Step One -- Of A Million -- Of Choosing A College

Fifteen-year-old Son is two years, 10 months away from beginning college, which means two things.  One, I’m certain that he needs to begin –- posthaste – buckling down in school, getting his name on college mailing lists, listing and ranking the college attributes he finds most appealing and appropriate to his skill sets, and then, one million other things.  Two, Son is equally certain that two years, 10 months is 34 months, which is a long, long time away, and oh by the way, he needs new guitar strings.  Can we go get some tomorrow?

Remember that scene in The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy asks Scarecrow, “What would you do with a brain if you had one”?  Well, some 30 years ago, when I told my own parents I wanted to go to college, their reaction, although not verbatim, was along the same lines:  “What would you do with a degree if you had one?”

It was a different time.  Not everyone was expected to go to college.  And, colleges weren’t so discerning in their admissions decisions.  As a good-not-extraordinary student with good-not-outstanding grades and good-not-scorching SAT scores, I knew I'd have no problem getting into college.  My family just had to figure out how to swing it.  Even then, though, I wouldn’t be making a “choice.”   I’d attend the school that offered scholarship money – the University of South Carolina.

I got to go to a football game at my beloved alma mater this weekend.  And lucky me, Son agreed to go, too.  It was typical Gamecock football: tailgating of Thanksgiving proportions, unreasonably raucous fans, head-scratching calls, inexplicably sloppy play, skin-searing heat, unbridled fan faith, at least nine iterations of Sandstorm, and, despite being 17-point favorites, my beloved Gamecocks in their usual position behind the eight ball.  The only atypical part of the game was that we (the royal “we”) ended up pulling off a decisive victory over the underdog, orange-clad Tennessee Volunteers.  (Go Carolina, go Carolina!)

I enjoyed every minute of it.

Apparently, so did Son.  After the game, we continued tailgating with new, as well as tried and true, friends.  Finally, after feasting on far too much seared lamb, and baked ziti and sausage bread and spicy chilled shrimp, the two of us climbed into the Pilot to head for home.

It had been a long day, and I fully expected Son to be studying the inside of his eyelids before we hit the interstate.  But then, unexpectedly, he said, "This was fun.  And I don't know where I want to go to college, but I do know I want to go to a school with football."

OK.  On the list of one million things, perhaps not where I would've started, but OK.

Thirty-four months and nine-hundred, ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred, ninety-nine things to go.

Cheddar Chive Biscuits
I'd love to share the recipe for the Lamb in Pita we had this afternoon, but I don't have the recipe.  What I do have is a recipe for flavorful Cheddar Chive Biscuits -- which I should've taken to the tailgate!

2 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
3 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon fresh ground pepper
6 tablespoons shortening, chilled and cut into cubes
1 1/2 cups grated cheddar cheese
1/4 - 1/2 cup minced chives
1 cup buttermilk

Preheat oven to 425.  Stir together dry ingredients.  Cut in shortening (using fork or pastry cutter), until mealy.  With a fork, stir in cheese and chives.  Quickly blend in 3/4 cup of buttermilk.  Dough should be soft and slightly sticy.  If not, stir in remaining 1/4 cup buttermilk.  Scrape dough onto well-floured board or counter.  Using floured hands, gently pat out dough, folding it over itself several times.  (Do not knead.)  Pat dough out to 3/4 inch thickness.  Cut out biscuits, placing on ungreased cookie sheet.  Bake until very lightly golden -- about 10-12 minutes.

Frig, Frick, Love, Hate and Zucchini Bread.

When I was a kid, two words were off-limits.

It's not what you think.  Of course, all "curse" words were forbidden -- including words that pretended to be curse words, including "dang," "frig," "frick," "H-E-double-toothpicks," and anything that rhymed with "duck."  Curse-word substitutes weren't the only forbidden words.  We kids weren't allowed to say, "yeah."  Mom insisted we say either "yes," or "yes ma'am."  Or really, just "yes ma'am."  "Shut up" was also out of the question, which forced me to invent all kinds of stories where the evil queen declared, "Shut up the dungeon, men!"  If I was able to work a beaver "dam" into the story, all the better.

Today, though, the two words I'm referring to are "hate" and "love."

Sure, I was allowed -- expected -- to tell my parents and relatives I loved them.  I could also love God.  And my black cat, Smokey Joe, who, being born on Friday the 13th, surely warranted some extra affection.   I think what Mom was trying to head off was the tendency of young girls to "love" absolutely anything.  Or really, absolutely "everything."

