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.

Breaking Rules and Making Memories. With blink-182. And My Son.

Yes.  Today is Wednesday, which means last night was a school night. 

And yes, my 14-year-old (Snarky Son) does indeed currently hold a somewhat lower GPA than he -- or rather, we -- would like.  And yes, I knew that when I took him to the blink-182 concert last night.  Which was 40 minutes away.  On a school night.

Don’t judge me. 

blink-182 is SS’s very favorite band.  (Yes, it's a struggle for me to type blink-182 all lowercase.  But with a name like Cheri, who am I to cast stones?)  He knows all their songs.  Half of them he can play on his guitar.  Plus, blink hasn’t toured in years.  This was a reunion tour, so there’s no telling whether they’ll ever tour again.  Plus, a bunch of other kids he knows were going to the concert, too.

Whoa.  Now I sound like the 14-year-old.  But am I wrong to see his point?

Rules are rules, and there are plenty of ‘em Chez Wiles. We’ve got rules for saving money, for donating money and for spending money.  We’ve got rules for putting away laundry (gratefully), for loading your own dishes (immediately) and for playing the guitar after 10 p.m. (quietly).  There are homework rules, dinner table rules and no-girls-in-the-bedroom rules.  (Except, of course, for Darling Daughter, who, when the occasion arises, will have to abide by the no-boys-in-the-bedroom rule.)

But c’mon.  It was blink-182, dude.  And it was SS’s first concert.

Who doesn’t remember his or her own first concert?  OK.  A few staggering teenagers who were escorted out by loyal friends last night -- before blink even took the stage -- may not have total recall.  I only hope their churning liquid demons were liberated before – not during – the car ride home. 

I remember my own first concert -- The Commodores, 1978.  (Of course I blogged about it.  Click here.)  On Facebook, I recently mentioned that I’d been to an Earth, Wind & Fire concert in Columbia, SC in 1979.  Sure enough, a Facebook friend, who I didn't know then was at the same concert.  And it turns out that Cougar Bait (one of the knights-in-shining-armor when my car was broken into last week, click here for the whole unsettling story) and I were at the same Doobie Brothers concert in 1980.  I know, right?  Serendipitous.

I love knowing that SS and DD are, at this very minute, constructing their own music history.  As she does her required reading, DD is listening to The Killers, Are We Human.  SS, natch, has blink-182 on a non-stop loop.  I love knowing that DD associates Journey’s, Don’t Stop Believing, with her first middle school dance.  (I think I do, too.)


And I love knowing that SS’s first concert was with me.

It occurs to me that, if I were still married, I may not have been the parent of choice at last night’s concert.  I might have been designated to stay home with DD.  I might have chosen warmth and a good night’s sleep over crowds and ringing eardrums.  I might not have ended up being one of so few 47-year-old moms in attendance that we all could’ve fit in the bathroom at one time.  In a single stall.

Instead, I got to be with SS, ridiculing the warm-up band, singing All The Small Things with 15,000 other blink-182 fans, teasing SS about the existence – and his eventual purchase – of blink underwear.  (Honestly, the boy wears boxers.  What made him think those "emo" – his word, not mine – underpants were a good idea?  And why did he choose the T-shirt with the cartoon character, instead of the one with the tour info?)

OK.  I didn’t actually get to sit with SS.  He hooked up with his buddies before we were even patted down at the gate.  But he checked in with me throughout the concert, advising me not to listen to the warm-up act.  (Quote:  He's terribad.  Don’t listen to him.  I’m not listening to a stupid white guy pretending to be black.)  And best of all, I got to be with him on the ride home, hoarse from singing, exhausted from dancing and buzzing from adrenaline.

So we broke a few rules.  I was there.  Lucky me.  And since I’ve been to a concert or two in my day, I’d planned ahead, nutrition-wise.  Early in the day, I’d made a good-sized batch of granola.  That way, I could break a few cholesterol-, carbohydrate- and calorie-rules at the concert.  And make a memory with my son.

