Thanks, Harry Potter. It Was Magic.

It’s 5:30 a.m. and Carter and Darling Daughter just went to bed. Five-thirty in the morning, and we just returned from the movies – an experience easily summed up with a single word – magical.

I’m referring only in part to the movie Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part Two (or, in devotee shorthand, HP7.2) – the final installment based on JK Rowling’s books set in a world of wizardry and magic. HP7.2 was, far and away, the best in the series, by turns demoralizing and compelling, poignant and playful, thunderous and hushed, terrifying and ultimately, uplifting.

More magical for me, though, was that Carter and DD were willing to tug their sleep-deprived, teenaged selves from bed at 2:15 a.m. so we could make the show. I tried not to make a big deal about it, but I was thrilled – or more apropos of the occasion, charmed, or perhaps, enchanted – that they’d deign to go with me and be among the first audiences in America to say goodbye to magic and Muggles, quills and Quidditch, witches and wands, and horcruxes and hallows.

As the final credits rolled, I was unexpectedly overcome with emotion – not because of the ending (which is faithful to the book – full of promise and hope), but because it struck me that I was marking another “last.”

I’ve made mental notes of “last” times for some 17 years now -- ever since I became pregnant with Carter. Over the years, I sadly noted the "last" time I'd experience the delight of an unborn child hiccuping inside my belly. The last time I’d ever nurse a baby. The last time one of them would be small enough to heft on my hip. The last time I'd be able to get them into coordinating Christmas outfits.  The last time I’d be acknowledged as the family computer expert. The last time I’d reach down – rather than up – to administer a hug.

Over the years, we read the Harry Potter books together, questioning our own “muggle-ness” and magical powers.  We were so smitten with the world set in Hogwarts that Carter once directed a barber to cut his hair "like Harry Potter."  And of course, we’d watched all the movies. In fact, in preparation for HP7.2, we’d “re-watched” all of them. 

HP7.2 was the last one. Another “last.” Another reminder that – at ages 16 and 14 -- my “kids” won’t be “kids” much longer.

Driving home from the movie, the adrenaline rush that had been sustaining us collapsed. The kids were subdued. Drained. Exhausted. As I tried to initiate some post-movie chatter, Carter said, “It was great and I’m glad we went, but Mom, it’s 5:30 in the morning. Can you stop talking?”

Once home, the kids crawled back into bed for a few more winks before Carter heads to his summer lifeguard job, and DD meets up with friends at the mall.

I headed to Starbucks. As I waited for my latté, the barrista listened to my story about getting the kids up for the movie. And then, she said the best possible thing, “Wow. They’ll remember that forever.”

Hmm. Not so sure about that. But I'm pretty sure I will. It was the last one. And it was magical.

Double-Chocolatey Rice Krispy Treats
The best recipes have a magical life of their own.  I adapted this one from my friend Janet in Charleston, who got it from her sister-in-law, Lisa, who got it from her mom, Sandra.  (Aren't moms always the source of great recipes?)  Although these unusual rice krispy treats don't include any marshmallows, they are plenty sweet.  Plenty easy.  And sure to, ahem, "disappear."  

4 cups crispy rice cereal

1, 12-ounce package white chocolate chips

1/2 cup smooth peanut butter

1, 12-ounce package milk chocolate chips
1/2 cup chopped roasted peanuts (optional)

Lightly spray a 9 x 13 glass pan with baking spray.  Set aside.  In a large glass bowl, microwave white chocolate chips for 30 seconds.  Stir, and continue microwaving and stirring, in 20-second bursts, until well melted.  Stir in peanut butter until thoroughly combined.  Gently fold in cereal.  Spread mixture evenly in prepared dish and allow to set -- about 3-4 hours.  When treats firm up, melt milk chocolate chips in a small glass bowl or measuring cup, using the same microwaving technique described above.  When well melted, spread over treats.  Sprinkle with peanuts, if using.  Allow to set another 3-4 hours.  Cut into small squares and serve.

It Is -- Shudder -- Time To Tug One On.

I have met the enemy, and the enemy is me – or really, my body, stuffed into and sadly overflowing a seasonal Lycra tourniquet.

Yes, bathing suit season is upon us.  Nine months of the year, I alternate between camouflaging, concealing, and then, refusing to even acknowledge my 48-year-old form in the bathroom mirror, much less behold it in the blinding light of a summer day.

But as May approaches, the rising mercury and my own unpredictable internal thermostat force me to peel back the layers.  I’m obligated to behold – and then, lift and separate and compress and flatten.  Still, I’m reminded of a tube of Crest.  Those parts of me that have worked their way out and spilled over the top of my jeans and back of my bra, can’t possibly be stuffed back in.  And smoothing out that aging, sun-damaged skin?  Better to try and return a wadded up ball of tissue paper to its original sleekness.  No iron in the world could make things right.