You know.  "I love the smell of Hawaiian Tropic."   "I love blue eyeshadow."   "I love the black light section at Spencer's."  "I love that 18-year-old boy with the white Camaro."  But I digress.

And "hate"?  Well, I was allowed to say I hated ... nothing.  Nothing whatsoever.  I wasn't supposed to "hate" anything. Mom warned against overstatement.  How could the word "love" apply equally to your feelings for your parents and your feelings for the new Almay, no-sharpener-required, midnight blue eyeliner?  Did my feelings for the buffet pizza at Pizza Inn really equal my feelings for Hitler, Satan and world hunger?

Besides, Mom reasoned, what if your feelings change?  Do you really want to paint yourself into a corner of "love"?  Or, for that matter, "hate"?

Although I've never called my kids down for over-using "love" and "hate," I can't help but cringe when 15-year-old Son claims to "hate" stickshift cars.  Or when 13-year-old Darling Daughter declares her "love" for watermelon-flavored, Jolly Rancher gummies.  The word that really gets me, though -- the word that makes the skin crawl right off my body is "like," as in, "I need, like, three 5-subject notebooks."  Fine.  So you're saying you don't actually need three, 5-subject notebooks, but something "like" them?  Don't get me started.

One thing the kids agree that they hate is zucchini.  They "hate" it.  Hate, hate, hate it.

I want to ask, do you really want to paint yourself in that corner?  Do you really want to take such a strong stand against a vegetable?  And a bland one, at that? How do you even know that you hate zucchini?  Really?  Do you like that bread you're eating right now?  Ha!  It's zucchini bread!

Don't you just hate that?

Zucchini Bread
This wonderful recipe comes from my friend Cathy.  She adds a cup of chopped pecans -- which I think makes the bread even more special -- but which I've left out because of nut allergies.  Makes two moist, delicious loaves.

3 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
3 medium eggs
2 cups sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups grated zucchini

Preheat oven to 350.  In a mixing bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and cinnamon.  Set aside.  In another mixing bowl, beat eggs until foamy  Gradually stir in sugar, blending well.  Stir in oil and vanilla.  Gradually stir in dry ingredients until well-incorporated (batter will be stiff).  Fold in zucchini.  Divide batter between two greased loaf pans.  Bake until golden (about one hour).  Remove from oven, let cool about 15 minutes before turning from pans, and allowing to cool completely on baking rack.  Freezes well.

The Difference Between Dim and Dimwitted? Sunglasses.

What a dingbat.

Earlier today, I’d been doing the usual SAHM (stay-at-home-mom) runaround, eventually landing, ahead of schedule, at the orthodontist’s office.  While Son went back to be serviced and await the predictable "just-a-few-more-weeks news," I cracked open my beloved MacBook to tap out a few notes.

Weird.  I could hardly read the screen.  Why was it so dim?  I squinted, but not for long, because I don’t want to admit that my opthalmologist was right in saying I’ll soon need glasses.

Hmm.  Even squinting, still dim.  Fine.  I tilted, and then, re-tilted the screen.  Surely it was a matter of finding the just right angle.  Just a few degrees.  Maybe 79 degrees.  Maybe while squinting.

I bobbed my head, birdlike.  Left.  Left.  Right.  Forward.  Forward.  Whoa.  Better stop that before someone in the waiting room thinks I’m trying out for a Bojangles commercial.

I was still befuddled when Son and his orthodontist came out to deliver the dreaded and expected just-a-few-more-weeks news.  Oddly, they both regarded me very curiously – as if they’d been privy to the short-sighted chicken act.

I scheduled Son’s next appointment, we exited the office, and I instinctively reached up to pull my sunglasses into place.  Duh.  What a dingbat.  I’d been wearing my sunglasses in the orthodontist’s office.  That computer screen wasn’t dim.  The computer operator; however, was dimwitted.

Why didn’t someone tell me? 

No girlfriend would let me walk around like that.  Even 12-year-old Darling Daughter knows that membership in the “girlfriend network” is unconditional.  It’s our obligation to tell another “girlfriend” when her tag is hanging out, when her bicuspid is coated in spinach, when her zipper’s gapping and revealing those cute pink panties, or when toilet paper trails her stiletto.

