a bar in Costa Rica! How convenient! (Did I mention that both Ben and Matthew are proficient in clearing their livers with alcohol?) She promised to help them get an apartment and possibly employ they. Only catch is that she is on the other side of the country from where Ben and Matthew were planning to go. For me, that would be a deal breaker. I like to plan and then I like to execute the plan. Not these boys. They thought for a nanosecond and said, you guessed it, HELL YEAH!

So off they go on an adventure. No telling what will happen. Hopefully neither will come back married. But Ben’s father and I absolutely agree: we are proud of our boys. Many kids have big plans and dreams for what they’ll do after college, but few actually follow through. Our boys are doing it, and they are doing it without hesitation.

So do me a favor boys, take photos. Lots of them. Write your mothers as often as you can. And most importantly, enjoy. Then again, I’m guessing you already are.

Putting Our Lives Into Words and Our Words Into Lives

wilesc@aol.com — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 05:27:38 PST

I am, by turns, both thrilled and terrified by writing.

I feel compelled to "use my words" – I find the process exhilarating – but even as I post my carefully constructed phrases and meager manic ramblings, I cringe, bracing for the worst. The criticism. The discovered typos. And the nagging fear that no one is reading.

Yesterday marked the birthday of James Dickey (1923 – 1997). You may know him as the author of Deliverance. Or, as one the great poets of 20th century America. To me, he was more. Author and poet laureate James Lafayette Dickey was my first college English professor.

With his massive 6’ 3” frame, Professor Dickey was imposing even before he unleashed his booming, raspy drawl. There were about 10 of us in the class – 10 slack-jawed, sleepy-eyed, wildly unappreciative 18-year-olds.

I was, by turns, both thrilled and terrified.

I can’t recall ever feeling so inspired – or scared to bits. I came to tears listening to him recite Randall Jarrell's "The Death Of A Ball Turrett Gunner." I dreaded handing in assignments. My eyes watered to think of Professor Dickey critiquing my ill-conceived, dashed-off essays. Some days, I couldn’t even bring myself to cross the classroom threshold. I couldn’t bear the scrutiny.

Like a moth, though, neither could I stay away.

I thought I was sufficiently stealthy, until on one assignment (which I’d turned in late), he wrote, “STOP standing outside the door during class. It doesn’t matter whether your paper is complete; it matters whether you are present.”

I was, and still am, dazzled. Exposed, to be sure, but dazzled nonetheless.

Writing can be soul-baring, and unlike the spoken word, once we put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, our written words become permanent, immovable, memorable and susceptible to judgment. Which is why I so admire anyone willing to put fingers to keyboard and share their story.

Last week, Cougar Bait’s 22-year-old son packed his bags and set off for Costa Rica. Sure, he’ll be back, but it could be a few months. It’s a sweet story – one we’ll all want to remember – which may be why CB took the time and made the effort to put it down in words.

No, CB doesn’t aspire to be a novelist or poet laureate or even a regular blogger. Like other writers, he just has that need to share and willingness to risk scrutiny by writing it down for everyone to see. If you’d like to take a peek, here’s the link: A Tale Of Two Boys.

I was, and still am, dazzled.

Fried Potatoes
I believe the phrase I used most often with Son and Darling Daughter when they were little was, “Use your words,” which may be why I was so gratified one recent evening when, instead of merely saying “thank you for dinner, “ Darling Daughter said, “Those potatoes were great! How did you make them and when can we have them again?”

4-6 medium sized Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut in 3/4" dice

1 cup chicken broth

3 tablespoons olive oil

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon paprika

1/2 teasoon dried thyme leaves

1/4 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper

Combine all ingredients is a large, nonstick skillet with a lid. Bring to a boil, put lid in place, and reduce heat to medium low, until potatoes start to get tender. Remove lid, increase heat to medium high, and cook, stirring or shaking frequently, until the liquid cooks off and only the oil remains. Keep shaking and stirring until potatoes are well browned and crispy.

