What I Wish I’d Said, Part One

As much as I love to write, I hate to speak. Put another way, I hate speaking even more than I love writing. And that’s saying something.

Looking for someone to raise her hand in a business meeting? Look away from me. Words of wisdom? Well, there’s a book I can recommend. And anything close to my deepest feelings? Um. Can I get back to you on that?

I don’t have the gift. The moment passes. Hours later, though – usually between two and three in the morning – I have absolute clarity. In the quiet, in the dark, when it's far too late, and I should be sleeping – it comes to me: What I should have said.

A few weeks ago, I was with my mom and siblings to celebrate the life of Mom's husband, Bob, who died a year ago. It was a brilliant idea, really. After the angst and difficulty and mourning of the year, we gathered to share favorite memories of the man who’d made such a powerful imprint on our lives. I reveled in everyone else’s stories – in hearing the tried and the true and the ones I’d somehow forgotten. But then, my sister says, “Cheri, tell us your favorite memory.” 

So I said -- nothing.

I froze. Rock hard, sub-zero, re-route traffic, school’s closed, the water main's busted, Kelsius zero. While everyone else was thoughtful and emotional and generous with their memories, everything that came to my mind sounded trite and trivial and silly. I had nothing meaningful to contribute. Nothing at all. 

But then it came to me. About eight hours too late.

Somewhere between two and three in the morning, it came to me. My favorite memory of Bob – what I loved most about him – was the way he loved Mom.  He loved her inside and out. He loved her “because,” and he loved her “regardless.” When I think back over their nearly 30 year marriage, I have to admit that there were times when their relationship was maddening. They did everything together. Everything. They worked together. They shopped together. They thought together. They decided together. They cooked together. They ate together. They prayed together.Ask either one of them a question – even the simplest of questions – and the answer was predictable: Let’s talk with your Mama. Let me talk to Uncle Bob.

He doted on her and adored her. It was obvious that Bob saw my mom the way I did -- as the most brilliant, beautiful, capable person on the planet. His Christmas and birthday gifts to her were always over the top, but nothing was more extravagant than the love he demonstrated, day in and day out. He was mindful of the little things that often get brushed away and overlooked in longterm relationships. He really cared. He cared about Mom. He cared about her feelings. He cared about her kids.

Uncle Bob set the bar high. As we all watched, he demonstrated how to put someone else -- my mom -- first. He loved my mom – in an extraordinary, exceptional, life-altering kind of way. He showed me what it was to love -- and to be loved. He showed me what was possible in a relationship. He helped me figure out what I wanted in my own relationship.

I wish I’d said that.

Best Ever Pimento Cheese Spread
To celebrate Bob's life, we also indulged in some of his favorite foods: roasted oysters, egg salad sandwiches, shrimp, cream cheese and olive sandwiches, spanish peanuts, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, blue cheese dip, and pimento cheese. When I was growing up in Charleston, pimento cheese (or, as some folks pronounced it, "minner" cheese) sandwiches were served at receptions of every sort -- all fancy, on white bread with the crusts cut off.  In fact, Bob often said that if egg salad sandwiches and pimento cheese sandwiches hadn't been served at your reception, then you weren't actually married at all.

6 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
1/8 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper (or more to taste)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
fresh ground black pepper
2 teaspoons grated onion (optional)
10 oz. extra sharp Cheddar cheese, freshly grated (do not use pre-grated)
4 oz. canned pimentos, chopped


In a medium sized mixing bowl, combine all ingredients except cheese and pimentos.  Gradually stir in cheese and pimentos until well combined and moistened.  Chill for an hour or two, and use as a dip for celery sticks or a spread on sandwiches or crackers.

Divorce Etiquette For Every Day Use.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No etiquette required. 

Shrimp & Broccoli Quiche

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

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

Into Each Life, Some Poop Must Fall.

As I write this, some 1,000 birds are twittering and fluttering around our driveway. OK. Maybe not literally 1,000. But it does resemble a scene from Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." Literally, there are a couple hundred robins out there. Usually, I spy robins in onesies and twosies, so an entire flock might have been a breathtaking sight – except that a couple hundred winged red breasts brings a couple thousand plum-colored splatters. My little white 5-speed looks as if it’s been in a food fight with a case of Smucker’s finest. And the driveway could double as the set where Lucille Ball went foot first into the winemaking business.

