Feminine Wiles

Life At Face Value. And With Shrimp Burgers.

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Mon, 20 Jul 2015 19:38:00 -0400

Uh oh. You’d think – after six years, including a three-and-half-year engagement, and now, nearly two months of marriage – my beloved DB would understand everything about me. We've known each other since kindergarten. He knows where I had lunch the day I graduated from high school (The Mills House). He knows the one food I find abhorrent (cilantro). He knows I don’t snore (except when I do).

He knows that I hate to make phone calls, that in my refrigerator, all containers, bottles and cans are lined up, labels facing out (which, don’t even, because you know it looks good and makes sense), and that I lift my feet when crossing railroad tracks (for good luck).

Truly, even when we're 200 miles apart, I scarcely draw a breath without him knowing it.

But this morning, after yet another weekend of trucking stuff down to his/our home in Charleston from my/our home in Charlotte, I kind of slipped up. I didn’t even realize it ‘til I was getting ready for work.

Me (to my beloved, on the phone): Hey, Baby. Any chance I left my makeup bag there?

He (to me, frighteningly unaware): Yeah, but that’s OK, right?

Me (hyperventilating to myself): THAT’S OK?!? OHH-KAYYYY?!? I’M 52 YEARS OLD! I HAVE MEETINGS TODAY! I NEED FOUNDATION, CONCEALER, BLUSH, EYESHADOW, EYELINER, AND THAT MAGIC TUBE THAT MAKES THINGS ALL EVEN. I NEED BOTTLES AND POWDERS AND GELS AND BRUSHES AND THAT STUFF THAT MAKES ME LOOK AS IF I HAVE EYEBROWS. JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH! LET ME GET OFF THIS PHONE SO I CAN CALL IN SICK.

Me (to my blissfully unaware husband): Of course it’s OK. I was just curious.

He (innocently): You can just use Darling Daughter’s, can’t you?

Me (to myself): HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY BE THAT NAÏVE? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT SO-CALLED "MAKEUP" IS SHELVED IN DARLING DAUGHTER’S BATHROOM? SEVENTY-TWO BOTTLES OF NAIL POLISH, THAT’S WHAT! IN ANY COLOR THAT ISN’T PINK! SEVENTY-TWO! AND MASCARA. PERHAPS. PLUS 12 TUBES OF LIP GLOSS. DO YOU NOT SEE A PROBLEM THERE, BUDDY? COMPARE THAT TO THE CONTENTS OF MY MAKEUP BAG! ACTUALLY. DON’T. PLEASE, DON'T.

Me (taking a deep breath): Nah. It’s just makeup.

He (sweetly, and do I sense -- relieved?): That’s what I thought.

Cripes. I never intended to be deceitful. Perhaps I should just take our conversation at face value. (Bahaha! “Face” value!) I see me as I am, and he sees me as -- his bride. Could I possibly be any luckier?

(Assuming, of course, that my makeup bag and I are soon reunited.)

Shrimp Burgers

Here's a prime example of my ongoing effort to "fake" things. Earlier this summer, Darling Daughter returns from a fabulous beach vacation where she dined -- many times -- at the Provision Company in Holden Beach, NC. She says she ordered the same entrée every evening -- the Shrimp Burger. "I can make that!" I proclaimed. And without ever tasting it, I came up with something that Darling Daughter says is pretty darned good. Maybe I shouldn't rely so much on makeup, after all.

Burgers

2 lbs. raw shrimp, peeled

1 rib celery, cut into chunks

1/2 Vidalia onion, cut into chunks

1 handful parsley

2 egg whites

2 teaspoons Old Bay Seasoning

1 cup panko bread crumbs

4 tablespoons canola oil

Tartar sauce

1/4 cup sour cream

1/4 cup mayonnaise

1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

1 large kosher pickle, minced

2 tablespoons capers, drained and minced

1 teaspoon horseradish

3 tablespoons fresh parsley, minced

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

lemon wedges, as a garnish

In a food processor, pulse one pound of fresh shrimp into large chunks. Remove and set aside. Now, process celery, onion, parsley and remaining one pound of shrimp until coarsely smooth. In a large bowl, stir together shrimp paste, shrimp chunks, egg whites, Old Bay and panko bread crumbs. Set aside.

Stir together tartar sauce ingredients. Set aside.

Form large (golfball-sized) balls of shrimp. In a large, heavy skillet, heat canola oil over medium high heat. In batches, flatten out balls of shrimp burgers and cook, 3-4 minutes on each side, until lightly golden brown. Served on toasted buns with tartar sauce.

Alternatively (and my preference, as well as Darling Daughter's) -- forego the buns, and make mini-burgers (slider size) and serve with tartar sauce or lemon wedges.

What You Really Need To Take To College. (Plus Spicy Summer Noodle Salad)

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Wed, 15 Jul 2015 20:21:00 -0400

Darling Daughter is about to leave for college. Don’t ask me when, because for once in my life, I’m not keeping a daily countdown. I don’t want to know. Instead, I’m spending our dwindling days together like 52-year-old doe in headlights, immobilized by an onslaught of “What To Pack For College” lists.

I. Hate. Those. Lists. Hate ‘em. Not just because they signify Darling Daughter’s imminent departure, but because most manage to be both tedious and absurd.

If you have a college-bound student, you surely know what I mean. And if you don’t have a college-bound student, then you may be even more irritated than I am, because at this time of year, “what to take to college” (and its equally irritating cousin, “what not to take to college”) is the topic du jour for morning talk show hosts and mid-day journalists and Facebook bloggers and, let’s not forget -- total strangers in the aisles of Target.

One such list urges coeds not to leave behind their phone chargers and tampons. Phone chargers and tampons? I’d like to meet the girl who is ever farther than 10 feet from one of her (many) phone chargers. And tampons? The only time a typical teenaged girl is without one is when she’s heading to CVS to buy more.

Another list suggests that a college freshman shouldn’t fail to pack costume clothing and a step ladder. Say what? In 18 years, I’ve never once seen Darling Daughter atop a step ladder. Whatever would she do with one in a dorm room that’s only slightly larger than her shower stall?

Nonetheless, we’re neck-deep into buying “stuff” to ease the transition from home to school – extra long sheets, rugs, mattress pads, and really, sheet straps? But I worry that I’m losing sight of the most important things she needs to take. For example:

Self-respect. Darling Daughter, you’re a smart girl, but a lively (both academically and socially) campus environment can leave even the smartest girl questioning what she stands for, hopes for, and lives for. I’m trusting you – my darling, precious, daughter – to take care of you -- mind, body and spirit. Make the decisions that are right for you. You’re the only one who can.

Self-confidence. You’re about to tackle some gargantuan life changes – moving away from home, leaving friends you’ve known since preschool, demanding college classes, seemingly limitless freedoms. And while, pretty much everyone you know will be facing the same changes, that doesn’t make them easy. There will be days when classes are tough, professors are unreasonable, and some people won’t like you. There will be days when you question your abilities and your worth. But Sugar, that’s how it is here in the real world. So remember, I didn’t raise you to please other people. I raised you to be you. So go ahead, be you.

