Spring Break -- Then and Now.

Spring Break was a fairly new phenomenon to Charleston County Schools in the 70s.  I don’t think our parents knew what to do with the odd week of vacation – or us.

No problem there.   We were smart.  We were creative.  We were open-minded.  We were teenagers.  We knew exactly what to do with those seven days.  We drove straight – and speedily -- to Folly Beach, rented a bunch of houses (don’t ask), stopped in at Chris and Jerry’s (a sandy little grocery store with eye-rolling prices, a barrel of fresh feta cheese, and an inconsistent policy of checking IDs), dunked ourselves in baby oil, and flopped out on the sand.  Heaven.

C’mon.  It was South Carolina in the 70s.  Certain things – like the drinking age – were different then.  But we didn’t push it.  At that time, SC law also would’ve allowed teenagers -- as young as 14 -- to get married.  We never tried that.  To the best of my knowledge.

We’re a far cry from all that now.  Parental consent is now required for 14-year-old girls to marry in SC.  And spring break is its own industry.  The question isn’t whether you’re going away for break-- it’s where.

Then it’s a matter of cold (skiing) or warm (beaches), active (again, skiing) or sluggish (again, beaches), educational or, well, I’ve got two teenagers.   The Smithsonian is no longer an option.

This year, we chose warm and sluggish.  My bad.  There was no “warm” on Amelia Island last week.  Which instantly put a cramp in “sluggish.”

Look.  I’m certain Amelia Island is delightful – the other 51 weeks of the year.  Last week, though, for the three of us, though, the words “chilly,” “dreary,” “overcast” and “threatening” come to mind.  And the weather wasn’t any better.

Still, we had fun.  There’s no denying how much I enjoy the kids’ company.  Come rain or shine, they are howlingly funny.  Just a few quotes:*

Why does farting smell so bad? I’m asking.

You should be glad we don't like getting shots. That way, you never have to worry about us shooting heroin.

DD, accusingly, "What are you doing?" Son, "Apparently something wrong."

I'm sorry, but you're just a bad mom.

I like long sleeve shirts. Then you don't have to wear pants.

Fortunately, the trip ended on a high note.  We opted to head to Charleston to spend some extra time with family and friends – sans baby oil and Chris & Jerry’s.  But before leaving the Sunshine State, we fit in a Segway tour of Fort George Island.  You know Segways, of course.  It’s impossible to see one and not think – man I wish I were riding that thing.  We did.  And for us, it made the trip.

All’s well that ends well, I suppose.  At least we didn’t ride home shifting in our seats from painful sunburns and peeling patches of blistered skin from our noses and shoulders.  But I felt like we still needed a little something to remind us of sunnier days -- maybe something like this fresh and light tasting grilled chicken.

The Sunshine State may not have lived up to its name this time, but we were smart.  We were creative.  We were flexible.  Heck.  Some of us were even teenagers.

*I keep an ongoing list of these quotes.  If you'd like to read more, check out "Overheard At My House" on Facebook or @HeardAtMyHouse on Twitter.

Grilled Ginger-Citrus Chicken

4-8 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (depending on how many you’re serving)

1 lemon, zested and juiced

1 lime, zested and juiced

1 orange, zested and juiced

1 clementine (optional), zested and juiced

1 tablespoon fresh grated ginger

1 tablespoon vegetable oil

¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

3 cups hot, cooked rice (1 cup rice to 2 cups water)

In a resealable plastic bag, combine chicken breasts, citrus zests, juices, ginger, vegetable oil and red pepper flakes.  Allow to marinate 30 minutes.  Drain, reserving marinade, and season each breast with salt and pepper.  Grill over medium-hot coals until done.  (About 5 minutes per side for thin breasts).  While chicken cooks, heat remaining marinade to boiling (in the microwave is fine).  When chicken is done, allow to rest 5 minutes before slicing and serving.  Stir 2 tablespoons of heated marinade into hot rice and serve with sliced chicken.

What's Opera Chez Wiles?

I was born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina, a gorgeous, coastal city with the well-deserved reputation of being charming, historic and cultured.

When new friends realize where I’m from, they inevitably ask:

• “Do you know [well-heeled, well-connected person]?”

• “Did you go to [privileged, pricey, private school]?”

• “Did you live in one of those [expensive-to-restore, expensive-to-heat, just-plain-expensive] houses downtown?”

Um. Sorry. I’m not from "that" Charleston.

Although our postal address was "Charleston," I lived on James Island, which lies just across The Harbor, and while it may not be as high-falutin’ fancy as The Holy City proper, it isn’t exactly some backwoods backwater populated by rednecks, either. At least, not all the time.

Still, I did grow up in plain view of one of the most cultured cities in America, and then, lived in the venerable grand dames of Boston and Richmond. Somehow, though, I made it to age 47 without ever going to the opera.

Nope.  Not once.  Never even missed it.

So I wasn’t sure what to do when I was offered tickets to Opera Carolina’s Carmen last week. If it had been Bugs Bunny’s Barber of Seville, of course, I wouldn’t have hesitated a single sixteenth note. Who doesn't love watching Bugs make fruit salad on Elmer’s head?