Even the sides of our detached garage are spattered with droppings, which makes me wonder what’s going on in those little bird brains. Have our feathered friends found some diabolical way to fling -- or even fire -- their droppings? Or are a stalwart few taking one for the team – kamikaze style – flying directly into the wooden planks, just to deposit their distinctive purple stain for posterity?

It’s temporary, I know, but until the robins move on to juicier grounds, we've been forced to adapt. Son and Darling Daughter have taken to using the infamous “duck and cover” maneuver when making the treacherous 10-step trip from the car to the house. The driveway is no longer a makeshift basketball court. And I only cart groceries into the house under the cover of darkness -- when the winged purple bombers have retired for the night.

Grimly, we’re avoiding the driveway. Most of us, that is.

We spend a good part of dinnertime Chez Wiles fending off Josie-the-rescue-dog and Lionel-the-fourteen-pound-feline. Josie sniffs and prances, endlessly hopeful that a tidbit will fall – accidentally or otherwise -- from someone’s plate. Lionel sits in an unoccupied chair, squinting at the water bottle pointed squarely at his nose, knowing that he'll be spritzed the instant he lays a delicate paw on the counter.

As Josie bustled from one diner to another, I realized a bit of food had fallen on her back. Um.  Ick.  Smuckers-colored “food.” After registering the initial shock, I thought the kids would bust a gut.

Yep. Josie had been “hit.”

Better her than me, I suppose. Still, the story left me struggling to come up with a recipe for today. But then, it came to me. Grilled PBJs.

When I was a kid, I used to make them all the time for my younger brother and sister.  I got the recipe from my very first cookbook, aptly titled, "The Kids Cookbook."  We loved these sandwiches with their crispy outsides, warm melty peanut butter and the inevitable jelly splatter. Those PB&Js were, pardon the pun, the “bomb.”

Not literally of course. But close enough.

Grilled Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches

wheat bread (growing up, we used "Roman Meal" brand)
peanut butter
jam
softened butter 

Heat a nonstick skillet to medium high heat.  Make your PB&J, spreading softened butter on the outsides of the sandwich.  Place in skillet and "grill" on each side, until lightly toasted.  Serve warm.  With napkins.

What I'm Good At: Oysters, Sangria and Lots of Work.

We’re in the thick of autumn here in Charlotte. The temperature is dropping, the foliage is lit up like church windows on a Sunday morning, the air is tantalizingly smoky-crisp, the leaves rustle and crunch as Son walks Josie-the-Rescue-Dog, and Thanksgiving is a few weeks away. 

My only thought, though, is that it’s practically Christmas, and I’ve got boxloads of stuff to get down from the attic. The baseboards need to be wiped down. The foyer light needs to be cleaned. And I don’t think I can survive another holiday with the mustard/burgundy wallpaper in the downstairs bathroom.

Clearly, I’m not stopping to smell the roses. Or the pumpkins, the apple cider, or roast turkey, either.

It’s not that I want to rush the season, but to top it all off, Darling Daughter is urging me to have a holiday party. “It’s a lot, a lot, A LOT of work,” I remind her. “I know,” she responded, “but that’s what you’re good at.”

That’s what I’m good at.

When I was married, we had an oyster roast every year on the Friday evening that school let out for the holidays. Although common where I grew up (most Charlestonians have their own knives and gloves, which they’re expected to bring – along with a six-pack – when invited), here in Charlotte, oyster roasts are, let’s say, unconventional. Perhaps, even, bohemian. 

When invitations went out that first year, we had to answer all manner of questions. “No, it’s not like a standing rib roast.” “No, the oysters aren’t fried.” “No, ‘casual attire’ really does mean jeans and sweatshirts.” “ No. We said ‘dress warmly’ because we’ll actually be outside.” “No, you’ll have to learn to shuck your own.” And finally, “Yes, you’ll love them.”