Blueberry Pecan Granola

I’ve pored over a lot of granola recipes recently, before coming up with this one, which incorporates my favorite nuts (pecans) and dried fruit (blueberries).  I like it right out of the bag, but it’s also good with yogurt or in a bowl with milk.  Note that it's essential that the various ingredients be toasted, carefully and separately, before combining.

5 cups rolled oats, toasted in a 350 degree oven

2 cups coarsely chopped pecans, lightly toasted in a 350 degree oven

1/2 cup sesame seeds, lightly toasted

1 cup sweetened coconut shreds, toasted (carefully)

1 cup dried blueberries

1/3 cup canola oil

1/2 cup honey

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

Preheat oven to 350.  Mix oats, pecans, sesame seeds, coconut and blueberries in a large bowl.  Combine oil, honey and cinnamon in a glass measuring cup, and microwave 45 seconds.  Pour over oat mixture and stir gently.  Spread in a large roasting pan and sprinkle with kosher salt.  Bake about 20 minutes, stirring every 5 minutes, or until golden brown.  Remove from oven and cool completely.  Store in airtight containers or zipper bags.

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.

In My Next Life, I Want To Come Back As My Cat.

Last night, our indoor cat, Lionel, escaped. Twice. This, despite the mantra of my every waking moment: You're an indoor cat, you're an indoor cat, you're an indoor cat.

The word cat, I suppose, is key. Our furry feline undoubtedly hears me as if I'm one of the adults in It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

Wah, wah-wah, wah-wah.

Anyhow. He slipped out. Bedlam ensued. Children scurried. Flashlights flickered. Catnip scattered. After a few panicky minutes, though, I had to wonder, “Exactly why is this a crisis?”

Honestly. When I was growing up, pets came and pets went – indoors, outdoors, around the block, in the lake. Wherever. Not that I didn’t miss them when they were “gone,” like Mikey, the parakeet we had when I was a toddler, who reportedly “flew away,” but in truth, had been found earlier that day on his little birdy back, rigor mortis-stiffened feet in the air. Or Snowball, my first cat, who reportedly “ran away,” but in truth had taken a long, one-way car ride. (I learned both these truths on a visit home as an adult, after more than one tongue-loosening glass of wine. Rough night.)

In the 60s and 70s, dogs were not only unleashed -- I didn’t know a family who even owned a leash.

Lassie didn’t have a leash. Neither did Tiger, of The Brady Bunch fame. We might have seen a leash sometime on TV. But only on a fancy dog. Like a poodle. In a fancy city. Like New York City. Or Paris, France.

Our family dog, Snoopy Bonaparte Fountain, was no poodle. He was a loud, quarrelsome, battle-scarred black dachshund who had no idea that the only animal closer to the ground than him was a Palmetto bug (a.k.a., roach). He didn't need no stinkin' leash. He didn’t even have a collar -- unless you counted the occasional plain white plastic Hart’s flea collar looped around his neck. I wasn’t a bully as a kid, but if I’d ever seen a dog with an engraved "My Name Is SNOOPY" tag, I’d have been forced to call that dog a sissy. Or worse.

My similarly collar-less childhood cat, Smokey Jo, was also free to come and go. Except for that night she kept yowling and yowling and yowling and rubbing herself on the furniture, and my parents said, “Do NOT open the door for that cat. Under ANY circumstances.”

Being an obedient child, I did NOT open the front door for Smokey. Or the back door. Or the door to the garage. Eventually, though, I did open my bedroom window for her.

Funny story. Turns out my parents were right. There WERE boy cats out there that night. Or, at least one. Because a few months later, Smokey (nee “Minuit” – French for “midnight” -- which my bullheaded family refused to call her) gave birth to four spicy kittens, Ginger, Pepper, Nutmeg and Cinnamon.<

Shortly thereafter, we paid a visit to Dr. Murray's veterinary clinic to get Smokey "fixed."

I never knew she was broken.