But when Cougar Bait, who's a lot closer to being from "that" Charleston than I am, offered to go with me, I gratefully accepted the chance for an evening out.  And as it turns out, “real” opera was both less and more than what I’d expected.

• Less difficult to understand. Thanks to English supertitles projected on an overhead screen, I had no problem understanding the plot. Reading the words also proved for me that every musical genre uses word repetition in lyrics, and repeated words look silly when read instead of sung. Carmen sings, I am thinking of a certain officer, I am thinking of a certain officer, Who loves me and whom in turn, yes whom in turn, I could really love. Mick Jagger sings, I can’t get no satisfaction, I can’t get no satisfaction, ‘cause I try and I try and I try and I try, I can’t get no, I can’t get no. No, no, no. Elmer sings, Kiww the wabbit, kiww the wabbit, kiww the wabbit.

• Less cleavage. I’d expected (again, drawing on my over-familiarity with Bugs Bunny in What’s Opera) that the performers would be, ahem, ample. Remember Brunhilde?  But no, even Kirstin Chavez as Carmen was only appropriately voluptuous.

• More than “vocal” talent on display. Shame on me for expecting less than stellar “acting,” too. All of the performers – through body language and tone and movement as much as singing – helped me understand their characters and the plot. The dancers, too, could really dance.

• Less attitude. The audience wasn’t nearly as stuffy as I’d worried. Not in the slightest. Although I can be paranoid to the first-degree (I honestly believed there were cameras in my house when I was a kid, watching my every move – 40 years ago), I never wondered whether anyone could identify me as the “opera virgin.”


• More familiar.  Yes, the language (French) was foreign, but the music wasn't.  I was pleasantly surprised -- and grateful -- that, in 47 years, I'd actually heard a good bit of the music.  Heck, I think I even played some of on the piano as a kid.  Somehow, that link made me feel more involved, more connected.

• More cleavage. Let's be honest.  I'm a girl, so of course I worried about what to wear.  I kinda figured that there wouldn't be a lot of black ties on display, but what I didn't figure was the gracious amount of cleavage that would be, ahem, on display.  I don’t know whether it was officially “breast night at the opera," but there was an eye-popping abundance. Not on stage.  In the audience.  Holy Jiggle-Oly.  Guess I didn’t get the memo.

• More fun. Turns out, opera wasn’t so much “good for me” as “good.” Who’d have guessed?

So much for stereotypes. Even though I’m not from “that” Charleston, I can now say I enjoy opera. And although Carmen certainly didn’t inspire me to stretch my vocal chords (for which my kids should be profoundly grateful), it did inspire a new, “gussied up” version of the simple grilled fish we had nearly every Sunday night growing up in Charleston. 

Ahem.  Not “that” Charleston, of course.

Grilled Swordfish with Lentil and Olive Salsa

Several, thick swordfish steaks
Kosher salt
Fresh ground pepper
Olive oil

1 ½ cups precooked black pearl lentils, drained
½ cups chopped green olives with pimentos
2-3 tablespoons fresh, minced parsley
1 scallion, thinly sliced (optional)
2 tablespoons olive oil
1-2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice
¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes

Brush swordfish with olive oil and season generously. Grill over medium-high heat, about 5 minutes per side, or until done. Set aside and allow to rest five minutes before serving. While fish is grilling, combine remaining ingredients, tasting and adjusting for seasoning (will likely need about ½ teaspoon kosher salt). Top rested swordfish with room temperature lentil salsa and serve.

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.

I'm A Mom. I Can't "Just Chill."

This post ran as a guest column in the Moxie section of The Post & Courier (Charleston, SC), Friday, September 11, 2009.  (Click here for the column.)

When we were growing up on James Island, one of our great summertime thrills was when somebody's exhausted and pestered parent would cave in and drive us across the old Cooper River bridge (an adventure in itself) to the Super Slide in Mount Pleasant.

The Super Slide was, in fact, just that: A "souped-up" old-fashioned metal slide -- on steroids.

To my 9-year-old eyes, it looked to be about 10 stories tall, but more likely came in at two or three, with what seemed like about 20 lanes, but again, was more likely five or six. After paying the attendant, we'd traipse up the stairs, each clutching a square of carpet to sit on, Aladdin-style, for the all-too-quick ride down.

The carpet square served several purposes. One, it maximized the glide. Two, keeping our feet and hands on the carpet helped us avoid friction burns with the slide, which even the littlest kids knew would be far more painful than the "Indian burns" we inflicted on each other's arms at home. And three, well, for the love of St. Philip's, we were in Charleston. In the summer. With no shade. And the slide wasn't that high-tech, stay-cool, molded plastic that's used today. It was metal. You know. Like the bottom of an electric iron.

The metal slides in our own backyards were blistering hot and unusable.  What made anyone, particularly an adult, think an even higher, longer slide would be preferable?  With a little bit of Pam, every single egg at the Piggly Wiggly could've been fried on that scorching piece of sheet metal. Bacon, too.

I sometimes think of that slide when my kids demand explanations for my parenting decisions. Plainly, it would be safer, and usually smarter, not to even begin the descent. The rule is the rule. Make your bed. Put away your clothes. Walk the dog. Because I said so. Now.

But the kids are 12 and 14 now, so I can't always get away with that.