I’m not the only one cringing.  According to a recent survey in The Daily Mail, we women would rather that women of a certain age keep it covered up.  Indeed, my own Darling Daughter agrees.  Here are a few of the survey results, plus DD’s 14-year-old perspective.

The Age Women Believe You Should Stop Wearing …

• A bikini?  47.  According to DD, however, the two-piece should be tossed once a woman graduates from college.
• A mini-skirt?  35.  Or, in DD’s opinion, if you’ve graduated from anything, the mini-skirt is out.
• Stilettos?  Age 51.  If I recall, DD’s exact words were, “Mom, take those off.  Now.”
• A see-through chiffon blouse?  Age 40.  DD’s comment?  “That’s not really a question, is it?”
• Swimsuit?  Age 61.  But as DD sees it, at age 48, I’m long past my swimsuit years and should stick to wearing shorts.  But not too short.
• Leggings?  Age 45.  Or, to quote DD, “That’s stupid.  No grown woman should ever wear them.”  Sigh.  Even under a really, really, cute dress.  That I love.  Even when the leggings look like tights.  No fair.
• Leather trousers?  Age 45.  Or, finally, a reprieve from DD, “Um.  300?”

Whatever.  Call me old-fashioned, but I’m appalled by “see-through blouses” at any age.  However, I’ll be tugging on a bathing suit – and complaining about it – for the rest of my life.  Sometimes you’ve got to go against the flow.  Like in this unexpected flavorful, savory rice dish.  Rice?  With lime?  And cinnamon?  You’ve got to, got to, got to try this.  Even DD agrees.  (But only a small serving for me.  Did I not mention that it’s bathing suit season?)

Cinnamon Lime Rice

1, 14-ounce can chicken broth + ¼ cup water

1 cup raw rice

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon olive oil

½ teaspoon kosher salt

1 pinch cayenne pepper

zest of one lime

Combine all ingredients in a medium saucepan.  Bring to a boil over high heat, stir once and reduce heat to low.  Put lid in place, and cook for 13 minutes.  Remove lid, fluff gently with a fork and serve.

Naming Kids. And Boats. And Strippers.

Nearly 17 years ago, as soon-to-be-parents, and before settling on "Carter," we considered a number of names for our son, including Cooper, Conner and Fisher.  (OK.  That last one was just me.)  Two years later, for Darling Daughter, we considered Cecelia, Eliza, Lila and Larissa.  (Again, that last one was all me.)

To make the cut, a name had to meet certain criteria.  Given our single-syllable last name, the first name had to be polysyllabic.  I wasn’t looking to raise a Jane Doe or Don Ho.  Furthermore, the name had to be easily spelled.  Think about it.  I’m “Cheri.”  With a “C.”  No, a “C.”  One “r.”  No “y.”  “I,” not “i-e.”  “S-H-E-R-R-I-E”?  Whatever.  Close enough.

So far as I can tell, though, when it comes to naming a boat, no rules apply.  According to FirstBoat.com, the top 10 most popular boat names in the United States are:

1. Serenity

2. Happy Ours

3. Feelin' Nauti

4. Family Time

5. Liberty

6. Black Pearl

7. Andiamo

8. Knot On Call

9. High Maintenance

10. Just Chillin'

For my own boat, which is now a year old, friends have also suggested, “Cheri’s Jubilee,” “MeanWhiles,” “Worth Wiles,” “Always Write,” “Cougar Bait,” and, more than once, “Wiles Ride.”

What to do?  Well, when I first began writing Feminine Wiles, it was to let friends and family know that I was all right.  When it comes to schoolwork, I always tell the kids that, if they are able to write, their grades in every class – with the possible exception of math – will go up.  And when I landed a job – after spending a decade as a stay-at-home mom – it was as a copywriter. 

Yep.  “All Write” it is.

But then, as I was in the midst of writing this post, I heard from Super Sis .  She’s an elementary school principal, and her work ethics and behavior are beyond compare.  So imagine my surprise when she texted the following message:

“This morning, a parent shared with me that, if she were a stripper, her name would be Tess Tickles.”

Tess Tickles?  Tess Tickles?  TESS TICKLES?

Nah.  Just kidding.  I'm still "All Write"!

Shrimp Tacos with Apple Slaw

This recipe has absolutely no bearing on kid names, boat names or stripper names.  It's just really, really good.  Really, really unexpected.   And really, really, easy.  Or should I say, it's "all right"?