An open mind. Darling Daughter, despite and because of my best efforts, you have lived a sheltered life. And for the most part, that’s been a good thing. Even though you’ve had opportunities to roam the globe, you’ve been raised and educated in a pretty snug little community, where you’ve been protected and nurtured and kept safe. These next four years, you’ll be exposed to things and people and events you (and I) can’t even begin to imagine. And while some may be shocking and appalling, others will be eye-opening and, if you allow them to be, life-shaping. Please remember that “different” isn’t the same as “bad” or “wrong.” Keep an open mind; your life will be forever enhanced.

Perspective. People love to say that college represents the best four years of your life. To me, that’s a heck of burden. You can’t look at things that way. You’ve got to just take one day at a time. When you’ve had a great day, build on that. When you’ve had a rotten day – and you will – remember that it’s just that one day. The next day, you get a fresh start. So go ahead – start fresh.

Common sense. One of the things I love about you is how very, very practical you are. You think ahead. You plan. So if you’re ever tempted to pull an all-nighter, rather than preparing along the way, or trying to convince yourself that you can start studying at midnight, or that you don’t need to return my calls or texts, consider what advice you’d give to a friend who was making the same unwise decisions. You know what to do. And when you do the right thing, you won’t have regrets.

So that’s it. That’s my own “what to take to college list.” Or, at least, it’s the beginnings of one. Oh -- and a cooler. Take a cooler. Because although I can’t help you pack self-confidence or self-respect or an open mind or perspective or common sense, I can pack a cooler. And when you come home for a visit – I’ll want to fill yours up with favorite foods, like this cold veggie noodle salad.

I love you,

Mom

Spicy Summer Noodle Salad

Salad

8 ounces spaghetti or rice noodles, broken into 3” – 4” lengths, cooked al dente, rinsed in cool water and tossed in 1 tablespoon canola oil

2 carrots, grated

1 English cucumber, halved lengthwise, sliced into very thin moons

1 cup raw sugar snap peas, stacked and sliced, crosswise, thinly

2 scallions sliced thinly

½ red bell pepper, halved lengthwise and sliced very thinly

¼ head purple cabbage, sliced thinly or grated coarsely

1 handful of fresh mint leaves, chopped coarsely

Dressing

¼ cup crunchy peanut butter

¼ cup rice vinegar

¼ cup canola oil

¼ cup ponzu sauce

juice of one lime

1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger

generous squeeze of sriracha sauce

1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil

1 teaspoon coarse salt

In a large bowl, toss noodles and fresh vegetables. In a small bowl, whisk together dressing ingredients. Toss dressing and salad in large bowl. Adjust seasonings and serve salad chilled or at room temperature. Pack leftovers in small containers, seal well, pack in a cooler, and send back to college with your precious daughter.

I Like To Think God Giggled. (With Sangria.)

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Wed, 10 Jun 2015 19:15:00 -0400

Lord knows, I love making plans.

In the 44 months after David proposed, we planned aplenty. We planned to take dance lessons. We planned to choreograph a wedding dance with all four kids. We planned a wedding video of the two of us – belting out Love Is An Open Door -- on a boat, of course.

We planned to serve a whole roast pig at the reception – with bushels of oysters. Since our first date was on a boat, and we were engaged on a boat, we’d be married on a boat. We’d have receptions in Charlotte and Charleston. We’d process down the aisle as a gospel choir sang, To Make You Feel My Love. Maroon 5 would surprise everyone by showing up to perform the altogether adorable Sugar. And we’d toast each other with a drink concocted specially for our big day.

Hey -- it could’ve happened like that. We had years to think it through. But in the end, on a whim and a wing and prayer, we pulled together a wedding – our wedding -- in something like six weeks. No choreography. No boats. No videos. No Maroon 5. And oysters in April? We know better.

So planners that we are, we came up with another plan. We’d get married here at home.

Fortunately, there isn’t much rain here in Charlotte in April. So we chose to be married in the backyard. By the Lake. We planned like crazy. We planted flowers. We cleaned the decks and patio and gazebo. We installed new outdoor speakers. I bought cunning little sandalwood fans to cool overheated guests.

And then it rained.

Hey -- you know what they say: As we plan, God laughs.

And as He laughed, we moved everything inside. So much for the music. So much for the garden party. So much for decks and flowers and outdoor speakers and cunning little sandalwood fans.

Our hastily planned outdoor wedding turns into something far more cozy, far more intimate, and far more precious. A forever friend performed the ceremony by our fireplace, and our guests could hear every thoughtful, inspiring word. The kids’ toasts got everyone’s tears flowing. David and I could take the advice of another friend, pausing to regard in awe the exceptional gathering of friends and family who have supported and loved us these many years.

It was perfect.

I like to think God laughed. I know we did. Praise the Lord.

Anyone in the market for 70 cunning little sandalwood fans?

Bonner4Real Sangria

With no time to "concoct" a special wedding cocktail, we relied on a reliable favorite -- cranked up a notch. This has to be the most requested recipe I've ever developed. Be sure to give yourself a week or two in advance to spice the rum. Cheers!

4 bottles of dry, light red wine, chilled

4 cups orange juice

4 bottles or cans of ginger ale (the spicier, the better)

for garnish, fresh sliced limes, lemons and oranges

Super Spiced Rum

1 liter spiced rum (give or take)

2 cups sugar

1 teaspoon whole peppercorns

1 stick cinnamon

1 teaspoon whole cloves

1 teaspoon whole allspice

1 orange, sliced thinly

1 lemon, sliced thinly

1 lime, sliced thinly

As much as one month in advance, combine "Super Spiced Rum" ingredients in a large, covered pitcher, stirring well until sugar is completely dissolved. Store in a cool, dark area, stirring every few days, until needed.

On the day of your event, strain the spiced rum through a fine sieve, discarding the spieces and fruit. Then, make sangria one pitcher at a time, combining one bottle of wine, one cup of orange juice, one bottle of ginger ale, and one cup of Super Spiced Rum. Stir well, and serve over ice, with citrus garnish.

One Of The Best Things I Ever Ate

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Tue, 10 Feb 2015 22:30:00 -0500

I’m pathetically proud to admit that when one of my kids asks me to pass the salt, I inquire, “What kind? Sea? Kosher? Pink Himalayan, perhaps?”

When a vinaigrette calls for oil, I wonder, Is this an occasion for a lemon-infused olive oil? California walnut oil perhaps? Or should I stick with extra virgin?

I use soft winter wheat flour for biscuits, baby spinach for salads, and unsalted butter for, well, everything, because as previously noted, I’ve got gracious plenty salt – in shakers, grinders, cellars, and cunning little salt pigs with cunning little porcelain spoons. Why in the world would I cook with pre-salted butter?