Older Child (OC) recently laid into me: What can't you just relax? Why can't you let things slide? What difference does it make if I put away my clothes? Why can't I eat in my room? Why do you care how late I'm on the phone? Why do you get to tell me when to go to bed?

And finally: Why can't you just chill?

Are you kidding? I can chill! I'm the chillest mom around! I'm so cool ...

Um. Did I say that out loud? 'Cause there's no way I can win the "cool" point.

In fact, I am decidedly not cool -- in any sense of the word. But I am an adult. I pause. I take what feels like a lung-bursting breath. I know that once I get on this slide, there's no stopping -- at least not without incurring serious injury, either to our relationship or my own ego.

It'd be so easy to get burned.

I consider walking away, giving both of us a chance to cool down and avoid the possibility of medical intervention. But oddly, OC seems to be expecting a response.

I dig deep, trying to think of an answer I can give that's honest, worth giving, worth hearing and, most importantly, won't sear the skin off of either of us.

"Because," I offer hesitantly, "you're in training.

"I don't expect perfection. You're a kid. But you're a work in progress. The point isn't for you to get everything right. The point is for you to eventually emerge from training as a thoughtful, contributing, informed, decent human being.

"But that won't happen automatically. That's why I can't just chill."

I stop talking. I wait. I try to read OC's face, but I can't tell. Did one of us just get burned?

"OK, Mom. Whatever. Can I finish watching this show now?"

Phew. I deflate my lungs. That wasn't so scary. Looks like we both made it to the bottom of the slide with hands, feet and egos intact.

I suspect I'll be traipsing back up those steps again in no time, though. He's 14, and his training's only begun.

What a ride.

What Not To Wear In Faux Fall. (Pumpkin Bread)

Yesterday -- just one week into the school year -- we pried open our sleepy eyes to greet a cool 57 degree morning here in Charlotte.

And wonder of wonders -- same thing today.

This is noteworthy because our city's average low for September is 63. And we’re a mere three days into the month.

Mind you, both 57-degree-mornings days – as predicted – wound up climbing into the upper 70s. Nevertheless, Chez Wiles, we are reveling in these practically chilly temps. The dip was sufficient to have me hefting open windows in our 85-year-old house and send all of us scrambling for sweatshirts and jumping into jeans.  Makes you wonder what we'd do in 40-degree weather, right?

Of course, we’ve been programmed to believe that as students return to school, the season follows a parallel path on its return to cold weather. Television shows, commercials and back-to-school signage support the premise, splashing autumnal leaves on any and all promotional materials, which also inevitably feature trendy teens wearing fleece-lined boots and woolen earmuffs.

I know. It is possible autumn really has arrived.  It's also possible my kids will prepare chateaubriand for dinner tonight.

C'mon.   It may be autumn in Maine right now. Or in Wyoming. But here in the Carolinas, we all know we’ve got plenty of oven-like days ahead.

Still, consider me guilty as charged. I’ve already been eyeballing the sweaters in my closet – the very same sweaters I hastily shed back in March when the temperature warmed up to – you guessed it – a toasty 57 degrees.

A long time ago (but well after the Renaissance, thank you), I celebrated my 16th birthday by traveling to a Commodores concert in Columbia, South Carolina. Last week, as I reminisced about the event, a friend teased me, saying, “I bet you even remember what you wore.”

You bet I do.

First, I remember because like so many women, my favorite memories are ensnared in memories of favorite outfits and favorite meals. (Wanna know what I had for dinner the night of my Senior Prom? Click here.) Second, I remember because my birthday falls in September – the Faux Fall month.

So yes. I remember clearly that, in 1978, as Lionel Richie crooned, “Three Times A Lady" and we all boogied to "Brick House," I wore a long sleeved, high-neck blouse made of material that was only slightly more breathable than a shower curtain. Or maybe slightly less breathable than a shower curtain. With that ill-chosen top, I wore tan, cuffed, wide-wale corduroy slacks, with a leather-covered fly button. Hey, I knew what I was doing.  Since it wasn’t yet October, I opted not to wear the matching jacket.

There’s no story here, really. As my friends and I got dressed that night in our room at the Downtown Holiday Inn, I looked fabulous. I could’ve passed for 18. Or at least, 17 ½ . But by the time we rode the elevator downstairs and crossed the street to the Columbia Coliseum, I wasn’t just sweaty. I was slimy. I was awash in my own au jus.

So yes, I remember what I wore.

And I remember Mom advising me not to wear it.

What did she know?  Thirty-one years later, I remain as susceptible to Faux Fall as my kids. The instant I opened the door to let the dog out yesterday morning, and that less oven-like air billowed in to meet me, my mind immediately skipped to fall fare.

OK. I'm not quite ready to get going on a kettle of chili – not even chicken chili.  But Cranberry-Pumpkin Bread with Pecans? Twist my wooden spoon.

It was, after all, 57 degrees outside.