So last night, when Lionel tried on the life of a refugee, I didn’t panic. I knew he’d be back. He may see himself as a rebel, but in truth, he’s one pampered pussycat. Outside was hot, dirty and dark. It didn’t take long for Lionel to reveal his true Mike Tyson personality. Fierce. Belligerent. With a ridiculously tiny, high-pitched voice. Lionel responded loud, clear and pathetically when we called him. Unlike the notorious pugilist, though, our pampered indoor cat didn't lisp.

So welcome back, Lionel. We knew you’d return. The only question now is whether you came back because you missed us -- or because we were having Shrimp and Grits for dinner.

Wah, wah-wah, wah-wah.

I probably don’t want to know.

Super Simple Shrimp & Grits

This zesty casserole version of shrimp and grits is perfect for supper, but I like it even better for breakfast. If you do too, you can save time by making it the day before and keeping it refrigerated 'til morning.

4 cups chicken broth

1 cup regular (not instant) grits

1 8 oz. package grated cheddar/jack cheese, divided

2 tablespoons butter

6 green onions, chopped

1 green bell pepper, chopped

1 clove garlic, minced

1 lb. shrimp (smaller is better), cooked and peeled

1 (10 oz.) can diced tomatoes with mild green chilies (Ro-Tel), drained

Bring chicken broth to a boil in large saucepan; stir in grits. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 20 minutes. Stir in all but 1/4 cup of grated cheese. In a separate skillet, melt butter; add green onions, bell pepper, and garlic, sauté 5 minutes, or until tender. Stir green onion mixture into grits. Add shrimp and tomatoes. Pour into a lightly greased 2-quart baking dish. Top with remaining 1/4 cheese. Bake at 350 for 30-45 minutes. If refrigerated, adjust cooking time (as grits will be cold) accordingly. Serves 6-8.

The 12-Pound Man Of The House

It appears that I am now blogging-by-request, which I imagine is just like blogging-for-pay, except, well, I am not being paid.

The client, in this instance, would Darling Daughter. (And let’s be honest, she could well afford to compensate me. She has more cash than anyone else in the house.) DD has pointed out, with great distress, that I’ve blogged about everybody Chez Wiles – including our rescue dog Josie, who's only been with us for four months – except Lionel, our hefty 12-pound orange tabby cat.

My bad. It was clearly an oversight, as Lionel is unquestionably the most popular, most indulged, most demanding, best-fed, best-groomed and perhaps, best-looking, member of our household. (This last is absolutely true, but I say “perhaps” to avoid hurting the feelings of my own offspring, who are good-looking indeed.)

When the kids’ friends ring the front bell, I know what to expect. They barely blurt out a “Hello Mrs. Wiles” before looking past me, eyes darting anxiously and asking, “Where’s Lionel?” They know Lionel’s favorite foods – blue cheese, olives (green and black), salad dressing and shrimp. And they know how to get Lionel to come running – the sound of the crushed ice dispenser does it every time.

Self-proclaimed “dog people” routinely say, “You know, I don’t usually like cats, but Lionel is OK.“ Even our mailman, Mike, has a soft spot for Lionel and knows that, despite the cat’s protestations, Lionel is an indoor cat. Indeed, everyone who’s ever come to visit knows Lionel’s an indoor cat, because throughout day, I chant, "You’re an indoor cat, you’re an indoor cat, you’re an indoor cat," as I foil our feline’s ongoing escape efforts, snatching his scruff before he squeezes out a cracked door.

I have no delusions about Lionel's feelings for me. He may count on me for food and clean litter boxes. He may rely on me for brushing and stroking and a warm spot in bed. However, if I ever took a tumble down the stairs and were knocked out, I wouldn't be surprised to be missing few fingers when I regained consciousness. I’m not passing judgment. The cat's a hunter and I’d be fair game.