Yes. I’m particular about ingredients. So it puzzles me to realize that I’m unsure of the ingredients in one of my favorite dishes. I’m unsure of the technique. Come to think of it, I’m unsure of the name.

Mom always called it “Milk Pudding,” but her parents and older brothers referred to it by a far less appetizing name: Thickening Milk. Hardly the menu description that gets mouths watering. But wait – there’s more. “Milk Pudding” – or whatever you call it – isn’t a dessert. And no, it’s not some high-falutin’ English pudding. From what I recall, it was butter and flour – or maybe milk and flour – stirred together into a super thick paste in a large skillet. Then, you’d stir in some milk and some sugar and a splash of vanilla. Again, though, not what you think. Are those lumps? Yes they are. And that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. Creamy hot milky sweet goodness – with chewy lumps. Of flour. I think.

Despite the name, “Milk Pudding” was a dinner entrée. Sometimes served with a salty slice of ham. And as I recall, Daddy never cared for it. It was a Mom specialty – passed down from her mom. I’ve never seen it in any cookbook or on any menu. Google searches – for “milk pudding” or “thickening milk” – turn up nothing. My best guess is it was one of the meals cooked in during the Depression – making due with cheap ingredients from the pantry.

Just milk, flour, sugar and vanilla. And maybe butter. The most basic of cooking ingredients. And one of the best things I ever ate.

What I Wish I’d Said, Part One

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Sun, 1 Feb 2015 21:02:00 -0500

As much as I love to write, I hate to speak. Put another way, I hate speaking even more than I love writing. And that’s saying something.

Looking for someone to raise her hand in a business meeting? Look away from me. Words of wisdom? Well, there’s a book I can recommend. And anything close to my deepest feelings? Um. Can I get back to you on that?

I don’t have the gift. The moment passes. Hours later, though – usually between two and three in the morning – I have absolute clarity. In the quiet, in the dark, when it's far too late, and I should be sleeping – it comes to me: What I should have said.

A few weeks ago, I was with my mom and siblings to celebrate the life of Mom's husband, Bob, who died a year ago. It was a brilliant idea, really. After the angst and difficulty and mourning of the year, we gathered to share favorite memories of the man who’d made such a powerful imprint on our lives. I reveled in everyone else’s stories – in hearing the tried and the true and the ones I’d somehow forgotten. But then, my sister says, “Cheri, tell us your favorite memory.”

So I said -- nothing.

I froze. Rock hard, sub-zero, re-route traffic, school’s closed, the water main's busted, Kelsius zero. While everyone else was thoughtful and emotional and generous with their memories, everything that came to my mind sounded trite and trivial and silly. I had nothing meaningful to contribute. Nothing at all.

But then it came to me. About eight hours too late.

Somewhere between two and three in the morning, it came to me. My favorite memory of Bob – what I loved most about him – was the way he loved Mom. He loved her inside and out. He loved her “because,” and he loved her “regardless.” When I think back over their nearly 30 year marriage, I have to admit that there were times when their relationship was maddening. They did everything together. Everything. They worked together. They shopped together. They thought together. They decided together. They cooked together. They ate together. They prayed together.Ask either one of them a question – even the simplest of questions – and the answer was predictable: Let’s talk with your Mama. Let me talk to Uncle Bob.

He doted on her and adored her. It was obvious that Bob saw my mom the way I did -- as the most brilliant, beautiful, capable person on the planet. His Christmas and birthday gifts to her were always over the top, but nothing was more extravagant than the love he demonstrated, day in and day out. He was mindful of the little things that often get brushed away and overlooked in longterm relationships. He really cared. He cared about Mom. He cared about her feelings. He cared about her kids.

Uncle Bob set the bar high. As we all watched, he demonstrated how to put someone else -- my mom -- first. He loved my mom – in an extraordinary, exceptional, life-altering kind of way. He showed me what it was to love -- and to be loved. He showed me what was possible in a relationship. He helped me figure out what I wanted in my own relationship.

I wish I’d said that.

Best Ever Pimento Cheese Spread
To celebrate Bob's life, we also indulged in some of his favorite foods: roasted oysters, egg salad sandwiches, shrimp, cream cheese and olive sandwiches, spanish peanuts, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, blue cheese dip, and pimento cheese. When I was growing up in Charleston, pimento cheese (or, as some folks pronounced it, "minner" cheese) sandwiches were served at receptions of every sort -- all fancy, on white bread with the crusts cut off. In fact, Bob often said that if egg salad sandwiches and pimento cheese sandwiches hadn't been served at your reception, then you weren't actually married at all.

6 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
1/8 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper (or more to taste)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
fresh ground black pepper
2 teaspoons grated onion (optional)
10 oz. extra sharp Cheddar cheese, freshly grated (do not use pre-grated)
4 oz. canned pimentos, chopped

In a medium sized mixing bowl, combine all ingredients except cheese and pimentos. Gradually stir in cheese and pimentos until well combined and moistened. Chill for an hour or two, and use as a dip for celery sticks or a spread on sandwiches or crackers.

Silent Morning, Holy Morning

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Thu, 25 Dec 2014 06:59:00 -0500

It's 6:30 in the morning. And, as is usual during school vacation, not a creature is stirring Chez Wiles.

Except for me. I've already showered and dressed. Coffee is brewing. And Sausage Bread is warming in the oven. The kids love Sausage Bread any time of year, but particularly as part of our Christmas morning tradition.

That's right. It's Christmas morning, and I'm the only one awake Chez Wiles. Don't hate me.

Carter is 19, and Julia is 17. Long gone are the Christmases when I had to lay down two rules. One: Santa can't come if you don't get to sleep. And Two: No one is allowed downstairs before 6:00 tomorrow morning.

Not, of course, that they ever had to wake me up. I was always as excited as a kid myself -- well awake before they were -- making coffee and making Sausage Bread and most of all, making them wait. They'd sit -- with sleep in their eyes and bedheads that would be memorialized in Christmas photos for years to come -- at the bottom of the stairs, on the last two steps, nearly vibrating from anticipation. From that vantage point, they could just peek around the corner into the living room -- without their sweet little feet touching the floor -- at the lit tree and abundant gifts and overstuffed stockings.

Flash forward to Christmas Day 2014. My "kids" are nearly grown. There's no more waiting on the stairs. Instead, I'm the one waiting. At 7:15 a.m., they're both still dozing. I'll jostle them awake soon enough. We'll tear open gifts and dump out stockings. We'll stuff ourselves with hot, toasty Sausage Bread, and both kids will join me in a cup of coffee.

For just a few more minutes, though, I'll enjoy the silence. We'll have plenty of time for hustle and bustle later. For now, though, I'm grateful to have an awakening of my own -- and a few silent moments to reflect on the many blessings and joys in my life and on this Earth.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Chutes, Ladders, The Steps To College, and Broccoli Soup

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Wed, 17 Dec 2014 22:28:00 -0500

So that’s that. Julia’s winter exams are officially over. “World Religions” marked another senior year “last.”