Slaw

1 large granny smith apple, cored and cut in quarters, and then, cut in matchsticks

2 cups of shredded Napa cabbage

1/4 cup canola oil

Juice of one lime (1-2 tablespoons)

1 pinch cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon honey

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

In a medium sized mixing bowl, toss together apple and cabbage.  Whisk together remaining ingredients and toss with apple and cabbage.  Keeps, refrigerated, at least one day.

Shrimp Tacos

1 1/2 pounds raw shrimp, peeled, deveined and cut into bite-size pieces

1/4 cup canola oil

Juice of two limes (2-3 tablespoons)

1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon chili powder

flour tortillas

bottled salsa verde

Stir all ingredients (except tortillas and salsa) together, combining well.  Heat a large skillet over high heat.  In batches, stir fry shrimp just until done -- 4-5 minutes.  Serve hot, in tortillas warmed one-by-one in the microwave --about 15 seconds each.  Drizzle salsa verde over top  and serve with Apple Slaw.

What Darling Daughter Missed More Than Me.

She’s baaaaacccck!

Yep.  After four weeks at her shoreline Shangri-La (Camp Seafarer), Darling Daughter is Chez Wiles. 

And hoo boy, she’s an entirely different creature.

As you’d expect, she’s an altogether different shade – more tobacco than tan.  But that’ll happen to even the most diligent 50+SPF sunscreen appliers (of which, she’s one) who spend four weeks at the beach.  And yes, she’s taller – practically my height – but that’s to be expected of a girl her age.

Nope. It’s not physical.  It’s harder to recognize than that. Maybe she’s more composed.  Maybe more confident.  Maybe that most prized of all Chez Wiles’ attributes -- maybe she’s funnier.  Hard to say.  I just know that I’m happy to be around her.

While at camp, DD wrote diligently – for which I owe her at least $14, given my promise to pay her $1 for every “well-written” letter.  I hungrily read and re-read everything she wrote, but my favorites were, without question, the ones where she wrote of missing my cooking.  (She also missed her bed and hot showers, but truly, she mentioned my cooking the most.)

Oh, honey.  You missed my cooking?  Those words are more magical than "abracadabra," "alakazzam," and "I need to see your ID, ma'am"  combined.

I knew exactly what DD would want:  Chicken Cavatappi, Beer Butt Chicken, Caesar Salad with Chicken and Uncle Nick’s Grilled Greek Wings.  In anticipation, I crammed the basement freezer with poultry.  I was ready.

But then, a heckuva storm knocked out that freezer.  All those chicken wings and boneless breasts and thighs defrosted and had to be tossed.  (Puh-leeze.  I can’t bear to come up with a more graphic description than “lukewarm, squishy, funky and leaky.”  Get the picture?)

Which, although a huge waste of money, turned out to be OK, because upon her return from camp, DD declared she’d had more than her fill of chicken – not to mention potatoes and salad.

As I said, she’d changed.  Out with the leaky, sticky chicken, and in with other comfort foods – Tuna Sandwiches, Sausage Pasta – and for the first dinner home, Buttermilk Pancakes.

Of course, I’d worked on a new – and easy – grilled chicken tender with peanut sauce recipe while she was gone and had been eager to make it once she got home  But that can wait.  Until then, I can handle one more round of Pork Fried Rice.  And simply be grateful for that oft-repeated line in her letters, “I miss your cooking” – now my four most favorite words.

Grilled Chicken Tenders With Peanut Sauce

Wooden skewers, soaked in water for at least one hour

1 pound boneless, raw chicken tenders

4 tablespoons ponzu sauce (a citrus-soy sauce)

1 tablespoon toasted (or dark) sesame oil

1 teaspoon fresh grated ginger

Combine all ingredients (except skewers, of course) and allow to marinate about 30 minutes (or several hours in the refrigerator).

Thread marinated chicken on skewers and grill over indirect heat.  Should take only a few minutes on each side.  Do not overcook, or chicken will dry out.  Serve with peanut sauce.

Peanut Sauce

¼ cup ponzu sauce

¼ cup water

¼ cup rice vinegar

½ teaspoon red pepper flakes

1 teaspoon fresh grated ginger

fresh ground pepper

¼ cup smooth peanut butter

In large, microwavable cup, combine all ingredients except peanut butter, and heat to boiling.  Gradually stir hot liquid into peanut butter.  At first, peanut butter will “melt,” and then will thicken the sauce.  When well combined, serve with grilled chicken.

Five Words To Thrill Any Mom's Heart.

Returning home from school yesterday, Darling Daughter uttered the five words sure to warm any mom’s heart:  It smells good in here.