To look at Lionel, you’d never guess how much fight is in him. He’ll take on any challenger, regardless of size. I’ve never – not one time -- seen him turn and run – not from the dog, not from a 14-year old boy who once tried to position him on a ceiling fan, and not from the most nefarious of villains – the electric razor. This last, we can’t understand. We just know that the sound of an electric razor causes Lionel to rear up on his hind legs and prepare to strike, cobra-like, at the offensive facial hair remover. As you’d imagine, this is the best party trick going at the Wiles' house.

A cat with such a contentious disposition should have mangy fur, snaggle teeth, a torn ear, and perhaps, an eye patch. But Lionel, bless his heart, has limpid green eyes, a tiny, pale pink tongue, and unusually long and well-groomed fur touchable as mink. (OK. I’ve never actually felt mink, but I imagine it to be exceptionally soft. Am I right?)

Lionel doesn’t have the vocal prowess to make demands, either. His attitude – particularly the mane of fur surrounding his face – might lead you to expect a roar, but when irritated, disrupted, or simply needing attention, his pupils widen and darken, his mouth stretches open wide, and a pathetic, eunuch-like “mew” slips out. Occasionally, he even “chirps.” But we don't dare call him a "sissy." He prowls the house while we sleep. Taunting would be foolhardy.

Indeed, just to ensure my own good night's sleep tonight. I may have to slip a couple of shrimp his way. This casserole recipe for shrimp and grits is a good place to start. (And while it's cooking, I'm going to check DD's room for cash. I think she owes me.)

Shrimp & Grits Casserole

Great at breakfast, or for supper.

4 c. chicken broth	6 green onions, chopped
1 c. regular grits	1 green bell pepper, chopped
1 c. (4 oz.) shredded sharp Cheddar cheese, divided 1 c. (4 oz.) shredded Jack cheese with peppers 2 tablespoons butter	1 garlic clove, minced 1 lb. small shrimp, peeled and cooked 1 (10 oz) can diced tomatoes with mild green chilies, drained

Bring chicken broth to a boil in large saucepan; stir in grits. Cover, reduce heat and simmer 20 minutes. Stir in Monterey Jack cheese and 3/4 cup of cheddar. In a separate skillet, melt butter; add green onions, bell pepper and garlic. Saute five minutes, or until tender. Stir green onion mixture into grits. Add shrimp and tomatoes. Pour into a lightly greased 2-quart baking dish. Sprinkle top with remaining 1/4 cup shredded cheddar cheese. Bake at 350 for 30-45 minutes.

Can be prepared the day ahead and refrigerated. Adjust cooking time (since grits will be cold) as needed. Serves 6-8.

Life Is Good. Do I Need To Know Why?

(For Jamey.)

Suspicious happenings are afoot Chez Wiles.

Earlier today, Darling Daughter sought permission to embark on yet another all-important, can't-miss, everyone's-going social event. To which I responded, as I have the past 851 times such occasions have arisen (this week alone), "I'm not even considering it until your room's picked up and the cat litter boxes are cleaned out."

To which she replied, without a dram of facetiousness, "You're right. I'll take care of it."

You bet you will, I thought, satisfied. Having won the battle, I gave a smug nod, saying, "OK. Well, be sure to let me know when it's done." I turned crisply on my heel to get back to sorting laundry. But then, thought, What was that all about?

Come to think of it, Darling Daughter has been exceptionally accommodating these past few days. Beyond accommodating, in fact -- she's been pleasant, easygoing, and dare I say it, delightful.

My parental radar could not possibly be at a higher level of alert.

Think about it another way. Earlier today, regarding North Korea's ongoing and persistent nuclear tests and missile launches, President Barack Obama issued a warning, saying, "We are not intending to continue a policy of rewarding provocation."

That's all well and good. But what if, in response, sickly, scrawny, teeny, tiny, pompadoured and platformed Kim Jon-il, dictator-beyond-Conan-O'Brian's-wildest-dreams, had stretched up to his full five-foot-three-inches and had the mendacity to say -- "Okey dokey"?

I know, right? Plainly, something unusually nefarious would be afoot.

Same thing Chez Wiles. Somebody's up to no good.

But who?

