New Year's Traditions: Dick Clark, Hoppin' John And A Plunging Pickle

I'm a fan of holiday traditions.

I always watch Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve – although I’m not entirely averse to channel-surfing now that I recognize so few of the featured performers. (Sorry, Nicki Mirage, er, Bling-Blaj, um, Minaj. Does your mother know you left the house wearing that outfit?)

I always have Hoppin’ John (for luck), collards (for money) and ham for New Year’s dinner.

I always bet on the bowl games. (However, given that I make my picks based on teams in towns I’d to visit, or teams at schools I wish my kids would attend, or teams wearing any color other than orange – take that, Clemson -- I can’t claim much success. Although all that would change if I just ate enough collards.)

Indeed, I’m so bound to holiday traditions that the kids often use it against me.

     You never make us listen to Christmas music until after Thanksgiving!
     You always let us open at least one gift on Christmas Eve!
     You can’t go to bed early! We have to go to the 10:30 p.m. service – it’s tradition!
     But we always have sausage bread Christmas morning!

With 49 years of tradition behind me, it’s hard to consider embracing another, but for “The Pickle Drop,” I just might. That’s right, “The Pickle Drop.”

Don’t know how I hadn’t heard about this before, but it turns out that for the past 13 years, Mt. Olive, North Carolina has hosted the New Year’s Eve Pickle Drop at the corner of, no kidding, Cucumber and Vine. Partygoers feast on hot chocolate and pickles (provided by the Mt. Olive Pickle Company, natch), before watching the lighted, three-foot pickle descend a flagpole. Again, just to be clear, no kidding.

And did I mention that big event occurs at 7 p.m.? That’s right. Seven-oh-clock in the evening, which means that, provided you don't over-indulge in pickles, you get a decent-night’s sleep -- on New Year's Eve.  I’m thinking Mt. Olivians are my kind of crowd.

Maybe my rigid, tradition-based mind could be a bit more flexible. In fact, I’m thinking I’ll add one more item to my New Year’s menu – this comforting corn chowder, crusted with bacon crumbles. But no pickles. At least, not until next year.

Jalapeno-Lime Corn Chowder

Four slices bacon, chopped

1 medium Vidalia onion, chopped
1 small jalapeno pepper, seeded and ribbed, minced
1 large clove garlic, minced

3 tablespoons flour

 
1 large baking potato, peeled and cubed
1 quart chicken stock
Juice of ½ lime
Corn cut from three cobs (or one 10-ounce frozen package)

1 cup heavy cream
salt
pepper

In a large, heavy, lidded skillet, sauté bacon over medium-low heat until crispy.   Remove browned bacon bits, to be used as a garnish later.  In remaining bacon grease, sauté onion until translucent, stir in jalapeno and garlic.  When vegetables are tender and fragrant, sprinkle with flour.  Continue stirring until flour is well-combined and slightly browned.  Stir in chicken broth, potato, lime juice and corn.  Bring to boil, then, reduce heat to low, and simmer, lidded until potato is very tender -- about 20 minutes.  Stir in cream, season to taste and serve hot, garnished with reserved bacon bits.

A Snow Day By Any Other Name -- A Very Good Day.

Today was a good day.

I’m not normally a fan of “snow days.” Yes, I get the whole "winter wonderland" thing.  And as a born and bred South Carolinian, I know full well how uncommon snow days are in the South.  Here in Charlotte, we only get snow once or twice a year.  I'll concede that it is pretty, and even "magical."  And the kids have a blast.

They know all kinds of tricks to “make” it snow. Wear your pajamas backwards. Wear your pajamas inside out. Sleep with a (silver) spoon under your pillow. Flush ice cubes down the toilet. However, through the years, even as they’ve plotted, schemed and followed the intricacies of these “rules,” I’ve tried to summon counter-curses, because, as a mom, I know the mess that Old Man Winter brings.

I cringe as the first few flakes flutter down.  Yes, they're charming, but I know what's really coming. Piles of laundry. Slushy, muddy floors. Gloves, scarves, hats and boots hung and strung around the kitchen to “dry out.” A clammy pile of “et cetera,” meaning, “I didn’t know what else to do with it, Mom, so I just left it there on the floor for you to clean up.” Cold, wet dog. And the inevitable cold, wet dog smell.

Still, as we racked up an impressive 4-5 inches here in Charlotte today, I’ve got to admit: This was a good day.

I cooked and cooked and cooked. Potato Soup. Lentil Soup with Spinach. Ginger Spice Cookies. And the piecè de resistance? “Brinner.” Breakfast for dinner. Which included “Waffles of Insane Greatness,” the very first recipe I ever posted on Feminine Wiles.

The best part, though, was that the kids were involved. No. Not in the soup-making. That, indeed, would be “insane.” Nope. They had their own culinary adventures. Son made tiny grilled cheese sandwiches using sliced bagettes and slivers of Gruyere cheese. Darling Daughter and friend made Snow Cream. And then they made Snow Cream. And -- wait for it -- more Snow Cream. Et cetera.