I’ve heard the words before, but they never fail to give me a little thrill (or as my family used to say, “a pat on the popo.”)  To be honest, I’d be equally delighted to hear, “Hey Mom.  You know that advice you gave me?  Well, I talked to my friend today, and we worked it all out.  You were right.” 

“You were right,” however, isn’t part of the 13-year-old vernacular.  Come to think of it, “you were right” isn’t part of most adults’ vernacular.

“It smells good in here” is close enough.  (And for the record, any kid who walks in my kitchen and says those five words is absolutely entitled to use, without repercussion, the three words I detest, “What’s for dinner?”)

I’ve been cooking nearly all my life, including a culinary fiasco at age eight, which thanks to Mom’s intervention and Dad’s patience, did not result in a single trip to the ER.  It’s safe to say that a family-wide case of trichinosis could’ve turned me away from the kitchen for life.

Nowadays, cooking is just what I do – for comfort, for fun, for healing, for nourishment.  It always surprises me, then, when someone says they don’t cook.  How can that be?  You’ve got to eat, right?

Besides, cooking isn’t hard. 

That aroma that DD embraced yesterday afternoon?   It wafted from a dish with only three ingredients.  Heck, I’ll even spot you the salt and pepper.  That’s still only five ingredients, for crying out loud – boneless pork ribs, barbecue sauce, vinegar, salt and pepper.

Five ingredients, plus some steamed rice and a box of frozen peas -- voilà, a complete meal.  Not to mention a “Hey, it smells good in here.”

If I just keep working at it, "you were right" could be just around the corner.

Super Simple Boneless Pork Ribs

2-3 lbs. boneless (often called “countrystyle”) pork ribs

½ cup cider or white vinegar (don’t use the expensive stuff)

½ cup prepared barbecue sauce (any brand will do, I usually use “Bone Suckin’ Sauce,” because I like the label)

½ cup water

salt and pepper

Spray a lidded, nonstick skillet or saucepan with nonstick spray.  Generously season the ribs with salt and pepper.  Over medium high heat, lightly brown ribs (in batches, if necessary) on all sides.  Combine vinegar, barbecue sauce and water and pour over ribs in pan.  Reduce heat to low, put lid in place, and cook until done.  Check occasionally.  Should be fork-tender in about 1 ½ hours.  Serve with hot steamed rice or grits.

Thirteen Years Later, I'm Still All In

I’m no martyr.

Yes, I know plenty of new moms who, before their little baloney loaf was even wiped down and weighed, were willing pack their bags, swaddle up that baby, install the newborn carseat and all but drive themselves home. 

Not me.   When Darling Daughter was born, due to some medical complications, I was given the option of staying an extra night or two at Presbyterian Hospital.  Thank you, Jesus.  No need to ask twice.  No need to wait for the umbilical cord to be snipped.  My answer was unequivocal:  Sign me up.

That was exactly 13 years ago.  Today is my girl’s birthday.  Which means I am now, officially, mom to two teenagers.  And before you ask, it doesn't make a difference whether I’m up to the task, because there’s no turning back.  I’m in.  All in.

I knew it from the beginning.

After DD finally and quietly emerged, purple and blotchy with a cord around her neck, I basked – no, reveled – in those extra couple of nights in the hospital.  The laundry, cooking, cleaning and inevitable day-to-day responsibilities of parenthood and housekeeping – not to mention that supposedly essential bonding with Son -- could wait. Instead, I hunkered down in the hospital room with DD, whose sweet little foot was so tiny, it could fit in my mouth.  And it did.  (She hates that part of the story.)

The best part of those few days, far and away, was when the nurses would bring DD to me for feeding at night.  Although hospital policy encouraged newborns to stay with their moms during the day, babies were kept in the nursery at night.  The idea, I suppose, was to give recovering moms the chance for a few extra winks.

Right.

Around 10 or 11 at night, a nurse would retrieve DD from my arms, and, utterly exhausted – both from childbirth and the parade of friends and family wanting to know whether I’d finally decided on DD’s middle name -- I’d achieve REM sleep before the hospital door quietly shut behind them. 

For about 20 minutes.  Maybe 25.  The rest of the night, instead of falling deeper and deeper into sleep as the hospital halls grew quieter and quieter, I become more and more alert.

Newborns were returned to their moms during the night for feeding.  But instead of being carried down the hall, each newborn would be rolled in its own little cart.  Like room service.  Only you didn’t have to sign anything.  Or tip.  (I know.  Why be a neo-natal nurse if you don’t get to carry around those sweet-smelling squishy swaddled babies?)

