Darling Daughter Packs Her Bags

“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.

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

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.

Divorce Etiquette For Every Day Use.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No etiquette required. 

Shrimp & Broccoli Quiche

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shap.  Shap, shap, shap, shap, sh*%!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're going to be just fine.

Shrimpy Eggs

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

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

1 teaspoon butter or olive oil

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

2 tablespoons chopped red bell pepper

1 tablespoon minced fresh chives

salt

fresh ground pepper

1 tablespoon crumbled goat cheese (optional)

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

Bacon Bloody Marys? We Have To -- It's Tradition.

A few days ago, Darling Daughter opined, “Thanksgiving is my favorite.”

“It’s not the turkey so much,” she continued, “It’s all the other stuff.  You know. The oyster roast at Grandpa’s and the orange juice at MaMama’s. The Christmas music you make us listen to.  All those decorations in Grandpa’s yard, and all those ice cream sandwiches in MaMama’s freezer.  And you know we’ll go to the Pig* at least three times.  And maybe even Bi-Lo.  Ooooooh.  And Krispy Kreme.”

Every family has traditions.  These, I guess, are ours.  Nothing extraordinary.  Nothing to do with turkeys or stuffing or football or Plymouth Rock.  Just us.  Just tradition.

We've all got 'em.  For me, Thanksgiving wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without Black Friday shopping with my sister, where our first doorbuster is predictably Starbucks. 

It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without my Gingered Orange Cranberry Sauce.  My dad’s way-too-perfect holiday display.  My mom’s kind-beyond-reality bathroom scales.  And at some point, Bacon Bloody Marys.

At this time of year, traditions dictate what we eat, what we wear, where we go, what we do.

Traditions can change, of course.  When I was in college, nachos and bloody marys at my Dad’s were an essential part of Christmas morning. Nowadays, my own kids awaken to the aroma of Sausage Bread – although tradition seemingly mandates that they each eat only a few crumbs.  A number of years back, we were also subjected to the “one-gift-at-a-time” unwrapping tradition, which I’m here to tell you, does not, in fact, make a child pause and appreciate what others are receiving, but instead, makes him or her count the very days to his or her next birthday.

And although traditions can change, I’m old enough to know that you can’t force the change.  Surely mine isn’t the only family that’s tried – unsuccessfully -- to enforce the “Let’s all write down what we’re thankful for” bit? 

We don’t choose tradition.  It chooses us.  Which is why, it would seem, Bi-Lo is part of DD’s tradition.

A huge part of my own holiday tradition is cooking.  I began baking breads (banana, pumpkin, zucchini) a few weeks back.  Spiced pecans and Crispix mix and chocolate toffee crackers will soon be spilling out of the pantry.

And since overnight company is also part of the Chez Wiles holiday tradition, I’ll also be making this comforting, familiar Cheese Grits and Sausage casserole, to serve with biscuits and scrambled eggs.

Of course, if tradition holds true, one of the kids will say they’d rather have Frosted Flakes.

Behold – the birth of yet another tradition.

* Piggly Wiggly, a Lowcountry grocery store chain. and America's first true self-service grocery store.

Cheese Grits and Sausage

I make this breakfast side dish during the holidays and when we have company, because it's easily assembled the night before. 

4 cups water
1 cup quick (not instant) grits
3 cups (12 ounces) grated sharp cheddar cheese, divided
1/4 cup milk
2 T butter
2 t Worcestershire sauce
1/2 teaspoon Tabasco sauce
2 eggs, beaten
1 lb. breakfast sausage, cooked and crumbled (I prefer Neese's)

Bring water to a boil in large saucepan. Add grits, bring to a boil and cook 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Remove from heat and add 2 cups grated cheese, milk, butter, Worcestershire, eggs and Tabasco. Spoon half the mixture into a greased 9 x 13 inch baking dish. Top with crumbled sausage. Spoon remaining grits over sausage. Sprinkle with remaining cheese.  Cover with aluminum foil and chill overnight (or at least 8 hours).

In the morning, remove from refrigerator and allow to stand 30 minutes, before baking, covered at 350 degrees for 40 minutes. Remove foil and bake an additional 10 minutes, or until molten hot all the way through.

Good with scrambled eggs and biscuits.  Or instead of Frosted Flakes.

Today Is All About Me. Or Really, Smoked Salmon Hash

I’m not pregnant.

I know.  No one’s stopping the presses.  I’m 47 and unmarried.  Hoop,  Dee.  Do.  Still, I am reminded of my fetus-free status every time I grocery shop, because I’m always drawn to those temptingly empty front-of-the-lot parking spots, only to be warded off by signs reading:  Reserved For Expectant Mothers.

Right.  Look I’ve got nothing against expectant moms.  Been there.  Done that.  Got the rear-end-revealing hospital gown to prove it.  Even then, though, I found it silly to save a space for a capable, healthy prego, no matter how much weight she'd gained or how tired she was.  Why not give it to the truly needy mom – the one who hasn't slept more than two consecutive hours in the past 28 weeks, who's toting an infant, a car seat, a diaper bag, and in most cases, an extra 20 pounds, an older toddler and a nasty case of post-natal hemorrhoids?

So you can imagine the guilty thrill I felt today upon visiting our new neighborhood grocery store, Bloom.  As usual, I was lured to an invitingly vacant space at the front of the lot.  But not as usual, there was a sign at the head of the space reading:  20 Minute Parking for Quick Shoppers.

That, my friends, is me to a “t.”  I scarcely touched the brakes before flipping the old Honda Pilot into the space.  Shop quickly and get primo parking?  Clearly, this is an all-about-me kind of day.

Well.  Kind of.

Earlier today, Darling Daughter headed off to spend a beach weekend with friends.  However, despite near constant nagging and reminders and pecking on my part, she managed to leave her Easter dress behind.  As she explained, “I would’ve spent more time packing, but you didn’t have the laundry done.” 

See?  It all comes down to me.

Then, at lunch today, Son grilled a couple of burgers and said, “I didn’t ask whether you wanted one, because I didn’t want to tempt you.” 

Other moms might have their feelings hurt, but not me.  As Son subsequently said, he was only thinking of me.

Right.  I’ll tell you what would really make this an all-about-me day:  If Josie-the-rescue-dog ceased dining on “tootsie rolls” from the cat litter box.  Nasty.  Just thinking about her “snacking habits” makes it so no one wants to be around her.  However, if her habits changed so she was dining on her own "ahem" and I didn’t have to spend so much time donning plastic bags as gloves, hunched over in the backyard, all the better.

Whatever.  I’m already plotting revenge.  Because if indeed, today is going to be all about me, then dinner will be one of my very favorites, Smoked Salmon Hash.

(Sigh.  All-about-me day is over.  Son unpredictably pronounced the hash to be “very good.”  But I still got the last smile.  Son had no idea he was eating a recipe that includes capers, which he hates.  Ha!  Back to me.)

Smoked Salmon Hash

Serves two

20-ounce package of refrigerated hashbrowns with onions, prepared according to package directions

4 ounces sliced smoked salmon, cut in thin strips

1 tablespoon whole-grain Dijon mustard

3 tablespoons horseradish
2 tablespoons capers

3 tablespoons sour cream (plus additional for garnish)

1 teaspoon lemon juice

3 tablespoons minced fresh chives, divided

In a small bowl, stir together all ingredients except hashbrowns, reserving 2 tablespoons of chives for garnish.  Stir salmon mixture into freshly prepared hashbrowns in large skillet.  Heat through.  Serve, garnishing with chives and additional sour cream.

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!