With that exam, she takes another step toward college. I’d rather not think that it’s another step away from me.

You might thing the path is predictable, but it’s not. It’s more like the Chutes and Ladders game we played when she was little. There’s the Candy Cane Forest of college applications and the Gum Drop Mountain of exams. Julia moves forward a couple of steps, I get mired in the Molasses Swamp, and then, with a big fat college acceptance in the mail, she ascends a ladder. She moves forward a couple of steps, I move forward a couple of steps, she wonders about dorm life without her cat, Lionel, and before you know it, she tumbles down a chute.

Mostly though, Julia moves onward, onward, inevitably onward. And not just onward, but happily onward, too.

But not tonight. Tonight we’ll spend the evening watching old episodes of Parenthood and The Perks Of Being A Wallflower. Again. And before you know it, I’ll be blinking back tears. Again.

But despite what you think, I’m happy about all these steps toward college. I really am.

Because when she’s gone, Lionel is mine. All mine.

Broccoli Soup

In my usual effort to pack in extra nutrients during exams, this "broccoli" soup also includes carrots and celery and onions and garlic.

1/2 stick butter

1 onion, chopped

16-20 baby carrots, chopped

1 Yukon gold potato, peeled and chopped

1 rib of celery, chopped

6 cups broccoli florets

3 cloves garlic, chopped

1 quart chicken stock

1 cup cream

blue cheese crumbles (optional)

In a large, deep skillet, melt butter over medium heat. Stir in onions, sauté until soft. Stir in carrots, celery, potato and garlic. Sauté until soft and slightly browned. Stir in broccoli and chicken stock. Bring to a boil, then, reduce heat to low. Simmer for 20-30 minutes, until vegetables are very soft. Use an immersion blender to smooth to an even consistency (I like mine somewhat chunky). Stir in cream. Season well. Serve hot -- with blue cheese crumbles on top, if desired.

One Last Time. With Potato Soup.

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Mon, 15 Dec 2014 22:07:00 -0500

It’s broad daylight now, but I’m afraid to go upstairs. OK. I take that back. “Afraid” may not be the right word. More like “terrified.” “Petrified.”

Because although it’s been days since I climbed those mahogany-stained steps and peered over the wrought-iron railing, I know what awaits.

Our home is diseased. Closets, dressers, desks, athletic bags and backpacks are spewing forth their contents. Papers -- printed and lined and blank -- lie piled, stacked, crumpled. All-but-empty Diet Coke bottles are cast about like forgotten bowling pins. Coffee-residued cups line the end table. The bedroom wastebasket – usually emptied every month or so –can’t contain the current collection of dried out markers, inkless pens, inexplicable index cards, and Clif bar wrappers.

It’s exam time. Julia’s last set of high school exams. Sigh.

This isn’t my first rodeo. I know my job. I grease the tracks. I stay out of the way. I’m ever-present. You want fruit? Strawberries, blueberries, kiwi and grapefruit are in the fridge. Not happy with the lunch at school? I’ll be in the neighborhood – why don’t I bring you a chicken salad bagel? Running low on gas? I’ll fill you up. You’re tired? Let me fluff the pillow.

This is my job. I know it well. I’ve done it for years. But this my last. This is Julia’s last set of high school exams. She’ll have plenty more exams, of course. She’ll rocket off to college and pull all-nighters and down espressos and bounce off walls, but she’ll do it without me.

What’s most important in that sentence, I guess, is she’ll do it without me. She’ll be just fine. She’ll be awesome.

And me? I can’t even imagine. Really? I won’t be tiptoeing around the house at this time next year? I won’t be indulging unexpected requests for soup and cookies and Jello? I won’t be making last minute runs to deliver lunch to school? I won’t be dropping everything to hear what amounts to a 15 second story about a friend’s college acceptance? Or a 15-minute story about the cat?

What am I going to do?

I guess I'll cook. And perhaps, venture upstairs. Which will be neat and orderly and clutter-free –welcoming my exhausted college student home, with clean sheets on the bed, and nary an empty Diet Coke bottle in sight.

Potato Soup

Our tradition has always been that, as Julia studies, I cook and bake and try to anticipate what she'll want next. I lucked out with this potato soup tonight.

4 slices of raw bacon, chopped

1 onion, sliced thinly

16-20 baby carrots, chopped

2 ribs of celery, chopped

2 cloves garlic, chopped

4-6 Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and sliced thinly

2 bay leaves

4 cups chicken broth

1 cup cream

2 tablespoons butter

sour cream

In a large, deep skillet, sauté bacon over medium heat. When very crispy, remove bacon browned bits, setting aside for later, and keeping bacon grease in pan. Add onion, carrots, celery and garlic to pan. Reduce heat to low, and sauté, slowly, until onions are translucent and slightly browned. Stir in potatoes and bay leaves. Pour in broth, raise heat to high, bringing to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer 30-45 minutes, until potatoes are very soft. Remove bay leaves, and using a potato masher or immersion blender, smooth out the consistency (we like it a bit chunky). Stir in the cream and butter. Season well with salt and pepper. Serve hot, with bacon bits on top, and, if desired, a large dollop of sour cream.

Chillin' -- And Saving -- Chez Wiles

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Sat, 1 Nov 2014 20:36:00 -0400

On this beautiful autumn afternoon, it is 63 degrees in our house. Not in every room, of course. That would be crazy. We've had the fireplace crackling since 11 this morning; the family room is now a toasty 66, and my teens are draped in blankets. Adorbs!

My original intent was to wait until November to fire up the furnace Chez Wiles. But now that November is here, I wonder to what extremes the kids and I are willing to go. Down comforters? Of course. Four-legged, flea-bearing friends in bed? Perhaps. Seeing your breath in front of your face? Probably not. But then again ...

It's not, necessarily, that I'm trying to save money. I wouldn't deny the kids a warm home just to supplement my 401K. I would, however, stop spending $10 bills.

Yes, you read that correctly. I do not spend ten dollar bills. You won't find this advice splashed across the cover of Money magazine ("Single Mom Devises Retirement Strategy!") My plan is not supported by science or economics -- I'm a communications major, not an MBA. All I know is that when an Alexander Hamilton comes my way, I stash it in a pink leather envelope. When the envelope bulges, I deposit the contents at my neighborhood Bank of America. And why not? Really. You don't see $10 bills all that often. Georges are everywhere. Andrew Jacksons abound. But if you're getting $10 in change, you're more likely to get a pair of Lincolns than an Alexander Hamilton. So, when I see a $10, I hang on to it -- which has the side benefit of giving my kids one more reason to roll their eyes at me. (Nothing, though, gets their eyeballs spinning faster than my version of Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off.")

Think those eyes will be rolling when the thermostat drops to 60?

Cool.

Roasted Lemon Chicken and Asparagus
Although this dish is special enough to serve to company, it's also super cost-effective. Use any leftover chicken to make Chicken and Saffron Rice.