This past weekend, I found myself with an abundance of past-their-prime bananas.  I used Twitter to issue the call to “the network.”  The girlfriends – most of whom I’ve yet to meet – responded quickly.  Suggestions – for freezing and smoothies – flowed.  Recipes – for cobbler, for banana pudding – were tweeted just as quickly.  Rebecca, of Chow And Chatter, immediately shared her recipe for luscious Banana Brownie Cake, which I'll include in a future blog.  And Barb, of The Ambient Chef, shared a banana bread recipe that turned out to be the best I've ever made – moist, crusty and super simple to make.

And I feel sure that neither she, nor Rebecca, nor AprillWrites or StepfordLife or CookingVirgin would ever have let me wander around that orthodontist’s office with my sunglasses on.

Or trailing a few squares of Charmin.  I’m just sayin’.

The Ambient Chef’s Mom’s Best Banana Bread

2 very ripe bananas, mashed

1 teaspoon lemon juice

2 cups sifted flour

½ teaspoon salt

3 teaspoons baking powder

1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg

1 stick butter, room temperature

1 cup sugar

2 eggs

Preheat oven to 350.  Grease a loaf pan, well.  Mash bananas with lemon juice.  Set aside.  In a small bowl, stir or sift together flour, salt, baking powder and nutmeg.  Set aside.  In a large mixing bowl, cream together butter and sugar.  When well combined, beat in eggs, one at a time.  Stir in mashed bananas to combine well.  Stir in dry ingredients until combined.  Pour into prepared pan.  Bake 1 – 1 ¼ hours, or until loaf tests done.  Cool 10 minutes in pan on rack, then remove to rack to cool completely.  

The Sweetest Surprise -- And All A 12-Year-Old Needs To Know. (Frosted Cinnamon Biscuits)

Last week, The Today Show aired a segment about the things every woman should know how to do (drawn from the new book, How to Sew A Button:  And Other Nifty Things Your Grandmother Knew.)

In addition to “sew a button,” the must-know’s included roast a chicken, hang a picture, throw a yard sale, and build a fire.  (It’s not just me, right?  A yard sale? Really?)  Nevertheless, at age 47, I’m sufficiently old that it never occurred to me to “test” myself.

Instead, my always-on-mothering mind instantly darted to Darling Daughter (DD).  How would she measure up?  Or, to be frank, as the most-likely-teacher of her success-in-life-requirements, how would I measure up?  (Easy to see why I’ve never subscribed to Cosmo.  Every monthly quiz delivered by Mike The Mailman would prompt an appointment with my neighborhood psychiatric professional.)

OK.  DD’s only 12, so I’ll keep my expectations to a simmer.  I’m not worried about her roasting a chicken.  True, she is skeeved out at the very idea of touching meat – much less chilly, raw, jiggly, pink meat, but she’s 12, OK?  I’m not worried.  Knowing how much she enjoys roast chicken (particularly Beer Butt Chicken), I’m willing to bet DD overcomes these issues as an adult.

DD should also, according to "those in the know," be able to hang a picture, compost, and build a fire.  Ideal training, I suppose, for her future.  Provided her future involves a career as a perfectionistic, environmentally-minded arsonist.

So.  “Tie a tie?”  Ummm, OK.  Particularly helpful, I suppose, if she ever has a son, and if her spouse (presumably, the keeper of that tie-tying knowledge) works long hours, but she's the one who’s got to deliver the kid to a coat-and-tie event.  (Been there, done that.  Times 10 other boys whose moms couldn’t tie a tie.)

So what’s left?  “Mix a perfect martini?”  Maybe.  But as her mother’s daughter, DD’s expertise is more likely to lie with sangria.  But I digress.  My real advice to her (when she’s of age, of course), would be to understand that when her date says he wants a bourbon and ginger, he is not sending a double-top-secret code for more sangria.  Even if her sangria is the very one that The Episcopal Church is considering serving at Communion.  He wants bourbon and ginger.  So relent and make the best bourbon and ginger ever.  Crushed ice.  Decent bourbon.  In a hefty, cut-crystal highball (not double-old-fashioned) glass.  With your own signature touch.  A slice of candied ginger comes to mind.

Despite these occasional worries and fret-sessions, I love being DD’s mom.  Still, I’ve recently been longing for and reminiscing about the days when she was wee bit of a girl.  When I could tote her on my hip and snug her into my bed.  When the backseat of my minivan was crunchy and paved with Goldfish and Cheerios. When DD so plainly and plaintively needed me.