The first version followed a Paula Deene recipe calling for sweetened condensed milk. Not a winner, according to the palates of discerning 8th graders. The second version went over better – a more traditional “vanilla” version. Then the gloves came off. Peppermint. Grape jelly. (Shudder.)  And Son made Snow Coke, with two secret ingredients that you probably could guess.

Yep.  Today was a good day.  A very good day.  Now back to laundry.  And snow shoveling.  And wearing our pajamas the right way.

Peppermint Snow Cream

1 large bowl of clean snow

1 cup of sugar

1/2 teaspoon peppermint extract

About two cups of milk

Stir sugar and peppermint extract into snow.  Splash in about a cup of milk.  Continue stirring.  Add more milk as needed, to make a spoonable consistency.  Add a drop or two of red food coloring, if desired.  Devour.  Complain about how cold you are.  Do it all over again.

Bacon Bloody Marys? We Have To -- It's Tradition.

A few days ago, Darling Daughter opined, “Thanksgiving is my favorite.”

“It’s not the turkey so much,” she continued, “It’s all the other stuff.  You know. The oyster roast at Grandpa’s and the orange juice at MaMama’s. The Christmas music you make us listen to.  All those decorations in Grandpa’s yard, and all those ice cream sandwiches in MaMama’s freezer.  And you know we’ll go to the Pig* at least three times.  And maybe even Bi-Lo.  Ooooooh.  And Krispy Kreme.”

Every family has traditions.  These, I guess, are ours.  Nothing extraordinary.  Nothing to do with turkeys or stuffing or football or Plymouth Rock.  Just us.  Just tradition.

We've all got 'em.  For me, Thanksgiving wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without Black Friday shopping with my sister, where our first doorbuster is predictably Starbucks. 

It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without my Gingered Orange Cranberry Sauce.  My dad’s way-too-perfect holiday display.  My mom’s kind-beyond-reality bathroom scales.  And at some point, Bacon Bloody Marys.

At this time of year, traditions dictate what we eat, what we wear, where we go, what we do.

Traditions can change, of course.  When I was in college, nachos and bloody marys at my Dad’s were an essential part of Christmas morning. Nowadays, my own kids awaken to the aroma of Sausage Bread – although tradition seemingly mandates that they each eat only a few crumbs.  A number of years back, we were also subjected to the “one-gift-at-a-time” unwrapping tradition, which I’m here to tell you, does not, in fact, make a child pause and appreciate what others are receiving, but instead, makes him or her count the very days to his or her next birthday.

And although traditions can change, I’m old enough to know that you can’t force the change.  Surely mine isn’t the only family that’s tried – unsuccessfully -- to enforce the “Let’s all write down what we’re thankful for” bit? 

We don’t choose tradition.  It chooses us.  Which is why, it would seem, Bi-Lo is part of DD’s tradition.

A huge part of my own holiday tradition is cooking.  I began baking breads (banana, pumpkin, zucchini) a few weeks back.  Spiced pecans and Crispix mix and chocolate toffee crackers will soon be spilling out of the pantry.

And since overnight company is also part of the Chez Wiles holiday tradition, I’ll also be making this comforting, familiar Cheese Grits and Sausage casserole, to serve with biscuits and scrambled eggs.

Of course, if tradition holds true, one of the kids will say they’d rather have Frosted Flakes.

Behold – the birth of yet another tradition.

* Piggly Wiggly, a Lowcountry grocery store chain. and America's first true self-service grocery store.

Cheese Grits and Sausage

I make this breakfast side dish during the holidays and when we have company, because it's easily assembled the night before. 

4 cups water
1 cup quick (not instant) grits
3 cups (12 ounces) grated sharp cheddar cheese, divided
1/4 cup milk
2 T butter
2 t Worcestershire sauce
1/2 teaspoon Tabasco sauce
2 eggs, beaten
1 lb. breakfast sausage, cooked and crumbled (I prefer Neese's)

Bring water to a boil in large saucepan. Add grits, bring to a boil and cook 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Remove from heat and add 2 cups grated cheese, milk, butter, Worcestershire, eggs and Tabasco. Spoon half the mixture into a greased 9 x 13 inch baking dish. Top with crumbled sausage. Spoon remaining grits over sausage. Sprinkle with remaining cheese.  Cover with aluminum foil and chill overnight (or at least 8 hours).

In the morning, remove from refrigerator and allow to stand 30 minutes, before baking, covered at 350 degrees for 40 minutes. Remove foil and bake an additional 10 minutes, or until molten hot all the way through.

Good with scrambled eggs and biscuits.  Or instead of Frosted Flakes.

I Love To Write. And Cook. And Write.

Son was incredulous right from the start.

When I began writing Feminine Wiles – and at that point, it was more of a daily addiction than a habit – Son asked, without a hint of sarcasm, “Do you get money for this?”

Fair enough. I was a newly divorced, stay-at-home mom. Extra cash would’ve had encountered no speed bumps traversing our welcome mat. I think, though, what Son was asking was, “Why write when you have no teachers, no deadlines and no nosy parent incessantly asking, ‘Is your paper done? Is your paper done?’”