Cranberry-Pumpkin Bread
Makes two 9 x 5, or three 8 x 4 loaves

3 cups sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
4 large eggs
1 16-oz. can of pumpkin (not pumpkin pie mix)
3 1/2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon allspice
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1 cup dried, sweetened cranberries (e.g., Craisins) (optional)
1 cup toasted, chopped pecans (optional)
2/3 cup warm water

Preheat oven to 350. Beat oil, sugar, eggs (one at a time) until well-blended. Stir in pumpkin. In a separate bowl, stir together dry ingredients (except cranberries and nuts). Stir dry ingredients into pumpkin mixture. Fold in cranberries and pecans, if using. Slowly stir in warm water until mixture is consistent. Bake in greased and floured loaf pans until golden -- about one hour. After allowing to cool 15 minutes, remove from pans and cool completely on racks. Freezes well.

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

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

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

Wah, wah-wah, wah-wah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I never knew she was broken.

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

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

Wah, wah-wah, wah-wah.

I probably don’t want to know.

Super Simple Shrimp & Grits

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

4 cups chicken broth

1 cup regular (not instant) grits

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

2 tablespoons butter

6 green onions, chopped

1 green bell pepper, chopped

1 clove garlic, minced

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

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

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

Settling Into Summer Routines -- Or A Lack Thereof. With Ribs.

School's out.

Not, as Alice Cooper eventually proclaimed, "forever," but at least "for summer."

I know this, first, because there are two additional, oversized bodies bumping around the house, each dividing his or her time equally between foraging for food; dwindling the charge on my MacBook; carpeting the floors with soggy towels and P.E. clothes which haven't seen the inside of a washing machine since before Christmas; misplacing my MacBook after the draining the battery; planning, scrapping, then re-planning social outings; and finally, in the ongoing quest for sustenance, begging to be taken off-premises -- to Harris Teeter, Smoothie King or Chick-Fil-A -- for still more food.

Second, I know school's out because both of my beloved and believed-to-be-bright children has already had the audacity to whine, "I'm bored." Silly them. As if there isn't always dog poop to be scooped and kitty litter boxes to be sifted.

Even more audacious, each of them, separately, has protested indignantly, "What difference does it make if I leave my wet towels (dirty laundry, Jolly Rancher wrappers, backpack contents, fill-in-the-blank) on the floor? It's summer! Why do you care so much?"

Well. I've got gracious plenty responses for that, but before I make a list, did you really think that tone of voice would change my mind?

Honestly, though, I see their point. Wouldn't it be delightful if life actually worked that way? If school let out for summer, the temp soared to 90, and no one had to do laundry or take out trash or clean toilets? If the pantry were endlessly stocked with Krispy Kreme doughnuts, the fridge with Minute Maid Limeade and the freezer with filet mignon? (No kidding about that last one. It would be difficult to overstate the number of times, in this week alone, that my 14-year-old-son has asked, "Do we have any steak?" -- as if we routinely snack on $20-a-pound, medium rare, grilled meat.)

Some things do slack up, of course. Dress codes are abandoned. Bedtimes slide. Breakfast becomes every-man-for-himself. I even have a friend who, for years, got away with telling her young children that, "Yes, church is closed during the summer. Just like school."

In truth, when I was a kid, it felt as if all routines did come to a halt during the summer. Every morning, we'd get on our bikes and go -- ride trails, build forts, catch fiddler crabs and dine on Lowcountry delicacies like blackberries, wild plums, honeysuckle and sourgrass (that last, despite our parents telling us it was only sour because dogs peed on it).

We could go shoeless for days. To break any monotony that might creep in about mid-July, we'd shove someone off a boat -- in three feet of water or 30. Life jacket, life schmacket.

What a life.

So OK. No more pencils, no more books. School is out for my kids. I can't abolish all routines, but provided they can keep my MacBook on the charger, I reckon I can let a few other things slide. It's summer. We may as well enjoy it -- starting with these savory ribs inspired by a recipe I found in Bon Appetit magazine.

Babyback Ribs With Asian Flavors

Note that preparation for these ribs must begin hours in advance, or even better, the day before.

1, 3-3 1/2 lb. rack babyback ribs

1 tablespoon ginger paste (or 1 tablespoon fresh grated ginger)

1 tablespoon honey

1 tablespoon soy sauce

1 tablespoon asian fish sauce

3 cloves garlic, minced to a paste with 1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon fresh ground pepper

Prepare ribs. Rinse in cold water. Using a small thin knife, peel white membrane from underside of ribs. (Tough to do, but worth it.) Pat dry with paper towels.

Combine remaining ingredients in a small bowl (or better, a small food processor or blender). Rub both sides of rack with mixture, wrap tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate at least four hours, or overnight.

Preheat oven to 250. After refrigerating ribs, cut into several (single-serving) sections. Put in a large baking dish, cover tightly with foil, and bake for two hours at 250 degrees.

Remove ribs from oven, check for tenderness. Ribs should be fully cooked and tender. Baste with pan juices and grill over indirect medium heat, until browned and crusty on both sides -- 10-15 minutes per side.

First Dance, First Kiss, First Dinner.

The instant my Darling (and Drowsy) Daughter pried open her sleep-sanded eyes this morning, I recognized it. Although nearly 60 hours had passed since her first dance (Friday night), she was still enshrouded in that ethereal, walking-on-air, anything-can-happen, post-dance fog. Even as she finally floated out the door to school, precious, girlish memories of that evening were still swarming around her, with odd bits clinging to her hair and fingertips.

Parents of infants are trained to note "firsts." The first time they roll over, the first time they sit up, and first foods. (Huh. Oddly similar to pet-training, isn't it?)