Into Each Life, Some Poop Must Fall.

wilesc@aol.com — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 04:39:05 PST

As I write this, some 1,000 birds are twittering and fluttering around our driveway. OK. Maybe not literally 1,000. But it does resemble a scene from Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." Literally, there are a couple hundred robins out there. Usually, I spy robins in onesies and twosies, so an entire flock might have been a breathtaking sight – except that a couple hundred winged red breasts brings a couple thousand plum-colored splatters. My little white 5-speed looks as if it’s been in a food fight with a case of Smucker’s finest. And the driveway could double as the set where Lucille Ball went foot first into the winemaking business.

Even the sides of our detached garage are spattered with droppings, which makes me wonder what’s going on in those little bird brains. Have our feathered friends found some diabolical way to fling -- or even fire -- their droppings? Or are a stalwart few taking one for the team – kamikaze style – flying directly into the wooden planks, just to deposit their distinctive purple stain for posterity?

It’s temporary, I know, but until the robins move on to juicier grounds, we've been forced to adapt. Son and Darling Daughter have taken to using the infamous “duck and cover” maneuver when making the treacherous 10-step trip from the car to the house. The driveway is no longer a makeshift basketball court. And I only cart groceries into the house under the cover of darkness -- when the winged purple bombers have retired for the night.

Grimly, we’re avoiding the driveway. Most of us, that is.

We spend a good part of dinnertime Chez Wiles fending off Josie-the-rescue-dog and Lionel-the-fourteen-pound-feline. Josie sniffs and prances, endlessly hopeful that a tidbit will fall – accidentally or otherwise -- from someone’s plate. Lionel sits in an unoccupied chair, squinting at the water bottle pointed squarely at his nose, knowing that he'll be spritzed the instant he lays a delicate paw on the counter.

As Josie bustled from one diner to another, I realized a bit of food had fallen on her back. Um. Ick. Smuckers-colored “food.” After registering the initial shock, I thought the kids would bust a gut.

Yep. Josie had been “hit.”

Better her than me, I suppose. Still, the story left me struggling to come up with a recipe for today. But then, it came to me. Grilled PBJs.

When I was a kid, I used to make them all the time for my younger brother and sister. I got the recipe from my very first cookbook, aptly titled, "The Kids Cookbook." We loved these sandwiches with their crispy outsides, warm melty peanut butter and the inevitable jelly splatter. Those PB&Js were, pardon the pun, the “bomb.”

Not literally of course. But close enough.

Grilled Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches

wheat bread (growing up, we used "Roman Meal" brand)
peanut butter
jam
softened butter

Heat a nonstick skillet to medium high heat. Make your PB&J, spreading softened butter on the outsides of the sandwich. Place in skillet and "grill" on each side, until lightly toasted. Serve warm. With napkins.

Know It Or Not -- We've Got It Good.

wilesc@aol.com — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 11:47:58 PDT

A few days ago, in a pique of disbelief and irritation and disappointment, I admonished one of my teens, “You’re behaving like one of those over-indulged, over-privileged kids you claim to disdain!”

My child paused. For a single delusional nanosecond, I felt I’d scored a point. Far less than a delusional nanosecond later, though, I crash-landed back to reality. Far from affected, my child was regarding me curiously, as if I were speaking a foreign language, and badly at that. Hardly a proud parenting moment.

Although disappointed, I get it. My kids are no different from most of their peers. They have no idea how “good” they have it. And why would they? I certainly didn’t at that age.

I suppose we can’t help but compare our lives to others’. Maybe it’s a function of being a kid, though, that teens don’t compare their lives to those of the less fortunate. Perhaps our carefully protected and “blindered” children can't help but keep a comparative eye on the more fortunate – the ones not only with vacation homes, but second vacation homes and home theaters and home gyms and passports stamped full long before they expire.

As adults though, we have a better sense of those on the other end of the spectrum: The ones struggling to pay their mortgages; the parents laid-off months ago who flat-out can’t find another job; the hard-working folks who can’t send their kids to college; the families who jeopardize their own health because they don't have access to the basic medical and preventative care so many Americans take for granted.

A few days ago, I wrote about Charlotte Radiology’s current PR campaign. They’ve placed about 30 pink (and hoo boy, they are some kind of pink) tires in front of local businesses. For every picture taken and posted on Facebook, Charlotte Radiology will make a donation to Ann’s Fund, whose mission is to provide mammograms to underprivileged women.