One, 4-5 pound fryer chicken
1 lemon, zested
4 cloves garlic, grated (or minced fine)
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon fresh ground pepper
1 teaspoon dried oregano
2 stems fresh oregano
1 pound asparagus

Preheat oven to 500, and remove all racks except bottom rack. Line a baking sheet with heavy duty aluminum foil. In a small bowl, combine lemon zest, garlic, oil, salt, pepper, and oregano. Use your hands to carefully loosen skin from chicken. Rub lemon garlic mixture under skin. Prop chicken on an upright roasting rack (I use a Roastup Rocket). Insert rosemary into chicken cavity. Tuck wings in back. Put chicken on the aluminum foil-lined baking sheet, put in oven, and immediately lower temperature to 400 degrees. Prepare asparagus by snapping off the woody ends. After chicken has roasted 45 minutes, add asparagus to baking sheet and toss with chicken juices. Roast an additional 15-20 minutes, or until chicken tests done. (Juices run clear when thigh is poked with a toothpick.) Remove from oven and squeeze lemon juice over chicken and asparagus. Let chicken rest for 10 minutes before carving and serving with roasted asparagus.

Ten Tips For Cross Country Parents

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Fri, 31 Oct 2014 18:47:00 -0400

I love cross country running. Whoa there, Speedy Gonzalez -- I love cross country running for my kids, not for me! Running is hard. Running hurts. It hurts when you practice doing it, it hurts when you're actually doing it, and then, it hurts for days after. Or, if you're 52 years old like me, it hurts for months after doing it, because you've torn a hamstring and can't recall where or how. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you'll feel when you try to explain that to a medical professional?

But I digress, because really, from a parent's perspective, cross country is a terrific sport. Trust me. Sure it's hard, and it hurts, but have you ever had a kid wrestle? I have. Every match, I had to choose: Shall I hyperventilate or asphyxiate today? Because there was no way I could draw a normal breath as some mini-Hulk Hogan put a move on my kid.

Ever had a kid play baseball? Not as physical as wrestling, of course, but baseball is a sport without a clock, folks, which sounds charming enough until you remember that you've got bills to pay, beds to change, meals to make, and oh yeah, other kids who know how to dial DSS if you don't at least occasionally check in on them.

Ever had a kid play soccer? Right -- that just makes you and every other American parent of the 21st century -- and all of you are sure that, among the swarm of shinguard-sporting magnet ball players, yours is the next Mia Hamm. Let me know how that goes for you.

Seriously. Cross country is perfect. Not too physical. Pretty darn quick. And when you get down to it, your kid is really racing against herself, so if she beats her previous time, she's a winner -- and you get to scoot along home.

There are pitfalls, though. I've been a cross country mom for eight seasons now, so believe me when I say that there are a few rules you'll need to follow.

1) Race courses are pretty wide open, so when you arrive at the event, you'll be able to walk right up to your child. DO NOT DO THIS. If you must acknowledge your runner, do so from a distance. Behave as if you may have met before but are not quite sure. Only after making eye contact should you try to determine whether she wants you to approach. That's it. So now you think she wants you to approach? You are wrong.

2) Observe your runner from a safe distance. Did he warm up sufficiently? Are his laces tied? Should he be doing something to hydrate? Should he look that relaxed? Should he look that tense? Why is he acting exactly like everyone else? Why isn't he acting exactly like everyone else? Stop. Here's a rule of thumb: For every question you ask before a race, your runner will blame you for adding 10 seconds to his finishing time. Don't do it.

3) Cross country races tend to begin right on time. Give yourself time to get to the starting line, and set your watch. Do NOT attempt eye contact with your runner. Do NOT call your runner by name.

4) At the gun (the start of the race), start your watch. Again, do NOT call out your runner's name. Although she wouldn't actually hear you, another parent might, which would ruin your runner's entire life. Do not cheer other runners by name, either. You may, however, cheer the team because, as noted, your runner will not hear you.

5) After the runners pass, you will see parents "in the know" walk hurriedly in another direction. Follow them. They know the course and know where you'll be able to spot your runner mid-course. One thousand, two hundred and twenty-three runners will pass before you finally see your runner. Just when you worry that you must have missed him and that he has already crossed the finish line, you will see him. At this point, remember the rule of NO engagement The only POSSIBLE exception to the rule of NO engagement is photography. For most parents, this is ill-advised. Proceed at your own risk.

6) Find the finish line. Other parents may know additional spots where you can spot your runner along the course; however, they also then know how to sprint over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house before catching the final seconds of the race. Don't risk it. Get thee to the finish line.

7) Note the time as your runner crosses. Do NOT note as she grimaces, hobbles, and limps through the final chute.

8) Find your runner. Have water. Have a towel. He will not accept either, but that's not the point. These are merely good-parenting props. Your runner may, in a lapse of exhaustion-induced insanity, deign to speak to you. He may ask, "How did I do?" Even though you will know the precise time of his finish, there is only one possible response: "That was a strong finish!"

9) Post race, your runner will be required to do warm downs and hydrate. She may even have to endure speeches from the coach. She will be hungry and thirsty. She will be hot and sticky. Offer to help with her bags. Remember, she will not appreciate your thoughtfulness. You make this offer only to know that you did the right thing in front of other parents.

10) As your runner hobbles to the car, he may finally speak to you -- to remind you of how awful cross country is. In this case, revert to number one -- acknowledge him from as much distance as you can wrangle inside of a car. Do not attempt to engage. If you think he wants you to engage, you will be wrong.

On the upside, though, the whole thing took something like 30 minutes -- giving you plenty of time to get home and and throw together something super simple like this "Green Pasta."

"Green" Pasta

I've prepared a number of "Green Pasta" versions this cross country season, but this one is our favorite, especially when served with grilled chicken tenders.

2 cups of uncooked ditalini pasta

2 cups of small broccoli f1orets
3-4 cups of baby spinach leaves, chopped

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 zucchini, cut in a small dice
1 garlic clove, minced
red pepper flakes

juice from half a lemon
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 can chicken broth

Bring a large pot of well-salted water (it should taste like the ocean) to a boil. Stir in pasta, cooking until almost done. In the meantime, heat olive oil in a heavy skillet over high heat. When rippling, stir in zucchini, garlic and a light sprinkling of red pepper flakes. Sauté until zucchini is lightly browned.

Just before the pasta is done cooking, stir in broccoli. Cook two minutes, drain, and return to pan. Toss spinach with hot pasta until wilted. Stir in zucchini mixture. Stir in lemon juice, oregano and about half the can of chicken broth. Adjust seasoning. Add more chicken broth, according to your preference. Serve hot or at room temperature.

The Beginning Of The End.

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Tue, 21 Oct 2014 09:53:00 -0400

Sigh.

A few days ago, Julia ran her last high school cross country meet here in Charlotte. And hoo boy, she sure wrapped things up in style. Far and away her best race of the season, Julia's time cemented her spot on the team going to States. In fact, it put her on the school's all-time top 25. As a team captain, she's worked hard -- insanely disciplined with her training, nutrition, sleep, and leadership. The results speak for themselves. I stand in awe.