Thing is, those little baby delivery carts had little squeaky wheels.  So instead of getting much needed sleep (which I fully intend to catch up on once the kids are in college), I’d lay in my remote-control operated hospital bed wondering, “Is that my baby?” every time a cart creaked down the hall.

All night.  

“Is that my baby?”

“Maybe that’s my baby.”

“That sure sounds like my baby.”

As if I’d recognize the sound of the squeaky wheels bearing my 9-pound (I know, right?) bundle of joy.  Thirteen years later, I still can’t think of anything as thrilling as hearing that cart roll toward my room, easing to a stop, just before the door cracked open, spilling light into the room and illuminating perfectly pink Darling Daughter.

In honor of DD’s thirteenth, the best recipe I could offer would be for Chocolate-Chocolate-Chocolate Cake.  Yes, I know I ran it this same time last year, but it’s her favorite.  (It was also one of my favorite posts ever, What I Want For My Daughter.)

And on her birthday, when she asks whether I’d mind making it – yet again – I can’t help but answer, Sign me up.

Chocolate Chocolate Chocolate Cake

Cake

3 cups flour

1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons baking soda

2 cups sugar

1 cup corn oil

2 cups cold water

1 tablespoon vanilla

1 1/2 cups chocolate chips

Frosting

1 1/4 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature

5 cups powdered sugar

8 tablespoons whole milk

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 scant cup unsweetened cocoa powder

Make the cake.  Preheat oven to 350.  Butter and flour three 9-inch cake pans.  (This is a delicate cake, so be sure to prepare pans well.  If you have the patience, I’d strongly recommend preparing each pan and then, lining the bottom of each with a circle of wax paper, also buttered and floured.)  Sift first five ingredients into a large bowl.  Mix water, oil and vanilla in a separate, small bowl.  Make a "well" in dry ingredients, pour in wet ingredients and whisk well.  Scrape batter into prepared pans, dividing evening.  Sprinkle 1/2 cup chocolate chips over batter in each pan.

Bake 25 minutes, or until layers test done.  Cool in pans on racks for 15 minutes, then turn cakes out and allow to cool completely.  

Make frosting.  Beat butter in large bowl (an electric mixer is best) until fluffy.  Gradually beat in three cups of powdered sugar.  beat in six tablespoons milk and vanilla.  Add cocoa and remaining sugar, gradually.  Beat until blended and fluffy, using remaining two tablespoons of milk, if necessary.

Assemble cake, with layers chocolate-chip-side up and about 2/3 cup frosting spread between each layer.  Spread remaining frosting over sides and top of cake.  Tastes even better the next day -- for breakfast!

Good Ideas, Cold Reality and Ground Turkey.

One evening this week, Darling Daughter -- just to prove how "darling" she is -- came downstairs to have a "talk." I know it was a "talk," because she actually interrupted the Winter Olympics, which meant I had to miss the first part of Bode Miller's gold medal run in the super-combined.

But it was important: DD wanted to know whether I'd be willing to push her harder academically.

I know, right? She's not a bad student or even a struggling student. However, she has had the fortune/misfortune this year of learning what high school seniors go through, as they negotiate the college admissions maze. DD's also witnessed the extra effort her own 9th grade brother has had to make this year as he moved up to high school. Independently, she determined to develop better study habits, so she's been burning the midnight oil recently (OK, the 10 p.m. oil), to see whether she can bump up her grades a bit.

Still, I was surprised by her request. Push her harder? Really? Does she not realize what kind of achiever I am? Does she not have some inkling of the beast (which I've long restrained) she's asking to unharness?

"Um. OK. Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes. I really think you can help," she innocently responded.

And there it was. She opened the door, and I bolted in. "OK. Well good. Because I think you're entirely capable of A+s."

Um. Too much? Based on the searing glare I received in response, maybe so.

It's the difference, of course, between a good idea and a harsh reality.

Take "forgive and forget." Great idea. Love the principle . But the reality? Fuggetaboudit. Honestly, I'm a divorcée. I've got forgiveness down pat. But forget? Well, what in the world would I blog about?

Flossing twice a day is another brilliant idea, promoting good dental health and helping fend off all kinds of other nasty health issues, including heart attacks. So everyone should floss twice a day. Of course.  And I'm sure that those folks who work in a dental offices complete with dental hygienists who are willing to give their pearly whites a twice daily once over do exactly that.

Which is all to say that I like the idea of ground turkey. It's naturally lean, fairly affordable and high in protein.

The reality of ground turkey, though, is something altogether different.

