The Beginning Of The End.

Sigh. 

A few days ago, Julia ran her last high school cross country meet here in Charlotte. And hoo boy, she sure wrapped things up in style. Far and away her best race of the season, Julia's time cemented her spot on the team going to States. In fact, it put her on the school's all-time top 25. As a team captain, she's worked hard -- insanely disciplined with her training, nutrition, sleep, and leadership. The results speak for themselves. I stand in awe.

Friday, she'll run her last race in Hendersonville, NC. And as she crosses that finish line, I'll check one more thing off my "last ever" list.

For better or worse, it's habit. I don't think of myself as particularly sentimental or sappy, but for 17 years, I've mentally noted and lamented the "last" time she rode in an infant car seat, her last day in preschool, the last time she let me to read to her before bed, the last I held her hiked up on my hip, the last time I drove her home from a meet, because she wasn't yet old enough to drive herself.

Now, though, during her senior year, the "lasts" are relentless. I've snapped my last "first day of school" picture. She's pinned on her last homecoming boutonniere. I've attended my last "meet the teachers" evening. She's about to submit her last college application.

I should be happy, but as one "last" after the other slaps me upside the head, I often find myself blinking back tears.

She's my "last" baby. The last one I felt kicking and hiccuping inside of me. The last one I potty-trained (she made it easy). The last one I taught to ride a bike, and then, in a blink, the last one to get a driver's license.

Together, we'll mark a lot of "lasts" as she navigates her final year of high school, not the least of which will be 212 days, 23 hours, and 52 minutes from now, when she'll don a cap and gown, and walk confidently across a stage and into her future.

I want to make it last.

Quinoa Kale Salad

One delightful consequence of cross country training is that we're eating healthier than ever Chez Wiles. This salad is a current favorite.

1 cup quinoa

2 cups chicken or vegetable broth

3-4 cups raw kale, chopped fine

1/2 red bell pepper, chopped

1/2 yellow bell pepper, chopped

1 cup pinenuts

1 clove garlic, grated

1 teaspoon grated ginger

2 tablespoons soy sauce

2 tablespoons light-tasting vinegar (rice or champagne, for example)

1 teaspoon dark sesame oil

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

In a small lidded saucepan, bring quinoa and broth to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer, covered, until done. (About 15 minutes.) Toss quinoa with kale, and allow to cool to room temperature. Stir in chopped bell pepper and pine nuts. In a separate small bowl, whisk together remaining ingredients to make a dressing, and stir into quinoa mixture. Serve at room temperature or chilled.

Darling Daughter Takes "Some Time To Do The Things We Never Have."

There's been a world between me and my 16-year-old daughter this summer. Literally. Not figuratively. Not metaphorically. Literally.*

She’s been an exchange student in Pietermartizburg, South Africa. 8,472 miles away. It took a full 24 hours for her to travel there. The time difference is six hours. When I wake up in the morning, she’s enjoying lunch. When I sit down for dinner, she’s deep in slumber. She’s seen lions and elephants and cheetahs and rhinos. She’s been welcomed as an ad hoc member of a loving South African family, who in turn, introduced her to loving South African friends. She’s been doing and trying things that I never will. To quote a line from the Toto song, Africa, she took "some time to do the things we never have." 

I have missed her like crazy.

I miss her wit and her insights. I miss her fashion advice and her compassion. I miss the way she adores and understands and makes fun of her brother. I miss the way we can communicate in knowing phrases, abbreviations, and even emojis. I miss her countless bottles of nail polish, cluttering kitchen counters, coffee tables and sofa cushions. And I miss her more when she sends texts like these:

“BTW, I like cabbage now. I really like it.”

“Raw beets are so good.”

“Well now, I’m a fan of eggplant.”

Plainly, the girl knows the way to my heart. I mean really, what greater passions do I have than cooking, grocery shopping, eating, writing recipes, and then, cooking some more?

I’ve got to admit, I was worried in the beginning. It must have been hard to get used to new things, new people, new classes, and new accents. It must have been hard to be away from familiar surroundings and familiar food and beloved things and beloved people. And beloved pets. Particularly beloved pets. But a few days ago, I get this:

“The best graduation gift in the world would be a trip back here.”