Then, it's all about those first words, the first time they eat unassisted, and eventually, mercifully, the first day without diapers.

All of the sudden, we don’t get to witness their firsts. First day at school, first sleepover, first test. First crush, first dance, first date, first kiss. We have to rely on our kids (or more likely, their chatty, less-inhibited friends) to share even the tiniest, splintered details.

My own first kiss was less than magical. Memorable, yes -- but not in a good way. Disastrous is more accurate. A slimy disaster. Like a bad sci-fi movie. We seventh graders were playing Spin the Bottle, when despite the odds, the bottle spun by my so-called boyfriend slowed to point squarely at me. We'd never kissed before, and I was thrilled. My heart pounded. As we leaned toward each other, images from movies and books flooded my mind. I may have swooned. I may have heard a host of heavenly angels.

For about half a second. Eeeewwww. What a disappointment.

Although I'd bet he has no recollection of the event, in my mind, that awkward kiss was a deal-breaker. We broke up the following Monday, and for the next 5½ years -- until we graduated high school and I went to college -- I avoided all contact -- even eye contact -- with him. Ick.

The first meal I ever prepared was more successful – but only slightly. It was a typical, sticky, swampy summer day in Charleston, and I was -- no kidding -- eight years old. I knew what the day held. Phoebe, our housekeeper/maid/babysitter (this was before the rise of nannies) would surely send us out for the day, with the usual admonishment, “I don’t even want to see you children again until lunch.”

But that day I had a plan. I couldn’t go out and play, I insisted. I wanted to make dinner. Seeing as how Phoebe didn’t cook, she agreed to let me have at it. Either I was an convincing liar, or Phoebe had mis-placed her confidence in an eight-year-old. I didn’t know which, but I didn’t care.

I dug through the chest freezer and plowed through The Joy Of Cooking -- looking for ingredients and ideas, so I could compose my menu. Iced tea with mint and lemon. Mashed potatoes, which looked easy because I was actually pretty good with a peeler. Waldorf Salad, which I’d never even heard of, but since we had the basic ingredients (apples, celery, nuts, mayonnaise) I hoped would add an exotic twist. Green beans (canned) were a foregone conclusion, as they were the only vegetable everyone in the family agreed upon. And finally, the piece de resistance – pork roast.

The recipe looked simple enough. Pat the roast down with flour, garlic powder, salt and pepper, and put it in the oven for 25 min./lb. I wasn’t sure why they tacked that “/lb.” on there, but then again, I didn’t understand a lot of things. I was eight. If Mrs. Looper had ever mentioned such a thing in our third grade class, I didn’t remember it. It seemed insignificant, like the way the Waldorf Salad recipe required a “fine dice” for the apples. Whatever.

I made a list and began tackling it. Because I was so eager to have the meal prepared, I put the roast in at about 2:00 p.m., figuring I’d just warm it back up when my parents got home at 5:30 p.m.

I was stunned and confused when I checked the roast at 2:25 p.m. It wasn't brown and succulent. It hadn’t changed color in the slightest. I consulted Phoebe (remember, not exactly a culinary wizard), and we agreed it probably needed a little more time. I kept the roast in the oven, opening and closing the door at five minute intervals, for another 20 minutes, when it finally lost that raw pink color on the outside.

True, it wasn't exactly brown, but I remember thinking, perfect, as I turned off the oven. (Plainly, we hadn't studied trichinosis in third grade, either.) I filled the remainder of the afternoon finishing up the other dishes, setting the table and thinking of all the witty ways I’d announce to my parents that I, all by myself, had cooked dinner!

When Mom got home at 5:30 p.m., she listened to my boastful description of the afternoon, and then, gaped, horrified, at the practically raw, now room temperature, five-pound, bone-in, grayish porcine slab, resting in a pool of pink juices in the oven. I could provide graphic details, but in a nutshell: my dad declared that we needed another dinner plan, my brother couldn’t believe how dumb I was, my sister just wanted to go to bed, and I sobbed hysterically.

Mom persisted, though: We were having roast for dinner. Even, she proclaimed, if it meant eating at midnight. In truth, it didn't take quite that long, but it was a good 2 ½ hours later – well past my baby sister’s bedtime – when we ate. After all the tears, my eyes were swollen nearly shut. I could scarely taste anything. It was one of the finest meals ever.

To this day, I still enjoy a good pork roast, although I usually cook it on the grill now and not in the oven. It's pretty basic. A beef pot roast, I think, can pose a bigger challenges, but even so, there are only two tricks. One, Lipton Onion Soup mix is not enough. You've got to have other ingredients to give your pot roast enough depth of flavor. Two, you've got to cook it way longer than any recipe ever tells you. It may not quite compare to a first dance or first kiss, but still, it's pretty darn good.