But wouldn’t you know it?  Just as I was in the midst of thinking that DD had outgrown me -- just when I was fretting about silly stuff like composting and sewing on buttons (which really, I do need to teach her), DD's started showing up in my bedroom in the early morning.  Weekend, school day.  Whatever.  With her sleep-crusted eyes, somehow always-fabulous-looking hair, and her hip Winnie-The-Pooh pajamas, she wanders into my room and stretches across the foot of my bed just a few minutes before I’d have headed into her room to wake her up.

What a sweet surprise.  What a wonderful way to wake up.  What a tremendous reminder of my fortune at being her mom.

Just as sweet – one recent morning, after snuggling on the bed with me and Lionel (the 12-pound man of the house), DD suggested that there might be a way to improve on my basic Buttermilk Biscuits.

She was right.  These rich, untraditional buttermilk biscuits were a hit -- and have been added to our own list of “things every woman should know.”

Frosted Cinnamon Biscuits

Makes 12-15 biscuits.

2 cups all-purpose flour, plus extra for dusting the board

2 tablespoons sugar

4 teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoons salt

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

6 tablespoons shortening (chilled, cut in small slices)

2 tablespoons unsalted butter (chilled, cut in small slices)

1/2 cup buttermilk

1/2 cup heavy cream

½ cup cinnamon chips

Frosting

½ cup confectioner’s sugar

1-2 tablespoons heavy cream

½ teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 400.  In a large mixing bowl, whisk together dry ingredients for biscuits.  Using a pastry cutter or two forks, cut in shortening and butter until mixture is crumbly and mealy.  Quickly stir in cream, buttermilk and cinnamon chips.  Do not overmix.  Dough should be soft and sticky.  Scrape dough onto well-floured board or counter.  It will not (and should not) be as elastic or dry as bread dough.  Using floured hands, gently pat out dough, folding it over itself several times (patting, not kneading).  Pat dough to ¾ inch thickness.  Dipping biscuit cutter in flour, cut out biscuits, placing on ungreased cookie sheet.  Repeat with remaining dough scraps.  Bake until very lightly golden – about 10 minutes.

While baking, mix together frosting ingredients, beginning with only 1 tablespoon of cream, and adding more as necessary to achieve a spreadable consistency.  Spread over biscuits while still warm and serve.  No butter needed!

Christmas Love and Warmth From The Wiles. Kind Of.

Dear Friends and Family,

Depending on how you look at it, mea culpa (“my bad”) or pulvis vos felicis  (“aren’t you lucky?”).  I haven’t sent a holiday letter since 2006 – mostly because I was caught up in the complications and cussings of divorce.  Truthfully, ours was as amicable as a divorce could be.  No courtrooms.  No surprise witnesses.  No machetes.  It was final last April, and as one of the kids put it, “Divorce sucks, but we’re better than we ever thought we could be a year ago.”  Truly, we’re all fine – every one.  However, there have been plenty of goings-on Chez Wiles, so I’ll try to catch you up.

The kids are great.  Snarky Son's now in high school, which he has embraced like some kind of prickly brick wall.  Turns out, ninth grade’s a lot tougher than eighth.  Shocking.  Over Christmas break, he’s taking drivers’ ed.  I’m not worried a bit and you shouldn’t be, either.  Well, not until March, I guess.  That’s when he actually turns 15.  Now that SS is a teenager, I’m also pleased to report that he and Darling Daughter (DD) have grown a lot closer.  At one point this fall, he told her, “You’re not unattractive, you know.”  Sigh.  Just about brings tears to your eyes, right?

DD's in seventh grade and is playing basketball.  Despite being one of the (very) tallest girls on the team, she’s spending a lot of time at point guard.  Either her previous coaches have overlooked an undeniable talent, or this current team is a wee bit short on ballhandlers.  Hard to tell.  She went to summer camp this past year for four weeks.  Surprising how quickly her letters turned from, “I want to come home” to “can I stay another four weeks?”  Again, just about brings tears to your eyes, right?

DD had to come home, though, because there’s some sort of “no felines” rule at her camp, and although she might get over me, there was no getting over her 12-pound-cat, Lionel, who likely believes his name to be, “you’re an indoor cat, you’re an indoor cat, you’re an indoor cat,” which is what I say to him, over and over.  Every.  Single.  Day.