Sigh. She's not even home, but she's already planning a visit back.

Tomorrow, however, she’ll board the first of thee planes, and the next day -- 8,472 miles later -- she’ll be back in Charlotte. Different. Wiser. Dazzling. And with an appetite for raw beets.

I can hardly wait. Literally.

* Beloved Son, as an aside, note my use of the word “literally.” Note that I do not write that I “literally” cry myself to sleep while your sister is gone. Because I do not. My pillow is perfectly dry. Nor did I “literally” die when she went away. Were that the case, I would now be either six feet under or a zombie. I am neither. I am alive. Literally.  Julia, however, is still half a world away. Literally.

Roasted Brussel Sprouts

I am unreasonably fond of brussels sprouts, although the kids have always shunned them. Is it possible that my 16yo, "cabbage-loving" intrepid traveler might now give them a try? Fingers crossed!

1 pound fresh, cleaned brussels sprouts, trimmed and halved

1/4 cup olive oil

4-6 cloves garlic, peeled

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil. Toss brussels sprouts and garlic in olive oil. Spread evenly on the baking sheet and season well with salt and pepper. Roast in oven for 25-30 minutes, tossing occasionally, until browned and tender. Serve hot -- and eat as a side dish, or cool to room temperature and eat with your fingers!

The Sounds Of Silence. For Four More Days.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013. Julia is winding up seven weeks as an exchange student in South Africa. Carter is three weeks into his freshman year at the University of Georgia. DB is working in Raleigh, which is notable only because he usually works where he lives -- in Charleston.

And me? And I am home alone.

Just writing about it makes me take a deep breath. Because I miss them all. I do. But to the consternation of well-intentioned friends, I am actually fine. Peachy. Hunky dorey. A-OK. In other words, don’t hate me because I’m beautiful* (because I am not), hate me because, when I wipe down the kitchen counters in the morning, they’re still clutter-free when I return from work. Hate me because I only do laundry once a week and when I do, the hamper remains empty until I fill it myself – with my own clothes. And that Ben & Jerry ‘s NY Super Fudge Chunk in the freezer? That’s right. It's mine. It will be there whenever I want to dive in. Unless later tonight, I use it to soothe myself in the wake of nightmare involving under-nourished lions, elephants and bulldogs roaming a college campus in search of their Monday morning Afrikaner history class.

No worries, though. Because even if I end up with a self-imposed ice cream headache, that sticky empty container will end up in the trash. See? Now you can hate me. Because while my teenagerse are away, there are no “all-but-empty” pints of ice cream in my freezer. No teaspoonfuls of milk remaining in a gallon jug. No deceptively empty boxes of Nilla Wafers.

Enough gloating. As you can see, I don’t mind being alone. “Lonely” just isn’t part of my vernacular.

But I miss them. Oh, how I miss them.

In all this free time, I’ve put clean sheets on all the beds and clean towels in the bathrooms. I’ve tidied the closets and cleared the desks. I’ve stocked the pantry. True, I haven’t actually sorted through all the old family photos, but I did think about it more than once, and surely deserve some credit for that.

And, inspired by Julia, who sends me regular text messages about all the meals she’s been in enjoying, I’ve been cooking. Julia it seems, has found a new-found appreciation for under-appreciated vegetables like cabbage and squash and legumes. So I’ve been a frequent visitor to our local farmers' market  and dining on lentil salad, black-eyed pea soup,  apple slaw, and cauliflower soup. And, in a nod to Julia, I’ve worked butternut squash into the repertoire, too.

Because in four days, she’ll be home. Carter will be back for a visit. And DB will be with us, too.

So now, I’m not lonely. I'm not. Really. But in four short days -- clean countertops and full freezers be damned -- I won’t be alone, either!

Roasted Butternut Squash, Cauliflower and Tilapia

I am always a fan of "one dish" meals. This summer, I've enjoyed a number of variations on this particular one, roasting a pair of veggies -- in this instances cauliflower and butternut squash -- until nearly done, and then, adding a piece of fresh fish for the final five minutes.