Beef Pot Roast
3-4 pound chuck roast

olive oil

2 onions, cut in half lengthwise and sliced thinly

10-12 baby carrots, cut in 1/2-inch chunks

1 rib celery, chopped

3-4 cloves garlic, minced

generous splash of red wine (about 1/2 cup)

fresh ground pepper

bay leaf

1 packet Lipton Onion Soup mix

1 cup water

Thinly coat the bottom of a large, heavy-duty lidded skillet with oil. Heat until oil is rippling, then brown both sides of roast well.  Remove roast from pan, and stir in onions. Saute until translucent, then add carrots and celery. Continue sauteeing until carrots are slightly browned. Stir in garlic and continue cooking another 2-3 minutes.  Return browned roast to pan, adding wine, pepper, bay leaf, soup mix and water. Cover, and cook over low heat 3-4 hours until roast is absolutely fork tender. Using fork, pull apart roast and serve over egg noodles with broth.

Paving My (Well-Traveled) Road To Hell

The kids are away this weekend.  My daughter snagged an invite to birthday beach party in Charleston.  My son is testing his freshly healed and reconditioned rotator cuff by sea kayaking at a another Charleston beach.  And no, neither has any concept how lucky they are.  (Truly, what did you do with your weekends growing up?  Getaways to the most beautiful beaches in America -- where we visited just last weekend?  Or chores?  Me, too.)

Naturally, when friends hear that I'm kid-free for 48 hours, they can't prevent themselves from asking, "Whatever will you do with all that free time?"

Umm.  Hmm.  Well.  I suppose I could clean out that coat closet.  It'd be nice to be able to close it without a strength training class.  My daughter's jewelry-making beads seem to have spilled across the tile floor in the sunroom.  Someone should definitely take care of that.  And given that the coming week holds, at a minimum, three baseball games, two baseball practices, two music lessons, a school concert, a Scout meeting, a parent meeting and a doctor's appointment, a smart single mom would use this time to stash a few meals in the fridge and freezer.

My high school English teacher used to admonish, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."  Given that my relationship with project due dates and term paper deadlines at that time could best described as an open relationship, I was a frequent recipient of this cautionary tale.  I'd cringe as she delivered the message.  And I was conflicted:  Did I feel guilty?  Or worried that she might be fired for using such language?  She was a good teacher.  I would've missed her.

But now, it's already Sunday afternoon.  My son's about to return, and his sister will be on his heels.  The closet's still choked, the beads sprawled, the meals unmade.  What did I do this weekend?

Nothing, I guess.  But wait.  I did laugh for nearly four solid hours Friday night.  I got together with some work friends from 15 years ago, who are among the wittiest, quickest, most self-deprecating storytellers I know.   As one friend pointed out, the punchline to nearly every story was, "Needless to say, we didn't get that account."  I guess you had to be there.  I wasn't quite to the point of tears streaming down my cheeks.  However, I may have identified a new marketing angle for Depends.

I was still smiling -- and occasionally laughing out loud -- Saturday morning.  I guess that's when the rest of the weekend went to hell.  (I'm not a high school English teacher, so I can use that language.)  I got my hair cut.  I Facebooked.  I drank wine.  I watched an indulgent chick flick.  OK.  Actually, I watched two, but fell asleep during the second.  I already knew that Meg Ryan figures out, in the end, that it was Tom Hanks all along.

Sunday morning, I was still smiling.  I planted more herbs to supplement the ones that didn't succumb to the freezing temps and hail of a week ago.  I shopped.  Sure, I did a couple of household maintenance things, but nothing I want to brag about.

And I'm still smiling.  More important, I don't feel guilty.  Scientists insist that laughter is good medicine.  If so, I'm pretty darn healthy this weekend.  To welcome the kids home, I'm going to make something that always makes them smile, "Beer Butt Chicken."

The name alone does it, right?

Plus, it's always good, always juicy, and is guaranteed to start our meal off with a smile.

I'll get to the closet, the beads and the meals.  It's not as if I'm still in high school.  But for tonight, we're going to smile and laugh and enjoy being back together.

Beer Butt Chicken

Truly, the name is a bit of a misnomer, as you can replace the beer with Coke, for that matter, and it's still really good.  And I think most people refer to it as "Beer Can Chicken" anyhow.  But right now, I'm going with what makes me smile!

1 whole chicken (about 4 lbs.)

1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon (about) fresh ground pepper

1 teaspoon (about) fresh rosemary

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Zest of one lemon

1 clove garlic, minced

2 additional cloves of garlic, peeled

1 sprig of rosemary

1 can of cold beer

Preheat the grill.  You'll be cooking the chicken on "indirect" heat.

On a cutting board, using a chef's knife, "cut" together the spices, the lemon zest and minced clove of garlic.  You'll end up with a "rub" which you'll use on the chicken.  Make sure to rub it in well, over the entire chicken, including under the skin.  As you're rubbing the seasoning under the skin, try to loosen the skin as much as possible from the bird, which will improve the browning and crisping of the skin.

Drink the top off the beer.  The can should now be about 2/3 full.  Drop in the additional garlic and rosemary.

Taking care not to spill it, put the beer can in the chicken's, ahem, cavity.  Position the chicken, standing up on the beer can, over indirect heat, on the grill.  Tuck the wings behind the bird, so they don't splay out.  Use the chicken legs to make sure everything balances.

Close lid and cook for about one hour or until done (when juices run clear).

Let rest 10-15 minutes before carving.

There's Only One Place They Call Me One Of Their Own

It startles -- and probably concerns -- my children on those rare occasions when someone asks me where I'm from, and I name my hometown -- Charleston.