Look, I adore roast turkey. That’s me, right there, elbowing my way to the front of the line Thanksgiving Day. And fried turkey? Bust out the peanut oil, because there is no bigger fan. I'm from the South, honey. We know a thing or two about deep frying. So you’d think ground turkey would be a quick fix for me when it's not Pilgrim Day, and I don't have access to a five-gallon vat of boiling oil.  And ground turkey would be a great idea, except that when ground, turkey lacks two things – taste and flavor. Actually, make that three things, because it’s not juicy, either.

Yesterday, however, Cougar Bait (I know, I know, he’s only 23 days younger than I am) told me he needed a meatball recipe. And that’s where ground turkey shines, because with a recipe like this, it's easy to build in the taste, flavor and juiciness.

Doesn't help a bit, of course, with DD's dilemma. But she did enjoy dinner that night. And I'm sure that, somewhere, there's a study proving that enjoying your meal adds three to five points to your report card grades.

Turkey Meatball and Gemelli with Lemon Parsley Cream Sauce
Serves four, generously.

Meatballs
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 rib celery, chopped fine
½ cup finely chopped shallots
½ chopped parsley
zest of one lemon (optional)

20 ounces ground turkey
1/2 cup dried Italian bread crumbs
1 egg, beaten
1 teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon cayenne

16-oz box of gemelli

Sauce
1 cup heavy cream
1 cup chicken broth
two lemons, zested and juiced
1 cup (no kidding) chopped parsley
Lots of fresh ground pepper

Form meatballs. In a heavy skillet, saute celery and shallots in oil over medium heat until soft. Let cool to room temperature. In a large mixing bowl, combine cooled shallots and celery with remaining meatball ingredients, using hands to combine thoroughly. Preheat oven to 400. Form individual meatballs (about 1” – 1 ½” in diameter), placing on nonstick cookie sheet. (Will make nearly 4 dozen meatballs.) Bake 10 minutes, until cooked through. Set aside.

Cook gemelli in a large pot of boiling, well-salted water. When done, drain and return to pot. Stir in cream, broth, lemon zest and juice, and parsley. Heat through and stir in meatballs. (Not necessary to use all the meatballs here. They freeze beautifully.) Taste for seasoning. May need salt  Serve hot.

After Three Decades, A Mac 'n' Cheese To Love.

When I was a kid in Charleston County's public school system, one of the mainstays of our lunches was macaroni and cheese. 

To be honest, I can’t attest to whether it was, indeed, "gross and raunchy," although I can testify to the fact that most servings returned, untouched, to the kitchen.  I can’t say the pasta was overcooked, although I can say I never identified a single, unbroken piece of macaroni.  I can’t say it was under-seasoned, but puh-leaze – it was served on a institutional green divided tray.  Need I say more?

Not one morsel of that thick-skinned, rubbery, squared-up hockey puck crossed my lips.  Not once.  Instead, I set off on a course of avoiding macaroni and cheese for over 30 years.  This, despite being born and raised in the South, where the ubiquitous casserole graces most everyone’s holiday dinner table, church potlucks, work picnics and post-funeral home visitations.

I’m not saying we never had mac and cheese growing up.  The Winn-Dixie on Harborview Road often had that familiar blue box (their generic version, not Kraft) on sale, four for a dollar.  Prepared with milk and Parkay margarine, it was a predictable sidedish (along with canned green beans) to canned Hostess ham.

However, as soon as I was old enough to get away with saying “no thank you,” which, honestly, wasn't until I was old enough to vote, I never let the stuff  -- blue-boxed or otherwise -- touch my plate.

Imagine my surprise, then, when my own Darling Daughter became a mac and cheese aficionado, frequently ordering it for dinner when we're out, and, based on friend’s recommendations, suggesting restaurants serving superior mac and cheese.

Adding to the pressure, Son recently told me he was assigned to bring mac and cheese (for 16) to Room In The Inn (a church-based program providing food and shelter to the homeless).  OK.  Maybe it wasn't exactly a sign from God, but it was plainly time to give the homely dish another try.

It took some work, though.  I didn’t know what I liked – custard-based (with eggs) or roux-based (with flour).  I just knew I didn’t want what I’d had.

Lucky for me, I had a partner in eating.  Darling Daughter was more than willing to explain what makes a good mac and cheese.  The pasta has to be “loose” – which meant a roux-based, not egg-based, sauce.  It can’t taste like too much cheese – which mean 100% extra sharp cheddar was out.  And it couldn’t be too brown on top – which is easily resolved with a bread crumb topping.

After a couple of attempts, though, we’ve come up with what we think is a pretty darned good mac and cheese.  So good, I’ve even had it for breakfast.  Twice.

And suddenly, I’m looking forward to the next church potluck.  Sign me up.