Then, though, Charlotte Radiology upped the ante, rolling out their new mobile breast care center. You've got to see this thing. It’s also pink, and hoo boy, it is some kind of pink. More important, it provides a more convenient option for breast cancer screening, serving women who might not otherwise have easy access to mammograms.

The mobile unit is the only one of its kind in our area, and not only will it make mammograms more accessible, it may remind others of us – like me – to continue getting our routine screening – not only for our own sakes, but for the many people – grateful and not – who rely on us.

Mammograms, of course, aren’t the only way we can take care of ourselves. Study after study indicates that, with changes in our diets, we can help affect our future.

Of all things, lowly, humble kale – with its beta-carotenes and luteins and phytochemicals -- is one of the foods highly recommended. And although I adore greens of all sorts, not everybody does. This recipe, though, may change their minds. Just as Charlotte Radiology is changing lives.

Crispy Kale Chips

Super easy and super tasty, this recipe will convert many avowed greens-haters. You could serve these as a side dish, or even with fried or poached eggs at breakfast, but I'm crazy about them just as they are. They shatter crisply and satisfyingly on first bite. All on my own, I can devour an entire bunch of kale -- and feel great at the same time!

One bunch of kale, well washed and spun dry

2 tablespoons olive oil

3 cloves garlic, very finely minced

2-3 shakes of red pepper flakes

kosher or sea salt

Preheat oven to 500 degrees. Cut out ribs of kale. Stack leaves and cut, crosswise, into 1 1/2 inch strips. Set aside. Combine olive oil, garlic and red pepper flakes. Toss well with kale. Spread evenly on a very large baking sheet. Sprinkle well with salt. Roast in oven for 6-7 minutes, tossing and fluffing every few minutes. When kale is crispy (like fine potato chips), it's done. Serve warm or at room temperature. Yum!

On A Roll -- And You Can Help.

wilesc@aol.com — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 05:03:31 PST

It’s a wonder I ever get on a plane.

It’s not that I have a fear of flying. Well, at least not a travel-altering fear of flying. I can endure a little knuckle-whitening to arrive at a destination where a single layer of clothing -- or less -- is the only one required and the only salt on the road is spilled by the Morton Salt Umbrella Girl. And it’s not those ubiquitous Cinnabon shops. I adore cinnamon -- adore it -- but the gooey over-sized yeast rolls have never held much allure for me.

What stops me in my tracks -- every single time -- is those danged “Find A Word” books in airport bookshops. Even though I've never actually bought one, I can't walk past one, either. Because believe me, I can flat out find a word. What I can’t do is not find a word. And while I’ll resist actually picking up the book (which would almost surely result in a missed flight), I can’t stop myself from finding and mentally circling every word or close-to-word on the front cover.

For a while, The Charlotte Observer ran an amusing little series featuring two seemingly identical pictures, side-by-side. The reader’s challenge was to find the maddeningly slight, doctored-up differences between the two. Let’s just say it was a good thing the series didn’t run when the kids were babies requiring every-other-hour-feedings, or at least one of them might still be suffering from malnutrition.

Which is all to say that you know there’s no way I could pass up this challenge: To raise awareness of breast cancer and the importance of mammograms, Charlotte Radiology has placed pink tires in front of businesses around Charlotte. Our mission? To find the tires and post pictures on Facebook. For every photo posted, a dollar will be donated to Ann’s Fund, which helps underprivileged women get mammograms.

Are you kidding me?

Who would even have to think about this? What could be easier? Smarter? Or more fun?

I spotted one of the tires before I even knew what this was all about. And let me tell you, those tires are some kind of pink. And, thanks to modern technology, every single one of us has a camera with us at all times. Although I'll be the first to admit that it's my kids who remind me, "Mom, why don't you just use your phone to take a picture?"

What a great cause. Won't you help? C'mon. Pull out that iPhone.

I wish I had a "pink" recipe to share, but since I'm well over the age of eight, those recipes are in short supply.

What I do have, though, is Darling Daughter's "Blueberry Lemonade." It's a repeat of a recipe I used over a year ago, when DD wanted to make Pink Lemonade.

In fact, I think I'll dedicate this post to DD -- and the many other young women who will work to make sure that every woman in need gets the mammogram she deserves.

