I Know My Place. So I'm Making Brownies.

Parenting is a humbling gig. 

No matter how much prenatal prep you force on yourself, no matter how much you pore over What To Expect When You’re Expecting, no matter how much advice is offered by more experienced friends, nothing truly prepares you for that first night home from the hospital.

Is that a “tired” cry or a “hungry” cry? Or is it a “saturated Pampers” cry? Even if you’re blessed with a few hours of blissful silence, you think, “Something's wrong! The baby isn't crying!”

Right. All that studying was for naught. Get used to on-the-job-training, baby. You may flaunt advanced degrees and successfully manage more than 35 people at work, but you’re a parent now, which is an exercise in simple humility – if not downright humiliation.

Even after those baby and toddler years, kids continue to keep a parent’s ego in check. Just look at recent letters from my happy campers. When it comes to Darling Daughter and Snarky Son, humility “r” me.

DD’s letter, I’ll grant you, does pass the “well-written” test (as defined by me, click here). Among other things, she enthusiastically thanks me for a ring I sent, she praises my decision to send candy, and declares her intention to live life to the fullest while I’m spending my last days at camp. Huzzah!

But in the opening sentence, she keeps me in my place: I can’t wait to see you and kitty!

There it is. I send letters. I send e-mails. I send gifts. But I’m still on par with the cat, Lionel, who will likely draw blood from DD within minutes of her return home. (He didn’t mean to! He was just playing!)

SS, at 14, the more experienced of my two kids, isn’t nearly so subtle. In the past week or so, Mike the Mailman has now delivered three – count ‘em, three – notes from my son. (You can’t call a lone sentence of correspondence a “letter.” You can scarcely call it a “note.” And you certainly can’t say it passes the “well-written” test.)

Three, of course, wouldn’t be so bad, except that in each one he manages to incorporate the same phrase: Um, they’re forcing me to write home …

Smackdown. Back in my place.

And happily so.

Because the truth is, I’m thrilled their experience at camp this summer has been so “awesome” (a word used in nearly every letter or note). And I’ll be thrilled to have them back home at the end of this week.

To celebrate their return, I’ll serve – what else? – the beloved sausage pasta (click here for the recipe) and these sweet brownies for dessert.

I got the recipe from a friend in Charleston a few weeks back. The recipe is actually her mom’s, and she says people often tell her that they are the best brownies ever. I’d have to agree. And on their homecoming this Friday, I bet DD and SS will, as well.

Blanche’s Brownies

This recipe makes a very moist, thin, frosted brownie. My friend said to use a “big” pan, but since I didn’t have one large enough, I used a 9x12 and an 8x8.

For brownies

2 cups sugar

2 sticks butter

3 (1oz.) squares semi-sweet chocolate

4 eggs

1 1/2 cups plain flour

1/4 teaspoon baking powder

1 cup chopped walnuts

Preheat oven to 350, and prepare both pans well with Pam. Melt butter and chocolate in saucepan (or in microwave). Pour over sugar in a mixing bowl and combine well. With a fork, combine flour and baking powder in a measuring cup. Add flour and eggs alternately to chocolate mixture. Beat well, stir in walnuts and divide into prepared pans. Now, here’s the best line I’ve ever seen in a recipe: Brownies are done when you smell them cooking. In my oven, it was less than 20 minutes.

For icing

1/2 box confectioners’ sugar

5 tablespoons butter

1 1/2 squares semi-sweet chocolate

1 tsp vanilla

milk

Melt butter and chocolate together. Stir in sugar and vanilla. Add enough milk to make spread evenly. Use to frost brownies once cooled.

Kids At Camp. Mom Not. All Is Well.

Day 18 of the Kids-At-Camp-Mom-Not program. At this point, though, I suppose the program could be renamed the Eight-Days-Remain program. As in, Eight Days Remain until I drive five and half hours to retrieve two exhausted, over-sunned, iPod- and mobile-phone-deprived campers for what will surely be some top quality car time with me. Hoo boy. Yep. Best to strap on those seat belts. That re-entry could be a little rocky.

Unexpectedly, I’ve been rather enjoying myself in their absence. I’d anticipated, after dropping them at camp 18 days ago, that I’d make the lonely return trip awash in tears, wracked by sobs so debilitating that I'd have to pull over to the shoulder and get myself together.

Um. Didn’t happen. I did get to listen to whatever I wanted on the car CD player, though, all the way home. And I got to sing. My songs. Loudly. Repeatedly. And off-key.

Originally, I’d thought it possible that I’d get a call from Kleenex manufacturer Kimberly Clark, thanking me for my singular increased tissue usage, which had prompted spiking stock prices. Hmm. Well. Looks like there are still plenty of tissues here, so I’m not worried about missing that call.

I had even boldly predicted that, for the four weeks they were at camp, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from getting up in the night to check on the kids, only to be reminded, sadly, that they’re not here. Right. Turns out, I got re-trained pretty darn quickly. I don't have to check. They’re not here. I'm OK with that.

I know I should feel guilty about how easy this has been for me. ‘Cause I really do love my kids and bask in their company. And they both know that. But it's only four weeks, and I've been making the most of it. And the fact is, the kids are doing everything they can to make sure I don't miss them.

Just look at an excerpt from the letter Mike The Mailman delivered today from Snarky Son (SS) – Not much to say, um, they’re forcing me to write. I’m having loads of fun … send candy!

Um, I love you, too?

And this, from Darling Daughter (DD), There are 10 days left of camp. I can’t believe it’s almost over. I don’t want to leave!

That's all right. Anyone could read between the lines on that one. She's desperate for me, right?