Darling Daughter’s Macaroni & Cheese

2 tablespoons flour

2 tablespoons butter

1/8 teaspoon red pepper flakes

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1 ½ cups milk

½ cup heavy cream

1 teaspoon whole grain Dijon mustard

½ lb. cheddar cheese (not extra sharp), grated

¼ lb. fontina or gouda cheese, grated

¾ lb. macaroni (about three cups)

¼ cup breadcrumbs

2 tablespoons butter, melted

¼ lb. pancetta, diced (optional)

Make sauce.  In medium saucepan, melt 2 tablespoons butter and flour together over medium heat, stirring constantly.  (You’re making a “roux.”)  When well-combined and somewhat thickened, flour will have lost its “raw” taste.  Stir in red pepper flakes and 1 teaspoon kosher salt.  Using a whisk, very gradually stir in milk, whisking constantly.  Stir in cream and mustard.  Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, for about 5 minutes, or until well-thickened and velvety.  Whisk in grated cheese, stir until smooth, and remove from heat.

Cook pasta.  In a large pot of well-salted (about 1/4 cup salt to 8 cups of water) boiling water, cook macaroni until barely done (“al dente”).  Before draining, reserve about 1 cup of hot pasta water.  Quickly drain (for this dish, it’s best if the pasta is not drained very well), and stir into cheese sauce.  Use your judgment here.  If the pasta mixture isn't "loose" enough, stir in some of the reserved pasta cooking water.  The resulting mixture should be loose, not too sticky.

Assemble. Stir together topping ingredients – breadcrumbs, melted butter and pancetta (if using).  Pour macaroni and cheese into casserole dish (or 6 to 8 individual ramekins).  Use fingers to sprinkle topping over.  Bake in preheated 400 degree oven until hot and bubbling – about 30 minutes.

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!

We Need To Cook.

“Mom, we need to cook.”

Were more inspiring, gratifying words ever spoken?

Darling Daughter (DD) and her darling friend (DF) indulged me this weekend, accompanying me to Julie & Julia, the movie based on the true story of an aspiring writer who, in a pique of resentment with her friends’ career successes, decides to tackle all 524 recipes in Julia Child’s opus, Mastering the Art of French Cooking Vol. 1.  Making her hastily-considered idea even whackier, Julie self-imposes a time limit of one year.  That’s right.  That's 524 recipes (many of them extraordinarily complicated) in 365 days.  In a cramped NYC studio apartment.  While working a full-time job.  Blogging all the while.  And ultimately, publishing her own book, Julie and Julia:  My Year of Cooking Dangerously.

Now that I’ve finally seen it, I'm embarrassed it took me so long to get there.

When I was growing up and learning to cook, Mom had an entire shelf of cookbooks I could thumb through and splatter on, including the venerable classics, The Joy of Cooking, with its endearing red ribbon bookmark and The Better Homes & Gardens Cookbook, with its recognizable red and white gingham cover.  There was also local favorite Charleston Receipts, which, just like an oven or a yard, appeared to be standard issue in every house on James Island.  And there was my very first cookbook, blandly titled Kids’ Cooking, which in fact, was my source for tuna salad.

I also could leaf through Mom’s older cookbooks, one with the titillating title, The Way To A Man’s Heart, which, if memory serves, included a recipe for a lettuce wedge with blue cheese dressing – the only type of salad a manly man would deign to eat.  Finally, of course, there was Julia Child’s master opus, Mastering The Art of French Cooking.

I used all Mom's books liberally – both for precise recipes and guided inspiration -- as I learned to simmer and bake and roast and saute.  All, that is, except Julia’s.

Julia’s was an overwhelming book, published in two volumes, each of which was 500-600 pages.  It was impractical, too; we had the paperback version, rendering each more similar to a chunky Michael Crichton novel than a reference book.  Is it possible it was thicker than it was wide?  I could hardly prop it open, much less flop it open.

Even more challenging for me, though, was that most recipes were so exotic I couldn’t even conceive of them, much less muster the ingredients.  This was in the mid 70s, when Parkay, not butter, graced most tables, garlic salt, not a garlic clove, was king, and well, who was to say that Cool Whip wasn't "real" whipped cream?

Even if, for example, I somehow managed to procure the three pounds of lean stewing beef and 24 tiny white onions needed for Julia’s legendary Boeuf Bourguignon, then what?  What about the "three cups of full-bodied young red wine" Julia ordained?  The Blue Nun Liebfraumilch our family kept on hand was clearly no substitute.

And beef aspic?  Really?  Who eats such things?  (Of course I read the recipe, but it was like reading a horror story.  I couldn’t put it down.)