Friday, she'll run her last race in Hendersonville, NC. And as she crosses that finish line, I'll check one more thing off my "last ever" list.

For better or worse, it's habit. I don't think of myself as particularly sentimental or sappy, but for 17 years, I've mentally noted and lamented the "last" time she rode in an infant car seat, her last day in preschool, the last time she let me to read to her before bed, the last I held her hiked up on my hip, the last time I drove her home from a meet, because she wasn't yet old enough to drive herself.

Now, though, during her senior year, the "lasts" are relentless. I've snapped my last "first day of school" picture. She's pinned on her last homecoming boutonniere. I've attended my last "meet the teachers" evening. She's about to submit her last college application.

I should be happy, but as one "last" after the other slaps me upside the head, I often find myself blinking back tears.

She's my "last" baby. The last one I felt kicking and hiccuping inside of me. The last one I potty-trained (she made it easy). The last one I taught to ride a bike, and then, in a blink, the last one to get a driver's license.

Together, we'll mark a lot of "lasts" as she navigates her final year of high school, not the least of which will be 212 days, 23 hours, and 52 minutes from now, when she'll don a cap and gown, and walk confidently across a stage and into her future.

I want to make it last.

Quinoa Kale Salad

One delightful consequence of cross country training is that we're eating healthier than ever Chez Wiles. This salad is a current favorite.

1 cup quinoa

2 cups chicken or vegetable broth

3-4 cups raw kale, chopped fine

1/2 red bell pepper, chopped

1/2 yellow bell pepper, chopped

1 cup pinenuts

1 clove garlic, grated

1 teaspoon grated ginger

2 tablespoons soy sauce

2 tablespoons light-tasting vinegar (rice or champagne, for example)

1 teaspoon dark sesame oil

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

In a small lidded saucepan, bring quinoa and broth to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer, covered, until done. (About 15 minutes.) Toss quinoa with kale, and allow to cool to room temperature. Stir in chopped bell pepper and pine nuts. In a separate small bowl, whisk together remaining ingredients to make a dressing, and stir into quinoa mixture. Serve at room temperature or chilled.

Darling Daughter Takes "Some Time To Do The Things We Never Have."

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Wed, 28 Aug 2013 23:03:00 -0400

There's been a world between me and my 16-year-old daughter this summer. Literally. Not figuratively. Not metaphorically. Literally.*

She’s been an exchange student in Pietermartizburg, South Africa. 8,472 miles away. It took a full 24 hours for her to travel there. The time difference is six hours. When I wake up in the morning, she’s enjoying lunch. When I sit down for dinner, she’s deep in slumber. She’s seen lions and elephants and cheetahs and rhinos. She’s been welcomed as an ad hoc member of a loving South African family, who in turn, introduced her to loving South African friends. She’s been doing and trying things that I never will. To quote a line from the Toto song, Africa, she took "some time to do the things we never have."

I have missed her like crazy.

I miss her wit and her insights. I miss her fashion advice and her compassion. I miss the way she adores and understands and makes fun of her brother. I miss the way we can communicate in knowing phrases, abbreviations, and even emojis. I miss her countless bottles of nail polish, cluttering kitchen counters, coffee tables and sofa cushions. And I miss her more when she sends texts like these:

“BTW, I like cabbage now. I really like it.”

“Raw beets are so good.”

“Well now, I’m a fan of eggplant.”

Plainly, the girl knows the way to my heart. I mean really, what greater passions do I have than cooking, grocery shopping, eating, writing recipes, and then, cooking some more?

I’ve got to admit, I was worried in the beginning. It must have been hard to get used to new things, new people, new classes, and new accents. It must have been hard to be away from familiar surroundings and familiar food and beloved things and beloved people. And beloved pets. Particularly beloved pets. But a few days ago, I get this:

“The best graduation gift in the world would be a trip back here.”

Sigh. She's not even home, but she's already planning a visit back.

Tomorrow, however, she’ll board the first of thee planes, and the next day -- 8,472 miles later -- she’ll be back in Charlotte. Different. Wiser. Dazzling. And with an appetite for raw beets.

I can hardly wait. Literally.

* Beloved Son, as an aside, note my use of the word “literally.” Note that I do not write that I “literally” cry myself to sleep while your sister is gone. Because I do not. My pillow is perfectly dry. Nor did I “literally” die when she went away. Were that the case, I would now be either six feet under or a zombie. I am neither. I am alive. Literally. Julia, however, is still half a world away. Literally.

Roasted Brussel Sprouts

I am unreasonably fond of brussels sprouts, although the kids have always shunned them. Is it possible that my 16yo, "cabbage-loving" intrepid traveler might now give them a try? Fingers crossed!

1 pound fresh, cleaned brussels sprouts, trimmed and halved

1/4 cup olive oil

4-6 cloves garlic, peeled

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil. Toss brussels sprouts and garlic in olive oil. Spread evenly on the baking sheet and season well with salt and pepper. Roast in oven for 25-30 minutes, tossing occasionally, until browned and tender. Serve hot -- and eat as a side dish, or cool to room temperature and eat with your fingers!

The Sounds Of Silence. For Four More Days.

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Tue, 27 Aug 2013 05:00:00 -0400

Tuesday, August 27, 2013. Julia is winding up seven weeks as an exchange student in South Africa. Carter is three weeks into his freshman year at the University of Georgia. DB is working in Raleigh, which is notable only because he usually works where he lives -- in Charleston.

And me? And I am home alone.

Just writing about it makes me take a deep breath. Because I miss them all. I do. But to the consternation of well-intentioned friends, I am actually fine. Peachy. Hunky dorey. A-OK. In other words, don’t hate me because I’m beautiful* (because I am not), hate me because, when I wipe down the kitchen counters in the morning, they’re still clutter-free when I return from work. Hate me because I only do laundry once a week and when I do, the hamper remains empty until I fill it myself – with my own clothes. And that Ben & Jerry ‘s NY Super Fudge Chunk in the freezer? That’s right. It's mine. It will be there whenever I want to dive in. Unless later tonight, I use it to soothe myself in the wake of nightmare involving under-nourished lions, elephants and bulldogs roaming a college campus in search of their Monday morning Afrikaner history class.

No worries, though. Because even if I end up with a self-imposed ice cream headache, that sticky empty container will end up in the trash. See? Now you can hate me. Because while my teenagerse are away, there are no “all-but-empty” pints of ice cream in my freezer. No teaspoonfuls of milk remaining in a gallon jug. No deceptively empty boxes of Nilla Wafers.

Enough gloating. As you can see, I don’t mind being alone. “Lonely” just isn’t part of my vernacular.

But I miss them. Oh, how I miss them.

In all this free time, I’ve put clean sheets on all the beds and clean towels in the bathrooms. I’ve tidied the closets and cleared the desks. I’ve stocked the pantry. True, I haven’t actually sorted through all the old family photos, but I did think about it more than once, and surely deserve some credit for that.