My Charleston family – from whom we were borrowing the essential accoutrements like oyster knives, gloves, steamers and shucking tables – was equally puzzled. “Your friends don’t have their own knives? What kind of family do they come from?” “You don’t know anyone with a shucking table? They’re not hard to make, you know.” And, “Your friends have never been to an oyster roast? Bless their hearts.”

Truly, though, an oyster roast is one of the easiest parties ever. It has to be casual, because there's mud, and oyster juice, and bits of shell. There’s beer, there’s wine, and Chez Wiles, there’s sangria. There’s cocktail sauce and melted butter. My Dad, and now that he’s old enough, Son, tend to the oysters, which involves hauling the bushels up from Charleston, pressure-washing them in the driveway and steaming them in what we fondly call “The Bigass Pot.”

For non-oyster-eaters, we have chili. And saltine crackers. When the oysters are gone, the party’s over. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. (Oooh. We'll want some lemon wedges, too.)

I guess when I told DD that throwing an oyster roast requires a lot, a lot, A LOT of work, it’s mostly because I make it so. And I guess, after taking a year off, I’ll make it so again this year.

It is, after all, what I’m good at. 

If I’m going to get around to those baseboards and lights, though, I need to start cooking quicker meals. Something like this Shrimp in Cream Sauce over Lemon Rice. Honest. It could hardly be easier. 

If only I could say the same about stripping that ugly wallpaper.

Shrimp in Cream Sauce over Lemon Rice

1 cup rice 

1 14-oz. can chicken broth 

1 lemon, zested and juiced 

1 large handful of finely chopped parsley

 1 tablespoon butter 

1 large clove garlic, finely minced or grated 

1 pound raw shrimp, peeled, cleaned and de-veined 

1 lemon, zested and juiced 

1 cup heavy cream 

several shakes of Tabasco sauce

In medium saucepan, combine rice, chicken broth, and juice and zest of one lemon. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to low, and cook, lidded, for 13 minutes. Fluff with a fork, to separate grains. Meanwhile, melt butter over medium high heat in a large skillet. Stir in shrimp, garlic, and juice and zest of one lemon, constantly stirring and sautéing until shrimp is pink and barely cooked through. Pour in cream and cook an additional 1-2 minutes. Season generously with Tabasco sauce. Taste for salt and pepper. Serve hot over cooked Lemon Rice.

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

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

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

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

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

I enjoyed every minute of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. And A Cone Of Safety.

Darling Daughter is attending an 80s-themed birthday party this weekend.

The 80s?  Say whaaaatttttt?  OMG.  I suddenly have an ice-cream-headache-like stab in my brain.  OH-EMM-GEE!  I'm flashing back to lazy Sunday afternoons in the 1970s, listening to Charleston’s WTMA (“The Mighty TMA”) radio playing the “Golden Oldies” – which, of course, meant sock-hop music from the 50s.  “At The Hop,” “Chantilly Lace” and “The Twist” come to mind.

See where I'm going?  The 80s are Darling Daughter’s “Golden Oldies!” 

I try not to swallow my own tongue.  Unflinchingly, DD serves up another cerebral popsicle, “What did they wear back then?” she asked.  (Wait for it, ‘cause it gets worse.) “Was it like in the movie Grease?”

Grease?  Really?  “Let’s Google it,” I delicately suggest.  So we checked out Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan.  And Jennifer Beals in Flashdance.  And then, Cyndi Lauper’s classic, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

Everyone loves that song, right?  Everyone, of course, except, DD, who proclaimed, “She’s just plain weird.”

Whatever.  Here’s what I think:  Girls do wanna have fun.  But it’s not what some people think.

Last week, I got to have a GNO (Girls Night Out) with a few old friends, a few new friends and some friends I’d never met.

Oh what a night.  But again, not what some people might think.  There's a belief, I think, that when women get together, all we talk about is our husbands, or the secret reason we're single, or the crushes we had on other girls in high school, or the craziest place we’d ever “done it,” or the time ...  C'mon!  Really? 