Let’s just say that I'm not counting on a Disney-type moment when I retrieve them next weekend. I well remember last summer, when SS made his return trip from camp to reality – and chores, rules, veggies, required-footwear and poop-scooping. He wasn't home 24 hours before he asked, in all seriousness, whether he could return to camp for another four weeks. What a lovable kid.

Lucky for me, I’ve still got another eight days to relish ... um, mourn ... their absence. And there's no better way to do it than with one of my favorite – and their least favorite – dishes. Potato salad.

I really do believe that this recipe (based on my mom’s) is the best ever. It's very old-fashioned and very simple – no boiled eggs, no bell peppers, no ornamental paprika and none of that yellow food coloring my grandmother occasionally called upon to give her salad just the right appearance.

And the way I eat it -- starting the day with breakfast and ending the day as bedtime snack -- it’ll be long gone before the kids return to reality. Lucky for them -- and me.

Old Fashioned Potato Salad

2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes (about 5)

3 ribs celery, sliced

1 large kosher dill pickle, cubed

1/2 large sweet onion (Vidalia or Maui), diced

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 cup mayonnaise

1 1/2 tablespoons yellow mustard (or slightly more, to taste)

generous grind of black pepper

Put whole, unpeeled potatoes in a large pot of salted water. Bring water to a boil, reduce heat somewhat and simmer until fork tender. Drain, let cool slightly, peel and cut in rough 1/2 inch dice. Stir in celery, pickle and onions. Stir in about half of the mayonnaise and all of the mustard. Continue stirring in remaining mayonnaise as needed until moistened. Stir in pepper and additional salt if needed. Chill well and serve!

A Girl Needs Girls. And Chocolate.

I am one lucky girl.

It’s Day Eleven of Kids-At-Camp-Mom-Not, and two more well-written letters from Darling Daughter have arrived at my door.

I absolutely adore when Mike the Mailman delivers “real” mail – even though the envelopes bear my own handwriting because I had pre-addressed and stamped them myself. I'm not even bothered to know that I owe DD one dollar for each of these letters. (Yep. That's the going price for a well-written letter. Don't judge me. It works.)

To me, DD is compulsively “readable.” I read and re-read each of her notes, scavenging for details I may have missed the first time through, seeking additional clues to her mood by trying to read between the lines and analyze her handwriting and choice of ink color. However, I am considering tucking a thesaurus in her next care package. The word “awesome” is beginning to show some wear.

Her most recent letter is from Day Seven, just before her first dance. She wrote, “I am so excited! Each Saturday, they bring dinner to you on the porch while you have a shaving party! After you shave, you take showers. Then comes the dance.”

My own heart did a little two-step as I read those words: shaving party. (Yes. I did briefly consider the potential health and safety issues. But only for an instant.)

We don’t get to choose our memories. We don't get to decide which details of an event will be tattooed on our brain for a lifetime. For example, from DD’s four weeks at camp, I’m not positive that, 20 years from now, she’ll remember: Did she sail or ride horseback? Did she play tennis or golf? Did she water-ski or learn to fly just by running at a fast clip and flapping her arms? (OK, that last she might remember.) I feel certain, though, that she’ll recall, in precise detail, “shaving parties.” I wasn’t there, of course, but even I have an indelible picture in my mind – all those slender pony-tailed girls on a long wooden porch, with their colt-like legs angled this way and that, stars in their eyes, doing far more chatting and giggling than shaving.

A girl needs girls – whether she’s 12 or, like me, 46. And while DD was sharing Schicks with her girls this past weekend, I was sharing stories in Boston with mine, including Super Sis (blog editor par excellence) and three of the funniest, funnest, smartest, dearest women I know. Our friendship goes back over 20 years, from when I lived and worked in Boston in the 80s. As I said, I am one lucky girl.

Boy did we laugh.

We drank, we laughed. We ate, we laughed. We shopped, we laughed. We used profanity, we laughed. We snapped pictures of inappropriate signs, we laughed. Sometimes we giggled and squealed and snorted. And then, we laughed.

A couple of times, we couldn't even talk for laughing. We promised each other that what happened in Boston would stay in Boston. Even so, some of what happened kind of leaked out around the edges and found its way home. (Dang Facebook. And cell phones. And me.) But we just laughed some more. SS and I laughed all the way to the airport and all the way home to Charleston (SS) and Charlotte (me). We're still laughing now.

Not all of the stories we shared were funny, of course. We’re older now and have seen far more than our share of difficulties. Of the five of us, three are messily divorced. One of us had attended two funerals the week before -- including a shocking one for a teenage boy. There were stories of infidelity and money woes and difficult teenagers and assorted family tragedies. But in the end, we found humor in sharing. We laughed.

Girl power at its best.

Naturally, today’s recipe has to include every girl’s favorite ingredient – chocolate. So here's a little something that SS shared with me, but I haven’t yet tried. It's a little unusual, but just by looking at it, I think it’ll work. (Besides, the idea of baking cake in a coffee mug makes me laugh!)

Because truly, I am one lucky girl.

The Five-Minute Chocolate Cake For One Person
4 tablespoons flour
4 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons cocoa
1 egg (lightly beaten)
3 tablespoons milk
3 tablespoons oil
3 tablespoons chocolate chips
Small splash of vanilla extract

Mix dry ingredients in a large, microwavable coffee mug (no kidding). Stir in the beaten egg. Pour in milk and oil. Mix well. Stir in chocolate chips and oil. Put your mug in the microwave and cook for 3 minutes at 1000 watts. The cake will puff up, but don’t be alarmed. Allow to cool a little and tip out onto a plate if desired. Sounds like it would be good with whipped cream, too, don’t you think?