1 cup of diced butternut squash (per person)

1 cup of cauliflower "florets" (per person)

4 tablespoons good olive oil

4 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

red pepper flakes (to taste)

curry powder

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

1 tilapia filet (per person)

chopped fresh chives

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Toss together all ingredients except tilapia and chives. Using a strainer or slotted spoon, move vegetables to a flat baking sheet. Bake at 450 degrees for 15 minutes, tossing occasionally. In the meantime, marinate tilapia filet in remaining juices. When vegetables are slightly brown and fork tender, add tilapia filet to baking sheet. Bake an additional 5-7 minutes (until fish is done and flakes easily). Remove from oven, garnish with chopped chives and serve!

* Remember that old Pantene commercial?

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.

Darling Daughter At Age 15

Yesterday, Darling Daughter turned 15.

Today, she got her driver’s permit.

She’s stretching her wings, while I’d prefer to snugly swaddle her once again in the sweet pink jersey blanket her grandmother bought when she was born and which is, even now, tucked under the pillow on her queen-sized bed.  She’s ready to take flight, while I’m reminiscing about her very first self-assured steps across the hardwood floor of our family room.

As the two of us leave the surprisingly uncrowded and pleasant DMV office, I’m worried – near frantic.  I realize I’m not done with her yet.  There’s still so much I want her to know – so much I want to teach, so much I want to share.

But Darling Daughter is already a teenager.  I know less and less about the daily details of her life. Does she have a French test this week?  Does she like her English teacher?  Did she eat all of her lunch today?  Does her backpack need to be cleaned out?  Is she out of deodorant?  Are her socks too small?

Beats me.  She handles all that on her own – quietly, gracefully, uneventfully.

She’s taller than me, she’s stronger than me, she bristles at my parenting style.  But I’m not done.

I haven’t yet taught her to shake a little cayenne pepper into chocolate cake batter and a little salt into chocolate frosting.

I haven’t yet revealed that guys are impressed with a girl who knows how to drive a boat.  And that it doesn’t matter what guys think.

She doesn’t yet know that she’s smarter than she thinks and more capable that she realizes.    I haven’t made it clear that she can do oh-so-much more; but that she doesn’t have to do anything more for me.  She's funny, she's insightful, she's wise.  She is control of her own happiness, her own joy.

As we drive back to school, freshly-minted driver’s permit on the backseat, I know she has no idea of the blessings and pride she brings into my life.  And then, abruptly, she asks, “Are those chickens?”  I squint at the 18-wheeler five or six car lengths ahead of us.  “I don’t think so.  I think they are turkeys.”

And sure enough, we find ourselves at 50 miles an hour, trailing a truckload of turkeys, headed to the next, um, “exit.”  “OMG.  What is he doing?,” Darling Daughter squeals,  “Is he peeing?”

And sure enough, one of the turkeys empties out enough urine to make a racehorse prance with pride.  But not on our Honda Pilot. We smoothly change lanes, as the Jeep Cherokee beside us is christened with poultry urine.

Always look ahead.  Lesson number one for Darling Daughter’s 15^th year. 

Assuming I can share a lesson-a-day with her this year, that’s three hundred and sixty-four to go.

Happy birthday, Julia Wiles.  I hope you can bear with me.  I still have a lot to share.  And from you, I still have a lot to learn.

No new recipe today, as we celebrated the birthday girl's special day with dinner out and her favorite Chocolate-Chocolate-Chocolate Cake.  Just click to find the recipe.  And be sure to sprinkle a little cayenne in the batter and salt in the frosting.

Holiday News From The Wiles. Or, At Least, The Bits We Can Share.

Julia and Carter, Christmas 2011

Dear Friends and Family,

For most people, today would be seven days too late for a holiday letter. To that, I say, bah humbug. December 31 is actually the traditional seventh day of Christmas, landing it squarely mid-merriment and prime for festive greetings, right? Provided, of course, that I am also serving up seven swans-a-swimming and figgy pudding.

Truthfully, 2011 has been terrific. However, unlike in years past, I can’t tell you much about the kids because:

1. Teenagers are keen on privacy, 
2. I respect my teenagers’ privacy, 
3. Teenagers’ actions aren’t always suitable for publication,
4. Which is all to say that teenagers’ actions aren’t always suitable.