Let me let you in a on a little secret.  When a bunch of girls/women get together, it’s not because we’re auditioning for “Your Mom’s Gone Wild,” or because we’re telling the real story behind the divorce or because we’re looking for lapdances, lingerie or a magnum of Pinot Noir.  OK.  Just kidding about the Pinot.  Everyone knows that a little wine – or sangria or margaritas – never hurt anybody.  Truly, when a bunch of us get together, we mostly just want to laugh.  We want to share stories and feel safe and laugh.  Nothing tawdry about it.

Nevertheless, at Kathy’s last weekend, we agreed that we were all in the “cone of safety.”   On the Bob & Sheri Show here in Charlotte, the virtual "cone of safety" is invoked anytime the hosts or their guests wants to say something without fear of repercussion or judgment.   In other words, when we lowered the "cone," we all knew that what happened at Kathy’s, stayed at Kathy’s.

In that nest of safety, well-feathered by Pinot – or whatever dark red liquid was in those bottomless glasses – we told plenty of stories.  Laughed and laughed and laughed.  But as it turns out, there was no real need for a “cone of safety.”  Nothing shocking or horrifying or mildly embarrassing was revealed.  We just had fun.  We laughed -- and giggled and guffawed.  We swore to do it again.  We even exchanged a few recipes.

Kinda.  On her kitchen table spread, Kathy had a fabulous chilled shrimp dish – saucy, spicy and bursting with flavors.  I couldn’t wait to try it at home.  Within days, I mixed up a batch.  Loved it.  Even bragged about it on Facebook.  But as it turns out, I kinda missed an ingredient.  OK, two.

So I guess what I’m writing about today is “Not Kathy’s Spicy Chilled Shrimp.”

But who knows?  I got the recipe while in the cone of safety.  Maybe some things – like a quarter cup of extra virgin olive oil and a sliced onion – get to stay there.  Along with John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John.  Without judgment or repercussions.

Not Kathy’s Spicy Chilled Shrimp

2 pounds shrimp, poached with ½ lemon, 1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning, 1 tablespoon salt and 1 bay leaf until barely done, drained

1 cup ketchup

5 ½ ounce jar of Zataraine’s Creole Mustard

5 ½ ounce jar of Zataraine’s Prepared Horseradish

juice of half a lemon

Drain shrimp, discarding lemon and bay leaf.  Combine with remaining ingredients in a resealable plastic bag.  Chill overnight.  Serve with crackers or over salad.

Frig, Frick, Love, Hate and Zucchini Bread.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't you just hate that?

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

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

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

We're The Class of 1980, Part II

Oh what a night.*

My 30^th high school reunion was this past weekend and I am exhausted.  Exhilarated.  And as event coordinator, exonerated.

It was a great evening.  Most everybody showed up.  Most everybody paid.  And most everybody repeated the same lie, I mean, line, all night long.

“You haven’t changed a bit!”

Indeed, the Fort Johnson High School Class of 1980 looked great.  Had fun.  Took full advantage of the open bar.  And in the end, had to be swept out the door by weary, broom-wielding caterers.  It’s unclear whether the bartenders were more eager to be relieved of us or our 1970s playlist (think The Village People, The Commodores and The Bee Gees).

Just as fun was the chance to meet spouses and dates and hear their perspectives.  My favorite line came from a wife who said, regarding her successful and loving husband, “If I had known him in high school, I never would’ve gone out with him.  Much less married him.”

In fact, after all the memory-sharing and memory-making and merrymaking, that’s what I took away from this weekend.  A direction taken as a teenager does not a lifelong journey make.

Parents worry.  Trust me.  I’m a worrying champ.  I want my kids to be happy in life.  I want them to be successful adults.  I want them to be contributing citizens.  So I’m always wondering:   Are they working hard enough now?  Are they well-rounded?  Are they taking the best courses in school?  Are they generous?  Are they musical?  Are they athletic?  Are they scholarly?  Do they have any heretofore undiscovered and scholarship-worthy talents that I have yet to unmine – perhaps an unnatural gift for Russian literature or bungee-jumping or harmonica playing?  Are they always doing their best?

Heck, no.  No one can.  Least of all me.  However, the moral of my reunion story is that, even if kids aren’t always doing their best, they can still become happy, contributing, successful adults.