Nevertheless, beef aspic and all, DD was enchanted by Julie & Julia.  I was inspired as well and before the lights went up, I determine to go directly to the bookstore to get my own copy of Mastering and immediately begin sauteeing the luscious mushrooms we'd seen in the movie.  (The phrase "food porn" comes to mind.)  Before I could get my own thoughts out, though, DD insisted that we had to go home and “cook something.”

"Mom, we need to cook."

Surprised, I tried to suppress my joy.  "What should we cook?" I asked.

"Something from that book," DD replied. "Something good.  Something like baked ziti."

DF quickly chimed in.  "I love baked ziti!  Do you have the recipe?"

Um.  Baked ziti?  French cuisine?  Julia Child?

You know.  That sounds perfect.  Let's cook.

DD's Baked Ziti (Without Yucky Ricotta)

This is an easy recipe, quickly assembled with any pre-made red sauce or marinara sauce.  I keep lots of homemade sauce in the freezer, though, with Italian sausage as my kids prefer.  Click here for the recipe.

½ box (about 8 ounces) ziti

2 ½ - 3 cups red sauce, heated

4 oz. fresh mozzarella cheese, cut in ½ cubes

½ - ¾ cup grated mozzarella, or grated Italian cheese mix (I used Sargento brand, which includes mozzarella, parmesan, provolone, asiago etc.)

Preheat oven to 350.  Spray an 8 x 8 baking dish with Pam. 

Cook ziti in a large pot of boiling water until almost done, or slightly chewy.  Drain well, and stir in sauce.  Stir in cubed cheese.  Pour into prepared baking dish and sprinkle grated cheese evenly over.  Bake until heated through and bubbling – about 20 minutes.

Simply Wonderful Wings

I am not daunted by lengthy ingredient lists.

On the contrary, I pride myself on quickly scanning a list and categorizing the ingredients – spices, fridge items, pantry items, special-purchase items, etc. Oftentimes, what seems to be an overwhelming list is merely clogged with spices (even the most basic pumpkin pie has four – cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and cloves) or “starter” ingredients (olive oil, onions, garlic, bell pepper and garlic are the foundation of many a soup or sauce), or the occasional “show-off” items. (Really, are shallots necessary in a boullabaise that already includes onions, garlic, and leeks? And I'm still trying to figure out what yuzu -- a Japanese citrus fruit that managed to pop up on nearly every Top Chef episode this past season -- looks like.)

So this past weekend, when Darling Daughter begged me to make her aunt’s and uncle’s “Greek Wings,” I didn’t flinch.

Actually, Greek Wings (I know -- it sounds like something excavated from an ancient Athenian archaeological site) is just one recipe in my sister and brother-in-law’s wing repertoire, which includes Buffalo Wings, BBQ Wings and Teriyaki Wings. DD insisted, though, that the “Greeks” were the best. (Already I know that my Greek brother-in-law, G-BIL, will relish repeating that phrase out of context.) The Greek Wings are grilled, DD revealed and they have the best sauce ever.

That, my friends, was the sound of the gauntlet being thrown.

Being 12, however, DD had no idea what the sauce included. I was horrified to realize that she didn’t even care! I pressed on, though. Was it creamy? I asked, envisioning a tangy cucumber-yogurt tzatziki. Was it chunky -- maybe with Kalamata olives, feta and preserved lemon? Was it zesty – maybe riffing on traditional Greek salad dressing with olive oil, wine vinegar and oregano?

Her answer remained firm. And to make sure her pushy 46-year-old mom got the point, DD cranked the volume: I DON’T KNOW.

Okkkaaaaaayyy. Plan B.

Luckily, G-BIL was happy to oblige. He even sent pictures (which makes it even more embarrassing that it took me a week to post this blog). Turns out, those Greek Wings are the best. And here’s a shocker: Not including the wings themselves, the ingredient list numbered three – and with the wings, just four!

Yep. Keep your shallots and preserved lemon and arcane fruits (I still want to know what yuzu tastes like, though). These three-ingredient wings are going to become regulars on our backyard grill.

G-BIL’s Greek Wings

½ cup lemon juice

½ cup olive oil

1-2 teaspoons Cavender’s Greek Seasoning, plus extra for sprinkling

chicken wings (a couple of pounds), cut into pieces, tips discarded (or frozen for broth)

Mix lemon juice, olive oil and seasoning in a large bowl. Stir in wings (can allow to marinate for an hour, if you like). Then, grill wings slowly over low heat. When wings are nearly done, baste liberally with remaining Greek sauce. Continue grilling and basting until wings are done. (Don’t baste wings the final two minutes or so.) DD likes hers extra “saucy,” so remaining marinade can be zapped in the microwave to be served at the table.