DD’s Blueberry Lemonade

(serves two)

2 large lemons, juiced

1/ 1/2 cups water

1/3 cup sugar

a dozen blueberries, pressed through a fine sieve

additional blueberries for garnish

Pour the lemon juice, water and sugar into a pitcher. Stir, vigorously, until sugar is dissolved. Stir in strained blueberries. Pour over ice. Garnish with whole blueberries. Drink while dancing.

A Snow Day By Any Other Name -- A Very Good Day.

wilesc@aol.com — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 04:39:31 PST

Today was a good day.

I’m not normally a fan of “snow days.” Yes, I get the whole "winter wonderland" thing. And as a born and bred South Carolinian, I know full well how uncommon snow days are in the South. Here in Charlotte, we only get snow once or twice a year. I'll concede that it is pretty, and even "magical." And the kids have a blast.

They know all kinds of tricks to “make” it snow. Wear your pajamas backwards. Wear your pajamas inside out. Sleep with a (silver) spoon under your pillow. Flush ice cubes down the toilet. However, through the years, even as they’ve plotted, schemed and followed the intricacies of these “rules,” I’ve tried to summon counter-curses, because, as a mom, I know the mess that Old Man Winter brings.

I cringe as the first few flakes flutter down. Yes, they're charming, but I know what's really coming. Piles of laundry. Slushy, muddy floors. Gloves, scarves, hats and boots hung and strung around the kitchen to “dry out.” A clammy pile of “et cetera,” meaning, “I didn’t know what else to do with it, Mom, so I just left it there on the floor for you to clean up.” Cold, wet dog. And the inevitable cold, wet dog smell.

Still, as we racked up an impressive 4-5 inches here in Charlotte today, I’ve got to admit: This was a good day.

I cooked and cooked and cooked. Potato Soup. Lentil Soup with Spinach. Ginger Spice Cookies. And the piecè de resistance? “Brinner.” Breakfast for dinner. Which included “Waffles of Insane Greatness,” the very first recipe I ever posted on Feminine Wiles.

The best part, though, was that the kids were involved. No. Not in the soup-making. That, indeed, would be “insane.” Nope. They had their own culinary adventures. Son made tiny grilled cheese sandwiches using sliced bagettes and slivers of Gruyere cheese. Darling Daughter and friend made Snow Cream. And then they made Snow Cream. And -- wait for it -- more Snow Cream. Et cetera.

The first version followed a Paula Deene recipe calling for sweetened condensed milk. Not a winner, according to the palates of discerning 8th graders. The second version went over better – a more traditional “vanilla” version. Then the gloves came off. Peppermint. Grape jelly. (Shudder.) And Son made Snow Coke, with two secret ingredients that you probably could guess.

Yep. Today was a good day. A very good day. Now back to laundry. And snow shoveling. And wearing our pajamas the right way.

Peppermint Snow Cream

1 large bowl of clean snow

1 cup of sugar

1/2 teaspoon peppermint extract

About two cups of milk

Stir sugar and peppermint extract into snow. Splash in about a cup of milk. Continue stirring. Add more milk as needed, to make a spoonable consistency. Add a drop or two of red food coloring, if desired. Devour. Complain about how cold you are. Do it all over again.

Forecasters Call For Snow. I Call For Panic.

wilesc@aol.com — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 19:21:27 PST

Lionel, our "indoor" cat, making his way through snow earlier this season.

Just two days ago, the gas gauge on my beloved Honda Pilot (there’s no seat like a heated seat, there’s no seat like a heated seat) hovered perilously close to “E.”* Yesterday, on the way to Darling Daughter’s basketball game (where, by the way, she had the game of her life), the gauge pointed squarely to “E.” And this morning? Well, let’s just say it could only have been faith that got us to church and back, because fumes were in short supply.

No problem. This evening, I made a quick trip out to “fill ‘er up.” And what to my wondering eyes should appear but … a line? At our neighborhood gas station? Why yes, Virginia. There was a veritable crush of cars snaking around, backing in askew, with drivers leaning out their windows to kindly correct and traffic-direct others.

All that, for the privilege of paying $3.05 a gallon.