Still, we made it through 2011 without extended hospital stays or negative impact on “permanent records,” so I’m declaring the year to be success. As Carter says, “Mom, I may not be smart yet, but my stupidity is on the decline.” OK. Hardly a ringing endorsement, but OK.

Carter is in his junior year of high school, so allow me to speak on his behalf: He doesn’t know where he wants to go to college; he doesn’t know what he wants to major in, he doesn’t know his class rank, he isn’t sure of his GPA, and he doesn’t know where he’ll apply. But go ahead and ask him yourself. Every English-speaking friend, family member, casual acquaintance and complete stranger in the tri-state area does. And Carter loves it. Absolutely adores it.

In fairness, he has identified a few criteria. He likes schools with large football programs. He doesn’t like coats, hats, gloves and scarves. He likes schools with a high proportion of females to males. He doesn’t like studying. But mostly, he really, really, really wants to go to college. Otherwise, what would he do? Work? He did that this summer – as a country club lifeguard – and it was really hard. Like, they wouldn’t even let you text while five-year-olds were jumping off the diving board. Isn’t slavery supposed to be illegal in the United States?

Julia is in her freshman year of high school and can now fit in nearly all my clothes and shoes. But “gross.” Except for my boots, heels, and sweaters. On occasion, my jewelry’s not altogether hideous, either. But even so. Eww.

Seriously, Julia is a diligent student, maintaining an absolute focus on the two topics most critical to freshman success – getting her driver’s permit and finding a dress for the next dance. And shoes. Really fabulous shoes. That no one else has. They don’t have to fit. They just have to look good. Tossed in a corner of the floor. Because no one actually dances in shoes. How could you not know that?

I guess I ended up with the biggest news of the year. Cougar Bait (David Bonner) took full leave of his senses, giving me a surprise birthday party and then, proposing. Marriage. Silly him. According to all accounts, I didn’t draw a full breath before snatching the ring, slipping it on, and asking, repeatedly, “Did I say ‘yes’?” Whatever. The ring is mine. And so is he.

Plainly, 2011 has been a year of blessings for us, and we hope the same has been true for you!

Much love and happy holidays,

Cheri

Braces? Or A "Wait" Problem?

11:45 a.m. -- Darling Daughter just walked back for her appointment with the orthodontist. An innocent bystander might think she was being escorted to the gas chamber. But in fact, she’s supposed to have her braces removed today.

11:46 a.m. -- Everything hinges on “supposed to.” DD hasn’t told her friends. She hasn’t told Cougar Bait. She hasn’t told her brother or her dad. Partially because she wants to surprise them. And partially because, well, she’s my girl, which means she won’t be convinced that those braces are coming off until they’re rattling around at the bottom the orthodontist’s bright orange trashcan of hazardous bio-waste.

11:50 a.m. -- So for now, I sit here, heart pounding, hands clammy, trying to concoct a reason to peek into that back office and find out what’s going on. Or perhaps, stride back there and demand, as a parent, to know what’s going on.

11:57 a.m. -- It’s been 12 minutes, which is 12 minutes too long. Or, which means, that in addition to needing to drop five pounds, I have a wait problem.

High noon -- W. T. Aitch?  I could’ve taken those braces off of DD and three other needy teens by now. Probably should have. What?  You don't think I could do it?  Really?  Is my degree in communications worth absolutely nothing?

High noon-oh-three -- What if the reason I haven’t yet seen DD is because they’ve told her the braces need to stay on another two years? Or so? What if she’s sobbing, wretched, inconsolable? What if she is so distraught that she’s disoriented and can find her way back to me?

12:05 p.m. -- This is ridiculous. Really. How did I end up with a kid old enough to have braces – much less old enough to have them removed? Wasn’t it only yesterday that she didn’t even have any teeth at all?. Sigh.

12:11 p.m. --  What are they doing back there? They must be fitting her for headgear. In which case, they may as well go ahead and fit me for a strait jacket.

12:23 p.m. --  Whoa. What’s that?  "Show me.  Show me!  SHOW ME!"

And then, because she’s my girl, she shows me this.

And later, this.

Smile.