And, inspired by Julia, who sends me regular text messages about all the meals she’s been in enjoying, I’ve been cooking. Julia it seems, has found a new-found appreciation for under-appreciated vegetables like cabbage and squash and legumes. So I’ve been a frequent visitor to our local farmers' market and dining on lentil salad, black-eyed pea soup, apple slaw, and cauliflower soup. And, in a nod to Julia, I’ve worked butternut squash into the repertoire, too.

Because in four days, she’ll be home. Carter will be back for a visit. And DB will be with us, too.

So now, I’m not lonely. I'm not. Really. But in four short days -- clean countertops and full freezers be damned -- I won’t be alone, either!

Roasted Butternut Squash, Cauliflower and Tilapia

I am always a fan of "one dish" meals. This summer, I've enjoyed a number of variations on this particular one, roasting a pair of veggies -- in this instances cauliflower and butternut squash -- until nearly done, and then, adding a piece of fresh fish for the final five minutes.

1 cup of diced butternut squash (per person)

1 cup of cauliflower "florets" (per person)

4 tablespoons good olive oil

4 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

red pepper flakes (to taste)

curry powder

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

1 tilapia filet (per person)

chopped fresh chives

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Toss together all ingredients except tilapia and chives. Using a strainer or slotted spoon, move vegetables to a flat baking sheet. Bake at 450 degrees for 15 minutes, tossing occasionally. In the meantime, marinate tilapia filet in remaining juices. When vegetables are slightly brown and fork tender, add tilapia filet to baking sheet. Bake an additional 5-7 minutes (until fish is done and flakes easily). Remove from oven, garnish with chopped chives and serve!

* Remember that old Pantene commercial?

You Can’t Go Away To College!You Don't Even Know How To Make A Grilled Cheese Sandwich!

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Thu, 18 Jul 2013 07:38:00 -0400

Dear Son,

As I count the dwindling days until you depart for college, it has become apparent that I have failed you. Miserably so.

Yes, you hold a high school diploma. Your AP exam performance has earned you college credit. And your grades and scores paved the way to substantial college scholarships. You remain, however, ill-prepared to leave home. And sadly, as is so often the case Chez Wiles, the blame can be plunked squarely on my parental shoulders. I tried, but I plainly didn’t try hard enough. Here are just a few lessons I have yet to successfully impart:

How to replace toilet paper. In the few remaining days before freshmen year begins, we will begin with this most basic of tasks. When I have shared my knowledge with you, you’ll be able to replace a roll of toilet paper – without prompting – in fewer than 60 seconds. Moreover, if I have done my job properly, you’ll also install said toilet paper in the proper direction – with the paper rolling over the top, and not from underneath. With this under your belt, next summer’s class -- Replacing Paper Towels 201 -- should be a breeze.

How to turn off a light. This summer, I gave you 100% responsibility for purchasing and changing all light bulbs here at home, in hopes that you’d recognize the necessity and importance conserving energy and managing our electric bills. At the very least, I thought you’d weary of constantly climbing up and down the ladder. Silly me. Still, I will persevere. Indeed, once you’ve mastered this skill, you'll also learn how to determine – entirely on your own and without parental eye-rolling– when any given light should be turned off. Even those dastardly lights outside the house and in the pantry.

Load the dishwasher. Here, I must congratulate you, as you have nearly mastered the task of returning dirty dishes to the kitchen. Now, though, I’m going to push you further than you ever thought possible, beyond the limits you’ve self-imposed, so you can get to the point of opening the dishwasher door and then, accurately placing each dish so it can be properly cleaned during the wash cycle. If this goes as well -- and I believe it can -- you’ll have the opportunity to earn extra credit by operating the garbage disposal. Otherwise, we can address that particular task next summer.

How to close a door. What does it say about me as a parent that I’d assumed this lesson to be self-evident -- that he who “opens” would naturally – even gladly -- take on the responsibility to “close.” And while I’ll grant that the consequences of an open door are hardly on par with global warming, your inability to properly close a door does lead to “local cooling,” as the air conditioning (for which I pay handsomely) flows freely into the garage, the backyard and crawl space. Similarly, the refrigerator door, when left ajar, contributes unnecessarily to an already air-conditioned kitchen. Perhaps the difficulty of this seemingly basic task lies in not understanding the needed action: Is it a push or a pull? Confounding, I know, but as you’ve noted many times this summer, you are now 18 years old. As such, I have faith in your ability to conquer this. With college beginning in 19 days, however, you must begin now.

How to manage email. I understand the issue here. Managing one’s email involves a number of seemingly absurd steps, such as: 1) Checking your email, 2) Opening your email, 3) Reading your email, and on occasion, 4) Responding to your email. When you acquire this sadly outdated skill, it will work to my benefit, as I am your most frequent email correspondent; however, I must also note that your chosen university has announced its misguided, but firm, intentions to notify you, and only you, when tuition is due. Madness. Moreover, they insist upon notifying you (and only you) by email. What evil is at work here? Do they not know how to text? Only God, AT&T, and the Board of Regents know. Regardless, my darling Son, should your college tuition email remain unopened, unread, and unpaid, you will resume your less than promising life as yard boy living in the basement Chez Wiles. Surely, a person such as yourself, who can manage and sift through tens of thousands of digital downloads and can instantly (through means I do not wish to understand) procure virtually any television show or movie ever produced, can manage his email on a daily basis. You can do this, Son. I know you can.

How to cook. This may be my most appalling failure. As recently as last week, you declared that you didn’t know how to make a simple grilled cheese sandwich. Or a quesadilla. Or nachos. You even stated that bacon is “too hard to make.” It was a fork to my heart. So here, I share my "recipe" for grilled cheese. The key, you’ll see, is to use good bread and good cheese. Be sure to cut all the richness by serving with a pickle. And for bonus points, try cutting the sandwich on the diagonal. It’s more photogenic that way.

As you can see, Son, I’m here to help. Together, we can work through this, and you’ll be fine. And God willing, I will be, as well.

xxx ooo

Mom

Grilled Cheese Sandwich

Two slices of "good" bread (You know full well what I mean -- either whole wheat or a hearty French or Italian loaf. I do not want to find that over-processed mushy white bread in your kitchen. Ever.)

Yummy slices of cheese (You prefer sharp cheddar, pepperjack, edam, fontina or provolone. There is no such thing as American "cheese." Only American cheese "product" or cheese "food." Which doesn't sound appetizing because it is not.)

Softened butter

Heat a non-stick skillet or griddle over medium heat. Spread one side of each slice of bread with softened butter. Assemble the sandwich by laying one slice of bread, butter side down, in the skillet. Top with one layer of sliced cheese, and then, the remaining slice of bread, with the butter side facing out. Cook slowly in the skillet until golden brown (may take 6-10 minutes). Flip carefully, and cook remaining side until golden brown. Slice diagonally, serve with a pickle, and thank Mom that you know how to cook.