The route to “happiness” depends upon the individual.  I know plenty of people, who, as kids, never missed a summer school opportunity.  People who “took an extra lap” in high school.   Teens who may have “skirted” the law.  Kids who made college choices based on nothing more than whims, hormones and the state drinking age.

And despite it all, they're now happy, contributing, successful adults.  Many, in fact, said they’ve never been happier.

Oh what a night.

Just don’t tell my kids.

*The Four Season, 1975

Of course I've got a recipe. It's what we had for dinner tonight, but had nothing to do with the story.  Despite that, it was a huge hit and prompted Darling Daughter to ask, "How do you come up with these recipes?"  Hmm.  Maybe she'll be a chef one day.  A happy, successful, well-rounded, well-paid, altruistic chef.  Could happen.

Rice and Chicken with Proscuitto, Basil and Parsley

4 oz minced or finely cubed proscuitto

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 large garlic clove, peeled and impaled on a toothpick

1 cup raw rice

1/2 cup dry white wine

1 1/2 cups chicken broth

1/2 teaspoon salt

sprinkle of red pepper flakes

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

2 cups chopped cooked chicken

1/4 cup fresh basil, minced

1/2 cup fresh parsley, minced

In a large, lidded saucepan, saute proscuitto in olive oil over medium high heat.  When lightly browned, increase heat to high, and stir in garlic, rice, wine, chicken broth, salt, red pepper flakes and lemon juice.  Bring to a boil, reduce heat to low, and cook, lidded, for 10 minutes.  Gently stir in chicken and fresh herbs.  Replace lid and continue cooking for 4-5 minutes, or until rice is done.  Let rest 4-5 minutes, fluff with fork and serve hot.

An Ode To Cream Cheese.

Do you know how many calories are in an 8-ounce brick of cream cheese?  I do.

Dammit.

The fact of the matter is that, I can, without any provocation, consume all eight ounces.  And then some.  I love cream cheese.  I could pen an ode to cream cheese.  I kneel at the very altar of cream cheese.  On its own.  Mashed with chopped olives.  Sweetened for cheesecake.  (For the very Best Cheesecake Recipe ever, click here.)

When we were kids, and we were very good (i.e., “silent”), and Daddy was feeling very generous (i.e., “distracted”), we got to sit down (i.e., “sneak in”) as he watched ABC’s Wild World of Sports (from one of the four – count ‘em, four -- channels we received Chez Fountain 1975), and indulge in Coke served in frozen mugs and chips and Dip.

Serendipity.

There was only one Dip in our household.  Not “The Dip.”  Just “Dip” – cream cheese, garlic salt, onion salt, all mashed up and thinned out with a bit of water.  Ooh – and if you’ve got ‘em, some minced up pickled banana peppers.  Ta.  Dah.  “Dip.”

As you might imagine, last week, when Daddy came to visit (to buy an RV – which in itself is an RV-sized story), I automatically reached into the fridge for the Philadelphia Cream Cheese.  For Dip.  With chips.  (Ruffles.  Duh.)

A few days later, though, I pulled a second package from the fridge and examined the nutrition facts.  One brick of that salty, bland, creamy, heavenly cheese has 800 calories.  And let's not talk about portion size.  That single, none-too-slim, silvery packet is a “serving,” is it not?

Which brings me to another “dammit.”

My upcoming 30th high school reunion.

I need to lose 10 pounds.  OK.  If you insist.  Twelve.  In five weeks.

Like that will happen.  A dear friend recently told me that he lost 9 pounds in 21 days just by counting calories.  Really?  ‘Cause I don’t think I can count that high.  But I reckon I do need to start skipping the cream cheese.  And pork chops.  And bacon.  Maybe.

Tell you what, though.  There’s a perfectly fine – no, divine  -- substitute for cream cheese.  Plain Greek Yogurt.

No kidding.  A tub of plain, thick, creamy tangy Greek yogurt is the perfect dip base.  So perfect, in fact, very little seasoning is required.  A little garlic, a few fresh herbs, a squeeze of lemon juice.  Just like ranch dip.  But not.  Ta.  Dah.