We have a new addition to our household.  (C’mon, now.  Don't even go there.  Remember that I’m 47 and single.)  In February, Josie-the-rescue-dog came to live with us.  She’d had parvo and been starved nearly to death, so mostly what she wants from us is to be fed and loved.  Here’s what we want from her:  To leave the #%$@* cat alone.  Every.  Single.  Day.

I’m still a stay-at-home-mom (I told you the divorce was amicable), so my life as cook-driver-sock-finder-poop-picker-upper continues.  I have, however, been keeping a blog, Feminine Wiles, which I hope you’ll read sometime after the holiday rush slows down.  I try to include a recipe in every post, as well as a funny story.  Or, at least, a story that is funny to me.  To find it, just Google “Cheri Wiles blog” or “Cheri Feminine Wiles.”  Or, try, “master stir fry in peru keep cats in basement.”  No kidding.  Someone once landed on my blog by Googling these very words.  I can't even imagine.

The response to Feminine Wiles has been mixed here at home.  DD says the word “blog” (which actually is short for “web log”) sounds disgusting – like some sort of bodily function.  Nice.  SS's friends actually read it, but what he wants to know is, “Does this mean you’re finally getting paid to write?”  Uh.  No.  But thanks for asking.

Which is all to say that 2009 has treated us just fine, and we all hope it’s treated you just as well -- or in some instances (poop-scooping comes to mind) even better.

Much love and happy holidays,


Cheri


P.S.  If you need a great coffeecake for Christmas morning, I've got an idea that's a snap. Note that you've got to assemble it the night before and pop it in the oven the next morning.  As unlikely as it sounds, it always turns out perfect.

Butterscotch Monkey Bread
1 bag frozen parkerhouse style rolls
1 (small) box butterscotch pudding (not instant)
1 cup pecans, chopped
3/4 cup brown sugar
3/4 cup butter


The night before, spray bundt pan with nonstick coating.  Place frozen rolls in pan.  Pour dry pudding mix over rolls and sprinkle with pecans.  Combine brown sugar and butter in a small saucepan and bring to a boil.  Drizzle hot mixture over frozen rolls and cover pan loosely with plastic wrap.  Leave pan out on counter overnight.


The next morning, preheat oven to 350.  Rolls will have risen, doubling or tripling in size.  Bake, uncovered, for 30 minutes.  Let cool slightly and pass the napkins!

'Tis The Season For Panic -- And For Baking

Right now, our front sidewalk appears to have been booby-trapped by Wile E. Coyote (Supergenius), except that instead of being lined with marbles fresh from The Acme Company, our sidewalk -- weed-whacked-edge-to-weed-whacked-edge – is encrusted with acorns.  Thousands and thousands of acorns.  Which, actually, with their needle-tipped ends, are more hazardous than marbles.  Even steelies.

This sidewalk is hardly a paved path.  It’s an ankle sprain waiting for crutches and the EMS to arrive.  Followed immediately thereafter by a personal injury lawyer.

Our neighborhood squirrels are frenzied – near panic – trying to harvest and store the bountiful harvest before it’s crushed beneath villainous car tires and Mike the Mailman’s heels.  Or worse, collected as evidence in the aforementioned lawsuit.

I’m with the squirrels.  The holiday season is upon us, and I’ve got my own frenzy -- making lists and stashing them in my purse, my room, the desk drawer, on the computer, the iPhone, and the backs of Harris Teeter receipts.  I’ve also begun stashing gifts, and in the process, have even found a few “lost” gifts from Christmases past.  (As if someone in the household could still fit in size “00” jeans.  Sigh.)

I’ve also, joyfully, begun holiday cooking.  Next week will be filled with pies – pecan, pumpkin, the dreaded mincemeat, the Best Cheesecake Ever – and the surprisingly irresistible Gingered Orange Cranberry Sauce.  This week, though, is devoted to things that can be prepared in advance, the impossible-to-eat-just-one Cheddar-Blue Cheese Wafers, cranberry-spiked Pumpkin Bread, Super Savory Crispix Mix, and the inadequately named and homely-sounding Sausage Bread.

Sausage Bread requires only three ingredients and is a holiday necessity Chez Wiles.  Not only is it the mandatory breakfast for both Thanksgiving and Christmas mornings, it makes a terrific tailgating treat, a welcomed hostess gift and is easily prepared in advance and frozen for travel.