It’s January here in Charlotte, so the signs could only point to one thing: Snow’s in the forecast. But silly me, I still wanted to stop by the grocery store. I know my neighborhood Harris Teeter like the inside of my own pantry, and I only wanted three things -- hamburger buns (for BBQ tonight), Italian sausage (for marinara sauce tomorrow) and grapefruit (for me). Easy peasy. Unfortunately, I also know the parking lot like the inside of my own pantry – and even better now after circling it for far too long to locate a space for the beloved Pilot. (Hey – that wasn’t agression, I really was there before that Highlander.)

Inside the Teeter, I saw everyone I know. Or at least that’s how it felt. And while everyone I know was there, nothing I know was on the shelves. Truly. It’s not that I needed bananas. Or lettuce. Or spinach.

But who did? I need to know. What were people doing? What were they planning to cook? I could understand the disappearance of milk. (Hot chocolate. Duh.) Or diapers. (There is no substitute.) Or pinto beans. (Who doesn’t want a pot of chili steaming on their back burner during a snow storm?)

But spinach? What are people making? Oysters Rockefeller? Spanakopita? Gingered Spinach and Mushroom Soup?

I was all but twitching. What was I missing out on? Did we need spinach Chez Wiles? Is it possible I’d be up in the middle of the storm, whipping up a spinach-artichoke casserole? Should I be looking to find a fix at another grocery store?

Nah. I was already confused enough. Time to get home. Besides, I already had what I needed to weather a storm. A gas grill. Gloves. Beer.

And look. In the back of the fridge, I've got some fresh spinach -- perfect for one of my favorite salads.

Tomorrow, though -- chili!

Spinach Salad with Hearts of Palm, Cranberries and Blue Cheese
Salad

One bag baby spinach (6-8 ounces)
1 can hearts of palm, sliced
1/2 cup dried cranberries
4 ounces blue cheese, crumbled
1/3 cup salted sunflower seeds
1 orange, peeled and cut in sections

Dressing
1/4 cup canola oil
1/4 cup raspberry vinegar
1/4 orange juice
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon kosher salt
healthy grinding of black pepper

Toss salad ingredients in a large bowl. Whisk together dressing ingredients and toss -- lightly -- with salad. Serve immediately.

*As an aside, I never look at the “E” and “F” symbols on the gas gauge without recalling my Dad’s observation when I was a kid: “’E’ is for ‘Edna.’ ‘F’ is for ‘Fountain.’” “Edna,” of course, is my mom. “Fountain” is my maiden name. And still, they were married for nearly 20 years.

Losing It In 2011

wilesc@aol.com — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 19:22:34 PST

It’s Day Two of 2011 -- a.k.a. the “Year of Loss” Chez Wiles -- in which I’ve resolved to lose weight, bad habits, and mental stressors.

I lost it, all right.

My wallet, that is. Along with my cool, sleep and patience. (You might think the stress would also cause me to lose my appetite, but that would make it the “Year of Wishful Thinking,” not the “Year Of Loss,” much less the “Year Of Lose Five Pounds By Skipping Dinner And Sharing A Pitcher Of Beer.”)

I don’t mean to whine. But "shap."* It’s not that my wallet held much cash. $40 altogether -- although it was all in $10 bills, which are my very favorite. (Think about it. How often do you see a $10 bill? $5s and $20s are much more common. It somehow feels unfair to spend the under-circulated $10s.)

It’s not even that I’m now without a driver’s license, which can’t be replaced online because the NC-DMV site is down. It’s not that I’m so distressed about losing my American Express and MasterCard. I’ve checked online (obsessively) and it doesn’t appear that anyone is partying down on Four Lokos, Slim Jims and Funyuns at my expense.

What’s keeping me up at night and causing me to lose my train of thought before I can key in a complete sentence is all the “extras” that were in the wallet. My insurance cards. My Costco card. My well-worn Starbucks card. My Taco Mac Brewniversity card. Christmas receipts. Doctor’s appointment cards. And my ex’s Visa card.

Cheri, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do.

It’s one thing, of course, to tell friends and family of my foibles. It’s another thing altogether to have to ‘splain them to my ex. Particularly when the credit limit on that single card is likely higher than all of mine together. Plus a year’s worth of mortgage payments. And a weekend’s spending at Costco.