And no.  I’m not at all optimistic I can lose those 10 (OK, 12) pounds pre-Reunion.  But I do now know how many calories are an 8-ounce brick of cream cheese.  800.  And in 8 ounces of plain, nonfat Greek yogurt?  120.

Even I can count that high.

Ranch-Style Yogurt Dip

It's important that "Greek" yogurt -- which is very thick and creamy -- be used.
1 16-ounce tub of plain Greek yogurt
2 tablespoons finely minced fresh parsley
2 tablespoons finely minced fresh chives
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 clove garlic

Mince garlic, as finely as possible.  Now, using knife "cut in" salt, until garlic is so finely minced that the salt becomes part of it -- like a paste.  Combine salty garlic paste with remaining ingredients.  Chill and serve with fresh cut vegetables or crackers.

For A Good Time, Just Add Water.

I opened a bank account yesterday. Kinda.

It’s out in the middle of Lake Wylie. Sorta.

Yep. It’s one of those “liquid” bank accounts – a hole in the water into which you pour money without hopes of ever making a withdrawal. I bought a boat.

I’d been pondering it for some time now. There’s nothing like the freedom and fun you can have out on the water. I grew up on the water, on the beach, on the docks, in the creeks – boating, skiing, cruising, fishing. To me, it feels like an essential part of childhood, and at ages 15 and 13, Son and Darling Daughter won’t be “kids” much longer. As rising 8th and 10th graders, they won’t even be with me much longer. (Son’s clearly-stated college choice is “away.” Followed by, “Do they have colleges in Colorado?")

Plus, it’s that time of year when it seems as if every commencement speaker on the nightly news is urging new graduates to “pursue their dreams.” True, I haven’t matriculated in over 25 years. Still, my dream has always been to use “matriculate” in a sentence. And to have a boat. So now I have one.

This, despite the face that there are at least three good reasons I shouldn’t have done it. First, I didn’t “buy” a boat. I went into debt for one. Second, the boating season isn’t all that long. I know, because I tried to justify the expense by dividing it by the number of times we could get on the water each summer before Darling Daughter graduates from high school in 2015. That kind of math never adds up. And third, well, the truth is, I don’t know how to drive a boat.

As Son’s seventh grade teacher would say, it’s time for me to man up.

It's also time to get cooking, because I can’t think of boating without thinking of food.

When I was a kid, we’d eat a PBJ on the bike ride to the Yacht Club (which is not at all what you think it is), knock on the bar window, put a can of Coke on Daddy’s tab, and think we were gourmands.

That’s one dream that has changed. Nowadays, I think icy beers, hunks of juicy watermelon and French bread and cool, refreshing salads – something like this Shrimp and Cucumber Salad with Dilled Yogurt Dressing.

But first, can someone show me how to run this thing? And what happens if you push that red button?

Shrimp and Cucumber Salad
The salad is easy to assemble, but you have to begin a couple of hours in advance, to allow time for straining the yogurt.
8 ounces plain Greek yogurt, strained
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons fresh chopped dill
2-3 tablespoons fresh minced chives
pinch of ground cayenne pepper
generous grinding of fresh black pepper
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 seedless cucumber, peeled, quartered lengthwise, sliced thickly
1 pound peeled, cooked shrimp, cut into bites and chilled
1 rib of celery, chopped fine and chilled
Leaves of Bibb or butter lettuce

To strain yogurt, line a sieve with a paper coffee filter. Spoon in yogurt and allow to stand for at least two hours, to drain off extra liquid. Remaining yogurt will be very thick and creamy. In large mixing bowl, stir yogurt, lemon juice, dill and peppers together and set aside. Put cucumber slices in sieve, sprinkle with kosher salt, and allow to drain about 30 minutes. (This keeps the salad from getting too watery.) Stir drained cucumber, shrimp and celery into yogurt dressing. Serve, chilled, over lettuce leaves.

Season's Almost Over. Back to Laundry and Housekeeping and Cooking.

It still surprises me to say this, but baseball season is almost over -- and I'm sad.