Their confusion is understandable.  Charlotte, not Charleston, is the only home they've ever known.  Besides, I haven't lived in Charleston for nearly 30 years.  In a way, it's just one more item tacked on the ever-lengthening list of "Ways Mom Is Losing Her Mind."  (This list, which includes things as mundane as "Can't Remember Where The Car Is Parked" and "Called My Friend 'Sugar'" and "Asked How Many Vegetables I've Eaten Today" is not as long as the list of "Ways Mom Embarrasses Us," but there are some redundancies between the two.)

A friend claims that Charleston is a balm to my soul.  He's right (a nasty habit which I overlook, because, well, he's often right).  When I roll over the bridge on the way to James Island, I eagerly roll down the windows, hoping for that funky, decaying, salty smell that signals low tide, and which, to the unfamiliar, smells like something that maybe needs to be flushed.

Sure, given its balmy breezes, overwhelming history and unceasing charm, Charleston is popular with lots of people.  But it's not home to lots of people.  Home is home, whether it's Aiken or Atlanta or Summerton or San Francisco.  There's an odd comfort in returning to the place where we're as well known for our flaws as for our achievements.

When I'm home, my mom knows I can cook, but she also knows full well about my need to be right, my inability to be patient in the face of stupidity, and my intolerance for bad table manners (with the exception of mine, in which case, I'm just being funny, not rude).

My dad knows that although I've got plenty of good intentions (with which I'm undoubtedly paving a highway to hell), when it comes to certain situations (and relatives), I am downright harsh.  He also is aware that I've gotten away with plenty of things by insisting that I'm not a good liar (except on rare occasions when I am).

My sister.  Well, what doesn't my sister know?

Still, when I go home, they welcome me, they feed me, they take care of me.  Sure, they may buy me drinks, too, but that's not why I go.

It's home -- H-O-M-E.  One day, my kids will feel that same way about their own hometown -- with its incredible canopy of trees, clean streets and street names that suddenly change without rhyme or reason.

Until then, they'll have to tolerate my affection for my own hometown, and my understandable craving for the seafood of my childhood.  This dip is actually named for McClellanville,  a small coastal town just above Charleston, known for its fishing and shrimping.  I never actually even ate it growing up, but the tastes are so familiar, it always reminds me of home.

McClellanville Caviar
This is the dip the folks always crowd around at a party.  Serve it with big, hearty chips -- Fritos Scoopers, for example.  The next day, you can also scoop any leftovers onto a bed of lettuce for a quick salad or fold it into an omelet.

1 1/2 pounds cooked shrimp

1 16-ounce can black beans, rinsed and drained

1/4 cup finely chopped bell pepper

1/2 cup finely chopped Vidalia onion

1 1/2 cups prepared salsa

1/4 cup fresh lime juice

2 tablespoons honey

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

Finely chop shrimp (or even quicker, carefully pulse about 20-30 seconds in food processor).  Toss shrimp with remaining ingredients.  Taste for seasoning (particularly salt and lime juice).  Cover and refrigerate for 8 hours, stirring occasionally.  Serve with chips.  (Keeps for 2-3 days.)

(Very) Misty, Watercolored Memories

I've long maintained that my decreasing ability to remember things is due to the fact that I have an ever-increasing number of things to remember.

Think about it. At age 46, I have 33 more years of classmates, co-workers and neighbors, dinners, vacations and parties, phone numbers, e-mails and gift ideas to remember than my kids have. I may not remember what we had for dinner last night (or whether we had dinner last night), but I do remember what I ate the night of the Fort Johnson High School Junior-Senior Prom, 1980. We splurged at the Cork and Cleaver, and I had a whole artichoke with lemon butter, mushrooms sauteed in wine, medium-rare filet mignon, and cheesecake. The cheesecake wasn't very good.

I could be wrong about that, though.

Last week, 60 Minutes aired a story about the fallibility of our memories. Apparently, when it comes to recall, "crystal clear" can be Cooper River murky. In the report, we meet a woman who, based on her unwavering, eyewitness identification of the rapist in a lineup, helped convict a man to life in prison. Even when she saw the actual rapist, she didn't recognize him. Twenty years later, DNA evidence proved that the convicted man wasn't guilty, and he was released from prison.

My own memory lapses don't have such life-altering implications, but after only a month or so on Facebook, I'm finding more and more examples of how we remember things differently.

Our recollections can be small, single events or larger, longer-lasting ones. According to the posts I've read, some of the musings of Fort Johnson High School alums include: Remember when you had your wisdom teeth out? Remember that night at Big John's? Remember the (very painful) last Fort Johnson-James Island football game? Remember that week at Folly Beach our senior year? (OK. I admit that there could have been some contributing factors to our collective memory loss that week.)

On the Facebook discussion board, "You Know You Went To Fort Johnson If ..." several alums fondly remember our French teacher as the hottest teacher at school.

Really? I've got to admit, I had to do a double-take there. Then again, I was pretty naive in high school. OK, now that I look back, I can see where kids may have thought that, but back then, it never, ever occurred to me. Ick. (This, despite the fact that she was, in the vernacular of the day, built like a brickhouse. By the way, you know you went to Fort Johnson if you're now singing, "she's mighty, mighty, just letting it all hang out" under your breath.)