Not quite, perhaps, as “genius” as Wile E. Coyote, but pretty darn close.  And to this point, no lawsuits either.

Sausage Bread

1 pkg (three loaves) frozen white bread dough (I use Bridgford)

2 lbs. good quality bulk sausage (I use either Fresh Market’s or Neese’s)

1 lb. grated Cheddar-Montery Jack blend

1 onion, diced, sautéed (optional)

1 bell pepper (any color) diced, sautéed (optional)

flour

mustard

Thaw dough and allow to come to room temperature.

Brown sausage in large skillet, breaking into small bits.  Stir in onion and bell pepper, if using.  Drain well in a colander.

Working with one loaf at a time, on a well-floured pastry board, roll and stretch dough out into a rectangle, measuring (very roughly) 9” x 14”.  (Note:  If dough is too chilled, it will not stretch sufficiently.)  Scatter 1/3 of sausage over dough.  Sprinkle with 1/3 (1 1/3 cups) cheese. 

Starting along long edge, gently roll up dough, tucking in sausage and cheese as you go.  This is a sloppy and imperfect process.  The dough will is very forgiving and will stretch, which is a good thing.  Just try not to tear it.

Once you’ve rolled up the entire loaf, jelly-roll style, use your finger to dampen the entire long edge with water, which will help “glue” the dough to itself.

At this point, I either cut the loaf in half, lengthwise, to form two smaller loaves, tugging the dough at either end and using water to “glue” it closed, OR, I form the entire long loaf into a circle, tucking one end into the other.  (The round loaf makes a lovely presentation as a gift.)

Repeat with remaining loaves, moving each to a well greased baking sheet.  Then, allow loaves to rise, until overall size increases by about 50%.  Depending on the temperature in your home, this may take 2-3 hours.

Once risen, bake in a 350 oven for 30-45 minutes, until well browned and crusty.  Remove from oven and cool on racks.  Serve warm with mustard, or allow to cool completely and freeze until needed.

What Not To Wear In Faux Fall. (Pumpkin Bread)

Yesterday -- just one week into the school year -- we pried open our sleepy eyes to greet a cool 57 degree morning here in Charlotte.

And wonder of wonders -- same thing today.

This is noteworthy because our city's average low for September is 63. And we’re a mere three days into the month.

Mind you, both 57-degree-mornings days – as predicted – wound up climbing into the upper 70s. Nevertheless, Chez Wiles, we are reveling in these practically chilly temps. The dip was sufficient to have me hefting open windows in our 85-year-old house and send all of us scrambling for sweatshirts and jumping into jeans.  Makes you wonder what we'd do in 40-degree weather, right?

Of course, we’ve been programmed to believe that as students return to school, the season follows a parallel path on its return to cold weather. Television shows, commercials and back-to-school signage support the premise, splashing autumnal leaves on any and all promotional materials, which also inevitably feature trendy teens wearing fleece-lined boots and woolen earmuffs.

I know. It is possible autumn really has arrived.  It's also possible my kids will prepare chateaubriand for dinner tonight.

C'mon.   It may be autumn in Maine right now. Or in Wyoming. But here in the Carolinas, we all know we’ve got plenty of oven-like days ahead.

Still, consider me guilty as charged. I’ve already been eyeballing the sweaters in my closet – the very same sweaters I hastily shed back in March when the temperature warmed up to – you guessed it – a toasty 57 degrees.

A long time ago (but well after the Renaissance, thank you), I celebrated my 16th birthday by traveling to a Commodores concert in Columbia, South Carolina. Last week, as I reminisced about the event, a friend teased me, saying, “I bet you even remember what you wore.”

You bet I do.

First, I remember because like so many women, my favorite memories are ensnared in memories of favorite outfits and favorite meals. (Wanna know what I had for dinner the night of my Senior Prom? Click here.) Second, I remember because my birthday falls in September – the Faux Fall month.

So yes. I remember clearly that, in 1978, as Lionel Richie crooned, “Three Times A Lady" and we all boogied to "Brick House," I wore a long sleeved, high-neck blouse made of material that was only slightly more breathable than a shower curtain. Or maybe slightly less breathable than a shower curtain. With that ill-chosen top, I wore tan, cuffed, wide-wale corduroy slacks, with a leather-covered fly button. Hey, I knew what I was doing.  Since it wasn’t yet October, I opted not to wear the matching jacket.