I know.  For most fans, the season just began.  It’s so early in the Major League Baseball season that even the most hopeful fan can’t seriously ask, “How ‘bout those Cubbies?”

But I don’t follow MLB.  I follow HSB – high school baseball -- and only one week remains in the regular season.  One week.  Two games.  Fourteen innings.  Eighty-four outs.  To paraphrase Yogi Berra, it's over when it’s over.

When Son was little, he tried several sports.  Up in our attic is a box stuffed with little soccer and basketball “participant” trophies – the sort handed over to any eight-year-old whose parents are willing to stroke a check to the league and buy a pair of diminutive shinguards.

For Son, baseball’s the sport that stuck.  Seven years later, the trophies for those big-inflatable-balled sports share space with our Christmas decorations and a noisy family of bats (the winged kind).  The baseball trophies, on the other hand, including a pair of gargantuan Dilworth Little League championship trophies that nearly justified the construction of a trophy room Chez Wiles, still occupy the place of honor on Son’s bedroom shelves.

Those first few seasons nearly did me in.  Baseball devours a family evening or a weekend.  A game can last for-fricking-ever.  And with extra innings, for-fricking-ever and ever.  Amen.  Soccer and basketball, with their stopwatches and gameclocks and precisely-timed halves, snug right into a family calendar.  The Great American Pasttime contrarily laughs at the notion of “schedule.”  No time limit.  No neat little 10-minute periods.  No predictable Thursday practices.

Little League practices and games might be scheduled for Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday one week and Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday the next.  Where little Mia Hamms and LeBron Jameses might have to show up 15-30 minutes before gametime, little Derek Jeters are expected 60 minutes prior.  In baseball parlance, by the way, 60 minutes early translates into 75 minutes early.  If you’re on time, you’re late.

It took me an entire season – maybe two – to learn to relax and enjoy the games.  One reason, of course, was flat-out fanny-clenching fear for my kid.  Fear that he would be “that kid” – the one out in left field picking daisies and turning cartwheels.  The one who swats at the ball and twirls into a 360.  Or, worse, the one who hits the ball, but runs to third base instead of first.  I'd worry that he was never going to hit the ball.  And then, worry that he'd never hit it again.

If for one second on those back-crippling bleachers, I stopped worrying for Son, I’d then have to chase away my own demons: I could be doing laundry right now.  I could be catching up on bills right now.  I could be changing the sheets right now.  I could be cooking dinner right now. Instead, I’m being held hostage by an imposing man named "Blue" who wears a mask and makes lots of angry hand gestures, and a team of elementary-school-aged, bat-wielding terrorists with tight-fitting pants.

What a long way I’ve come.  I now bask in baseball.  I’m there early, I stay late.  I’ve got hand-warmers for games in freezing temperatures and freezer packs for games in sweltering heat.  I know what it means to “turn two,” “strike out the side” and “protect the plate.”  I know that the laundry will get done, the bills will get paid and, sometime during the week, a dinner will get cooked.  I also know that, in the course of the season, Son and Darling Daughter will eat their weight in Chick Fil A nuggets.

Turns out there's a limit to how many Chick FIl A Original sandwiches (no butter, extra pickles) I can eat, however.  Instead, I try to keep some easy-to-prepare, easy-to-eat food in the fridge, like Bacon and Egg Salad, Lentil and Feta Salad, and Black Bean Corn Salad.  This week, I had  a hankering for Pimento Cheese.  Given my distrust for sandwiches in general and mayonnaise in specific, I have to make my own.  This version uses lemon juice and cayenne to cut the cloying tendency of mayonnaise.  It’s great on wheat bread, celery sticks, crackers, or my favorite – a spoon.

One week, two games, 14 innings, 84 outs, and one fresh bowl of homemade pimento cheese.  I think I’m going to be OK.


Best Ever Pimento Cheese Spread
Growing up in Charleston, pimento cheese (or, as some folks pronounced it, "minner" cheese) sandwiches were served at receptions of every sort -- all fancy, on white bread with the crusts cut off.  Most people, though, would use the store-bought variety, which is probably what turned me away from pimento cheese for so many years.  This version, though, is flavorful and zesty and fresh-tasting -- worthy of any reception table, crusts and all.