Particularly shocking in my Facebook communications to this point is how people claim to remember me: "always smiling," "energetic," and "witty."

Here's how I remember me: awkward, uncomfortable, inappropriate.

Sadly, no one remembers me as having "great hair," "glowing skin" and "fabulous clothes." Rightly so. Nobody's memory is that inaccurate.

Is it always this way? Is there always a vast divide between one person's perception and another person's reality?

Seems like this was once the discussion of a philosophy class I took in college -- but to be honest, I can't remember.

Here's what I can remember: to pick the kids up on time, to make sure the dog is fed and to take care of teachers' gifts. I can remember that my son likes extra cheese on his nachos but no cheese on this tacos. I can remember that my daughter likes potstickers, but only if they're panfried, not steamed. I remember what it felt like to become a mom. And I remember that being a mom is the most important job I could ever have.

And about that prom night cheesecake -- it may have been great. Maybe my memory was tarnished, though, by this recipe, which I acquired a few years later and is truly the best cheesecake ever -- dense, creamy, sweet and slightly tart. (And I'm pretty certain about that, as I've "refreshed" my memory many times in the 20 years I've been making it.)

David's Mom's Cheesecake
Crust

1 cup graham cracker crumbs

1/4 cup melted butter

1/4 cup sugar

Filling

2, 8-ounce packages of cream cheese, at room temperature

3 eggs

1/2 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

Topping

2 cups sour cream

1/4 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 375. Mix crust ingredients together (will be crumbly) and press into a 9" springform pan.

For filling, beat cream cheese until fluffy. Gradually add sugar. Beat in eggs, one at a time. Finally, stir in vanilla. Pour filling into crust. Back 20 minutes (no longer) and remove from oven. Cool 15 minutes.

While cheesecake is cooling, increase oven temperature to 475. Mix topping ingredients together and carefully spread on cheesecake. Return to oven and bake and additional 10 minutes.

Cool completely, and then, refrigerate before serving. If you must top with something, sliced fresh kiwi is ideal.

Talking 'Bout My Generation

To the dismay of my 14-year-old-son, it turns out that Facebook is chockfull of 40-something moms.  Bummer.  For him.  The way I see it, FB was practically  invented for us.

Think about it.  Kids FB to communicate with the very same people they see all day long.  Adults, on the other hand, FB to keep up with scarcely seen friends, co-workers, former neighbors, old classmates, and your 6th grade boyfriend from Harborview Middle School, who along with you, was named "Most Likely To Succeed."  Hah.  Go ahead and toss that crystal ball in the trash.  But back to the story at hand.

As much as I embrace the idea of letter-writing, if my out-of-town family ever got a handwritten note from me, hand-delivered by the US Postal Service, they'd understandably expect the worst -- either I was communicating from beyond the grave or sending a request for ongoing financial support.  Neither bodes well for me.  Facebook is a far better means of reaching out and touching them -- if not as lucrative.

Facebook isn't the only takeover target for us acquisitive middle-aged moms.  Years ago, our kids claimed Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix and Bruce Springsteen, so I have no qualms about embracing Coldplay, Maroon 5 and Five For Fighting.  And you know, I don't think (lead singers) Chris Martin or Adam Levine mind one bit.  Who do you suppose can better afford their concert tickets -- me or my babysitting kids?  True, as childcare providers, the kids earn ridiculous money, but it's an easy win for me.  They can't drive.

And how about blue jeans?  I truly felt for dear Jessica Simpson when she wore those absurd high-waisted jeans.  Anyone from the Fort Johnson High School graduating class of 1980 could have told her that even the bendiest pipecleaner of a girl would find those things unflattering, uncomfortable and just plain stupid-looking. Why do you suppose we moms practically stampeded to buy the low-rider jeans of today's generation?  We couldn't wear our maternity jeans (with their comfy, stretchy, jersey front panels) forever.  Low-rider jeans are the new "mom" jeans.  Leave those silly high-waisted things to the young and ahem, visually- or at least, fashion-impaired.

Sure, the younger generation fights back.  I hear that there's a renewed interest in some of the more budget-minded food we ate growing up.  They can have it.  But I've got to ask, why resort to canned cream of mushroom soup, when you can make a version of tuna and noodles that could be voted most likely to succeed any night of the week?

Not Your Mama's Tuna and Noodles

3/4 pound angel hair pasta, broken into 3" - 4" pieces and cooked al dente

1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil (maybe more)

1/2 onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced fine

2 cans tuna, packed in oil (not drained)

1 small can black olives, drained and sliced

2 tablespoons capers, drained

1 lemon, juiced and zested

red pepper flakes

handful of parsley, minced

salt and pepper

1/2 - 1 cup of chicken broth

After noodles have cooked, drain well.  Heat olive oil in hot pan, saute chopped onion until soft and stir in garlic until fragrant.  When onion and garlic are soft, stir in tuna (undrained) olives, capers and lemon zest.  Heat through, and gently stir in hot, drained pasta.  Season with red pepper flakes, parsley, salt and pepper.  Stir in reserved lemon juice, and enough chicken broth so that pasta is loose.  Serve carefully, making sure everyone gets plenty of the "good stuff" left at the bottom of the pan.