Darling Daughter Packs Her Bags

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Tue, 16 Jul 2013 04:00:00 -0400

“My 16-year-old is in South Africa.”

“My baby girl won’t be home for seven weeks.”

“Julia has abandoned me.”

A little dramatic, but yes, I’m struggling. And incredibly proud. From now until Labor Day weekend, Julia is participating in an exchange student program, at St. Anne's Diocesan College in a place called Pietermaritzburg. Some 8,500 miles away from home. Nearly 9,000 miles away from me.

These past few weeks have been a safari-swirled whirlwind. Together, we’ve shopped and returned and researched and packed. We've made lists and made plans. But looking back, I know Julia did most of it on her own. She remembered her summer school assignments. She remembered gifts for her host and host families. She remembered to pack layers. She remembered her toiletries. She remembered hairbands and socks and she even remembered nail polish remover, because the school she’ll attend doesn’t allow nail polish. Or makeup. Or jewelry.

So what did I do? I reminded her to take chewing gum. I told her to pack a journal. And a pen. And in the end, when I didn’t know what else to suggest, I told her to pack cat treats for the feline member of her host family.

That's when I knew it was time for her to board that southbound plane.

She was ready. I may not have been, but Julia was. The only thing left for me to do was what I always do – cook. And bless Julia's heart, for her “last” supper, she asked that I make the first recipe I ever included in Feminine Wiles – Waffles of Insane Greatness.

I love that girl. Love her like crazy, miss her like crazy, and believe in her like crazy. And in 45 days, 15 hours and 21 seconds, I'll have the chance to cook for her again.

Maybe we'll make even make cat treats.

Waffles Of Insane Greatness

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 cup cornstarch

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 cup buttermilk

1/3 vegetable oil

1 egg

2 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/4 teaspoon cinnamon (optional)

First step, unless you're only serving one other person, go ahead and double the recipe. These waffles are that good.

Then, in a medium bowl combine the dry ingredients, mixing well. Add the buttermilk, oil, egg and vanilla and mix well.

Now here's the hard part. The batter has to rest for 30 minutes. Seriously. Use the time to set the table, chop up some strawberries, brew some coffee and get the paper. Now you're ready.

Preheat your waffle iron and bake according to the directions on your waffle iron. Serve with butter and syrup. Or, the way Julia prefers -- with confectioner's sugar, strawberries and whipped cream.

Nothing New For The Class Of 2013

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Sun, 2 Jun 2013 20:26:00 -0400

I could never be a commencement speaker.

First – and most obvious – I’d never be asked. Any two-legged primate with a sign-language vocabulary of 20+ words would receive an invitation before I would.

Second – I don’t have anything to wear. At Carter’s recent high school graduation, I wondered, as I do every time I hear the strains of Pomp and Circumstance, wherever do all those teachers and commencement speakers get those gowns? My own college graduation gown was constructed of fabric so flammable that it likely would be banned from any public appearance in this century. So where to get the goods? Mortarboards ‘R Us? CapAndGownCo? TasselTown? (Poor taste. My bad.) Certainly not at my favorite store, Marshall’s, where I’ve never seen any garment in my alma mater's colors -- garnet and black. (But since we’re on the topic, “How ‘bout those Gamecocks?”)

And third – I don’t have anything to say.

And that’s a shame, because I like commencement addresses. I genuinely do. I'm inspired by those messages of reality and encouragement and energy. But what could I possibly say to 18-year-olds who, by definition, already know "everything" -- or at least, far more than I knew at that age? Nothing more sophisticated than what I preached to my then-toddlers:

Be nice. Our world is home to some seven billion people – some generous, some powerful, some evil, some needy, some wealthy, some impoverished – and some your future employers and in-laws. You’ll make greater inroads with all of them – not to mention leading a happier, more pleasant life – if you yourself are kind and thoughtful. Indeed, “being nice” is the easiest and most certain way you can make a difference in this world.

Put that down. When you were little, you wanted to lay your sticky little fingers on all sorts of potentially dangerous items. As an 18-year-old, you now know that there are objects with far worse consequences than plastic picnic knives, fireplace pokers, and glass paperweights. You know exactly what I mean, Mister. Put that down.

Take that out of your mouth. Plainly an auxiliary to “Put that down,” this bit of advice warrants its own rule because when you’re no longer under my roof, you’ll have opportunity upon opportunity to indulge and over-indulge in substances both legal and not. You have a choice. Don’t be that guy.

Time for bed. Study upon study proves that sufficient sleep is beneficial to performance at school and at work. It makes us better thinkers. It makes us better drivers. And although you don’t need to know this just now, a good night’s sleep also makes us better parents. As a bonus, when you’re sleeping, you don’t have to consider any of the other rules, because you’re sleeping. This rule also comes with two auxiliaries which you’d be wise to bear in mind: Nothing good happens after midnight, and everyone sleeps better on clean sheets. Never doubt either.

Say you’re sorry. Apologizing doesn’t make you less of a person. Admitting you’re wrong makes you more of a person. But here’s the trick: You’ve got to mean it. A real apology doesn’t sound as if your mom is making you say it. A real apology never begins with “I’m sorry, but.” “I’m sorry” isn’t some Dixie Cup of a phrase, easily crumpled up and tossed away. When you say it and mean it, everybody feels better.

Use your words. I guess now is as good a time as any to admit
I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. All those times that I said I knew “exactly” what you were thinking, I was bluffing. Big time. Going forward, if you want people – friends, girlfriends, teammates, professors or employers – to understand what you need, hope and fear, well then, Bucko, you’ve got to communicate. And if “using your words” ends up helping you save your marriage or negotiate a peace accord in the Gaza Strip, all the better.

You can do it. From the time you were born, we always said, “Come on -- you can walk, run, fly to the moon, write, spell, find the cure for cancer, memorize, make friends, make good decisions.” Now that you're 18, dude, you realize that it's a choice. Make the choice. You can do it.

Give me a hug. You’re never too big, and there’s never a bad time. Now, in fact, would be just fine. Five minutes from now would be good, too.

I love you. To the moon and back. Be nice, put that down, take that out of your mouth, time for bed, say you're sorry, use your words and you can do it. Now give me a hug.

The Ties -- And Bracelets -- That Bind.

wilesc@aol.com (PalmettoGirl) — Sun, 19 May 2013 20:50:00 -0400

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 (PalmettoGirl) — Sun, 5 May 2013 12:09:00 -0400

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 (PalmettoGirl) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 14:05:00 -0400

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 (PalmettoGirl) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 21:12:00 -0400

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 (PalmettoGirl) — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 22:51:00 -0500

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 (PalmettoGirl) — Thu, 4 Oct 2012 19:30:00 -0400

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 (PalmettoGirl) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 14:48:00 -0400

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 (PalmettoGirl) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 21:21:00 -0400

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 (PalmettoGirl) — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 09:20:00 -0400

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.