Is is possible that Darling Daughter has achieved a new level of brain maturation, allowing her to be reasonable, respectful and rational? Nah. She's plenty clever, but her frontal lobe isn't scheduled to mature for another 10 years. Indeed, based on how things are progressing for her 14-year-old brother, maybe longer.

Is it possible that, despite 12-year-old brain development, my personal responsibility mantra has been sufficiently drummed into her head, and she's prepared to embrace my carefully-considered and all-knowing lessons? Nah. I won't kid myself -- I'm not that good.

Is it possible that I'm being played?

Ding, ding, ding! Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a winner!

Darling Daughter had said, "You're right. I'll take care of it"? What, exactly, did she mean by that? Did she think I wouldn't call her on that? Did she think she could just soothe me into complacency? Did she think ... ?

Wait a minute. Is is possible that I'm the one up to no good?

Maybe I'm too suspicious. She is, after all, Darling. Why wouldn't she be agreeable? Why wouldn't she be accommodating?

And really, who needs a reason? Regardless of how cunning and conniving either of us might be, maybe it's best just to embrace the situation. Whatever the circumstances, I'll take "accommodating" and "delightful" over "snarky" and "eye-spinning" any day of the week.

In fact, to promote such behavior, contrived or not, I may have to start her day tomorrow with a little something special -- like these always good, always light, always better-than-from-any-mix pancakes.

If only they worked on her 14-year-old brother.

Buttermilk Pancakes

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

3 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 large egg, beaten

1 1/3 cup buttermilk

1/2 stick (real) butter, melted

Using a fork or whisk, mix together dry ingredients in a bowl. When well combined, quickly stir in remaining ingredients with a few strokes of wooden spoon. Do not over-stir. Cook on a hot, prepared griddle, turning only once. Serve with syrup, or, at our house, powdered sugar and strawberries.

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.

I cook. (Waffles)

I cook. When I'm happy, I cook. When I'm worried, I cook. When I'm celebrating, when I'm mourning, when I'm hurt, when I'm invigorated, I cook.

Why is that? I'm a single mom, so I'm the only grown-up at the table.  It's not that my kids are "foodies." In fact, I've had to insist to them that, as a matter of good manners, every meal should end with "Thank you for dinner. I especially enjoyed/loved (pick one) the chicken/roast/sausage ('cause let's face it, the protein is the best part of the meal for them). May I be excused?" (And, optionally, "May I clear your plate?")

And although I've always been driven by achievements and acknowledgements (report cards, GPAs, job reviews), no one is ever going to check my freezer and note approvingly that I always have four or five quarts of chili (stew beef, not ground, with beans), a few quarts of "real" chicken stock (not broth) and a couple of containers of pasta sauce (Italian sausage, not ground beef) on hand.

Let's face it, while I spend plenty of time watching Food Network, it's not as if it's reciprocal. Rachael and Giada and company are not watching me and wondering what I'm going to whip up in the 20 minutes between violin and baseball practices.

I just cook. I try to make it balanced. I try to make it nutritious. I try to make it fresh and tasty. But in the end, perhaps I just do it for me. Gratifyingly, now and again, people actually ask me to cook. The college-age daughter of a dear friend recently called, asking for my blue cheese dip recipe. Last fall, my sister "needed" my slow cooker pulled pork recipe. And my 11-year-old daughter said, just last weekend, that waking up to the smell of homemade waffles was the best part of her day. She says that, when she has friends sleep over, they count on me making waffles.

In this instance, the recipe isn't even my own. I got it from the Food Network and only modified it slightly. But trust me (and my kids and their friends) -- these are the best waffles around. Just look at what they're named!

Waffle 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

Pinch of nutmeg (optional)

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. Don't use a non-stick spray - you don't need it.

Follow the directions on your waffle iron and serve these insanely tender, crispy waffles with butter and syrup. Or, in our house -- confectioner's sugar and whipped cream.

Now sit back and wait for the compliments. For a 46-year-old mom, it's like getting straight As.