6 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
1/8 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper (or more to taste)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
fresh ground black pepper
2 teaspoons grated onion (optional)
10 oz. extra sharp Cheddar cheese, freshly grated (do not use pre-grated)
4 oz. canned pimentos, chopped


In a medium sized mixing bowl, combine all ingredients except cheese and pimentos.  Gradually stir in cheese and pimentos until well combined and moistened.  Chill for an hour or two, and use as a dip for celery sticks or a spread on sandwiches or crackers.

High School Daze: Reunions, Cocktail Sauce and Self-Doubt.

We’re the best, ain’t no maybe.

We’re the Class of 1980.

What was I thinking?

I was back in Charleston a few months ago and ran into a friend from high school.  Really nice guy.  Married.  After a couple of graciously-poured single malt Scotches, one thing led to another, and yep, you guessed it, I agreed to organize our 30^th class reunion.  (That is what you guessed, right?)

What was I thinking?

It’s not so surprising that I agreed to spearhead the Fort Johnson High School Class of 1980 reunion.  I went to school with lots of exceptionally capable, energetic, well-organized folks, and many of them still live in Charleston.  They know local caterers and bartenders and DJs, and the truth is, if there’s one thing the Fort Johnson Trojans know how to do, it’s throw a party.  My friends have already unearthed people I thought we’d never track down.  You can bet my classmates will be the ones to pull this thing off.

What’s surprising is that I agreed to go at all.

High school is four years of the most fun you’ll ever have.  Forty-eight months of growth and experimentation and self-realization.  Forty-eight months of doubt and awkwardness and self-loathing.

I’d want to re-visit that why?

We graduated in 1980.  Flash forward 30 years.  You know that girl who hasn’t gained an ounce since graduation?  You hate her, right?  Well then, you’d love me.

Based on what I'm hearing from former classmates, I'm not alone.  Plainly, some of that doubt and awkwardness and self-loathing is still lodged in place.  I know.  It's not like I'm a candidate for The Biggest Loser.  Let's just say I no longer have to worry about the American Red Cross telling me I don’t weigh enough to donate blood.  My wrinkles resemble those on nearly any 47-year-old – not the crevasses I deserve after all those 6-hour days on the beach.  We'd never even heard of "sunscreen."  There was "suntan lotion" (for "deep, dark, tropical tans) and Johnson & Johnson baby oil (for sizzling, searing, blistering burns).  And my hair?  Well, it’s nothing that a bottle of Clairol Nice ‘n Easy can’t remedy.  OK.  That’s a lie.  Nothing my fabulous hair stylist can’t remedy.  (Love you, Crystal!)

You have to wonder to what extent hair salons, weight loss programs, clothing boutiques and, let’s be honest, cosmetic surgeons, rely on class reunions.  Sure, they only come around every five to 10 years, but when they do, hoo boy.  New Year’s resolutions pale in comparison.  I don’t just want to lose weight.  I want to be adorably slim, totally ripped, fabulously dressed, sophisticatedly coiffed, and, of course, ridiculously happy with my station in life.  And natch, tan.

So yeah.  I’ll be there.  But I’m not eating anything until August 7, 2010.  Well, except chai tea lattes.  And maybe sangria.

So I hope my classmates arrange to have fabulous food at the reunion.  And since we'll be in the Lowcountry, I bet some of it will require cocktail sauce.

It’ll be a bit too early for oysters, but shrimp?  Definitely.  And where there’s shrimp, there’s cocktail sauce.  And with luck, a 1980 Fort Johnson Trojan who’s a few pounds – and a few hair shades – lighter.

Cocktail Sauce (for Seafood)

There are plenty of bottled cocktail sauces out there, but I don’t know anyone who buys them.  There’s no reason to buy someone else’s cocktail sauce when you can make your own with three simple ingredients.

1 12-ounce bottle of Heinz Chili Sauce

2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice

2 tablespoons (or more, to taste) refrigerated prepared horseradish

Combine all ingredients.  Chill and serve with fresh poached local shrimp.  Or oysters.  Or even saltine crackers.  Yum.