Of course, it is the “Year Of Loss,” so it’s entirely apropos that – along with everything else, including my mental faculties -- I should be losing face.

To be fair, he took it well. He even offered a replacement card. Which makes me feel like, well, a loser. Which, considering that I have no idea where my wallet is, I guess I am.

Shap.

So it probably goes without saying that I’m not including a recipe today. Yes, I had a great photo of a surprising Sauteed Brussels Sprouts. And I’m very happy with my new Bison Chili Recipe. And I just know folks will love my Cranberry Spinach Salad Recipe. But at this moment in time, I can’t lay my hands on any of them.

You win some, you lose some. Welcome to 2011 Chez Wiles.

*"Shap." "Crap" with an "sh."

Derailing Exam Prep In One Easy Step

wilesc@aol.com — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 05:27:10 PST

Thirteen days until Christmas and all through the house, not a creature is stirring. Because exams start tomorrow.

Did we have exams in high school – back in the lava-lamp 70s? Probably. Maybe. Um. Maybe I was absent that day.

Is it possible I didn’t have exams? Is it possible I did, but just don’t remember? Could I possibly have been that Holly-Go-Lightly? Well, to all three questions, my answer would be, “Don’t judge me.”

If we did have exams, I must’ve taken them even less seriously than Son did last year (see "How To Prepare For Exams In 20 Easy Steps"), which on the one hand, is almost impossible to conceive. And on the other, it's entirely possible, if not probable.

This year, though, the Son and Darling Daughter (DD) are hard at work. Son is diligent, no doubt still smarting from last year’s metaphorical two-by-four upside the head, and DD is cautious, surely reliving my ‘round the clock shrieks last year of “You have to do well! You’re in high school now! Everything counts!”

Whatever. For the past few days, they’ve both been hitting the books. Not to mention the refrigerator, pantry and, on occasion, each other. Are they really well-prepared for the week’s exams? (Son has four and DD faces two.) Or have they both been skillfully dodging everyday chores, holiday errands, and me?

But wait. Is that snow? Really? In December? In Charlotte? When Son has two exams tomorrow and DD has two end of the semester tests? Really?

Really. Out of nowhere, flakes fall – fast, furious and magically illuminated by our outdoor holiday lights.

So much for quiet. So much for focus. So much exam prep. The proverbial train has jumped the tracks, hopped the rails and ground to halt in our own front yard. Even though it’s dark outside, both kids run out to catch the season’s first snowflakes.

Not exactly the way I saw this blog post going.

What was previously peaceful progress – or at least, peaceful plugging along -- turns to a bizarre combination of exuberance and panic. What if school closes tomorrow? What if school doesn’t close tomorrow? Will it keep snowing? Will it stick? Will the roads ice over?

Mom. Mom! MOM! What’s going to happen?

I wish I knew. For years, I’ve insisted to them, fairly convincingly, that, like Santa, I always know what they’re up to. Not only do I have eyes in the back of my head, but I can also predict the future.

This time, though, all I can predict is that it’s going to be cold. Darned cold. I’ll be sure to check the school closings before waking anyone up in the morning. And regardless of exam schedules, I’ll be making up a batch of this heavenly white bean soup. Because baby, it’s cold outside.

Rosemary White Bean Soup with Gremolata

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 large onion, chopped

1 carrot, chopped

1 clove garlic, minced

1 4" - 6" branch of fresh rosemary

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1 quart chicken broth

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

2-3 cans cannellini beans (white beans), drained and rinsed

Gremolata

1 clove garlic, very finely minced or grated

1/2 cup minced parsley

1 teaspoon kosher salt

zest of two lemons

In large, heavy-bottomed pot, saute onion and carrot in olive oil, over medium heat until onion is translucent. Stir in garlic, and continue sauteeing until vegetables are very fragrant and onions begin to brown. Stir in seasonings, broth, lemon juice and two cans of beans. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to low and simmer, lidded, for at least one hour. Remove rosemary branch. Using immersion blender (or food mill), puree soup. Bring back to a simmer. If you like your soup thicker, stir in additional can of beans and puree once again. Season well with kosher salt and pepper. Stir together gremolata ingredients (or even better, use a large knife to "cut" ingredients together on a cutting board) and sprinkle over soup. Yum.