There’s no story here, really. As my friends and I got dressed that night in our room at the Downtown Holiday Inn, I looked fabulous. I could’ve passed for 18. Or at least, 17 ½ . But by the time we rode the elevator downstairs and crossed the street to the Columbia Coliseum, I wasn’t just sweaty. I was slimy. I was awash in my own au jus.

So yes, I remember what I wore.

And I remember Mom advising me not to wear it.

What did she know?  Thirty-one years later, I remain as susceptible to Faux Fall as my kids. The instant I opened the door to let the dog out yesterday morning, and that less oven-like air billowed in to meet me, my mind immediately skipped to fall fare.

OK. I'm not quite ready to get going on a kettle of chili – not even chicken chili.  But Cranberry-Pumpkin Bread with Pecans? Twist my wooden spoon.

It was, after all, 57 degrees outside.

Cranberry-Pumpkin Bread
Makes two 9 x 5, or three 8 x 4 loaves

3 cups sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
4 large eggs
1 16-oz. can of pumpkin (not pumpkin pie mix)
3 1/2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon allspice
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1 cup dried, sweetened cranberries (e.g., Craisins) (optional)
1 cup toasted, chopped pecans (optional)
2/3 cup warm water

Preheat oven to 350. Beat oil, sugar, eggs (one at a time) until well-blended. Stir in pumpkin. In a separate bowl, stir together dry ingredients (except cranberries and nuts). Stir dry ingredients into pumpkin mixture. Fold in cranberries and pecans, if using. Slowly stir in warm water until mixture is consistent. Bake in greased and floured loaf pans until golden -- about one hour. After allowing to cool 15 minutes, remove from pans and cool completely on racks. Freezes well.

One Dog's Life

A few weeks ago, we adopted a beautiful Brittany rescue dog, Josie.

She'd had a rough life prior to her arrival Chez Wiles. She'd had parvo, been starved nearly to death, and had never been in a house. So here's what she wants of us. To be loved. To be fed.

Here's what we want of her. To sit, stay, come and "go." To be docile and obedient. To not pee on the floor. To not pee on the rug. To not pee on the most expensive rug in the house. (This morning.) To not eat my 6th grader's course registration form. (Too late.) To not eat my 8th grader's French homework. (Again, too late.) To lie calmly at our feet. To zoom in circles around the coffee table. To jump up and catch treats in her mouth. To not jump up on us. To welcome our friends -- whom she doesn't know. To ward off strangers -- whom she doesn't know either. To play with the cat. To leave the @#%$!! cat the **&%^$@! alone.

And that's just Month One.

Not really a fair relationship, I guess. Sometimes, you can see in her eyes that's she's not 100% sure of us just yet. Still, it's somehow working.

Maybe I shouldn't be focusing so much on what we want of her, but instead, on what she does for us. She's the best alarm clock I've ever owned. Just the threat of me unleashing the "canine clock," makes both sleepy-eyed kids pop up like life-size jack-in the-boxes. She's a grueling personal trainer for our cat, Lionel. Jillian, from The Biggest Loser, would be shamed by the intense workouts that Josie gives. Best of all, though, she's helping us happily re-define our post-divorce family, making us feel more complete.

For all she does, maybe I should be doing more for her. I may have to start researching some dog biscuit recipes. Until I figure out a canine version, though, I bet Josie won't mind these a bit.

Buttermilk Biscuits

2 cups flour ("soft" Southern flour, like Red Band or White Lily, really is best)

1 tablespoon sugar (I know most Southern cooks don't include it, but I think it makes the dough more tender)

1 teaspoon salt

3 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

6 tablespoons shortening (chilled, cut in small cubes)

2 tablespoons unsalted butter (chilled, cut in small cubes)

3/4 - 1 cup buttermilk

Preheat oven to 425. Blend together dry ingredients. Using pastry cutter or two forks, cut in shortening and butter until mixture is crumbly and mealy. Quickly blend in 3/4 cup of the buttermilk. Dough should be soft and sticky; if needed, stir in remaining 1/4 cup buttermilk. Scrape dough onto well-floured board or counter. It will not (and should not) be as elastic or dry as bread dough. Using floured hands, gently pat out dough, and fold it over itself several times (patting, not kneading). Pat dough out to 3/4 inch thickness. Cut out biscuits, placing on ungreased cookie sheet. Repeat with remaining dough scraps. Bake until very lightly golden -- about 10-12 minutes.