Fair enough. Still, Feminine Wiles served a purpose for me. Any PSYCH-101 student would correctly recognize that writing was an outlet. I was struggling to identify myself and re-define my family. Just as important, writing a blog was a sneaky way to let my family know that I was, indeed, OK. True, I just wasn’t so good about speaking to them. Still, I was “writing” to them.

Look. I love my family. Nevertheless, I’ve never been one to share my inner-psyche workings. And navigating the divorce sucked away every random bit of my MC-squared. It took everything I could muster to take care of Son and Darling Daughter and me. I had no energy left to bear the kindness of strangers – much less that of family. Feminine Wiles was a way to assure my family that I was, indeed, “OK.”

Every now and again, I’d get a bit of recognition– a kind comment on my blog, a mention in the newspaper, some new subscribers. And again, Son have to ask, “Are you getting paid for this now?”

Nope. Still not. I’ve worked through the divorce. I’ve re-defined my family. I’m back to talking to my family (although not as often as I should). Turns out I just like to write. And I’m not alone.

Yesterday was “I Love To Write” Day. No kidding.  And hoo boy, I do love to write. I love to write emails on behalf of clients. I love to write text messages to my kids. I love to write Feminine Wiles. I even like writing recipes. The second edition of Feminine Wiles: The Cookbook is sufficient evidence of that. Still, I’m always somewhat inhibited at the start.

Take this recipe for Herbed Cream Cheese. I’ve made it for years. Loved it for years. Shared it for years. But even now, as I key it in, I wonder: Is it clear? Does it sound overwhelming? Is it sufficiently descriptive?  Is it easy to follow?

And I hear Son asking, “Do you get paid for this?”

I guess, in a way, the answer is, “Absolutely.”

Just not in dollars.

Herbed Cream Cheese (Mock Boursin)
I make quarts of this every holiday season, because it keeps so well and is always so welcomed. One year, I even packed it in crocks and gave it out as gifts with small serving knives and baguettes. I don’t know that a holiday gift has ever been so well-received! 

1 lb. cream cheese, room temperature
1/2 lb. unsalted butter, room temperature
1 teaspoon dried oregano

1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon each dried basil, marjoram, dillweed and thyme
1/4 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper and ground cayenne pepper
2 large cloves of garlic, minced or grated

Beat together all ingredients until well combined. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Bring to room temperature before serving with sliced bread or crackers. (Keeps well – a week or longer!)

The Time Is Right For Bacon and Egg Salad Sandwiches.

We are not a sandwich family.

While there’s no denying the convenience of eating right out of one’s hand (all hail the Earl of Sandwich), and while I do love me some Subway (ham and swiss on wheat with lettuce, banana peppers, black olives, pickles and mustard), I don’t know that I’ve ever  -- ever, ever, ever, -- set out to make a sandwich just for myself.  In fact, as I look over the 100+ recipes in Feminine Wiles, there’s only one sandwich recipe – for tuna salad (which is very, very good, but I'd just as soon eat with a fork).

The kids, I suspect, feel the same way about sandwiches.  Yes, I pack their lunches every day, but unless I insist on variety, it’s always the same:  peanut butter.  Not peanut butter and jelly (the classic).  Not peanut butter and banana (a Southern treat).  Not peanut butter and honey (my brother’s childhood favorite).  Not peanut butter and bacon (although knowing their fondness for bacon, that one’s a mystery). 

Just peanut butter.

However, knowing Son and Darling Daughter as I do, I’m betting many of those peanut butter sandwiches, lovingly made before they board the bus at 7:30 a.m., never make it past anyone’s lips.  At least not Son’s and Darling Daughter’s.  I know they’re not sandwich-eaters.  Likewise, I know what else is tucked in those lunch bags.  Fruit.  Oreos.  Pringles.  The occasional snack bag of M&Ms.  I’m just saying.

On Easter, though, I can’t help but think of sandwiches.  Egg salad sandwiches.  Which, as noted, go against everything I believe in. 

  

My mom’s husband insists that, if pimento cheese sandwiches and egg salad sandwiches (on white bread) were not served at your wedding reception, you are not, in fact, really married.  And before you even ask, yes -- both were on my wedding buffet 25 years ago.  Look, I’m not saying it’s guaranteed.  But it couldn’t hurt.

Still, I don’t like cold hard-boiled eggs – and have a particular suspicion for those that are garishly colored and retrieved during a “hunt.”  I can't abide the texture of boiled egg whites – there’s something decidedly “un-foodlike” about them.  I don’t trust mayonnaise, and in most cases, distrust people who do.  And didn't I mention?  I’m not a sandwich kind of girl.

But it’s Easter.  So I’m eating egg salad.  Carefully.

My own recipe -- very little mayonnaise, a little zip of whole grain mustard or horseradish, very finely chopped whites, fresh dill while I've got it, and just to mix it up -- bacon -- because as everybody knows, bacon makes everything better.  (Bacon Bloody Mary, anyone?)

And yes, if I ever re-married, you can bet there would be egg salad sandwiches.  Or, at least, egg salad on crackers.

Happy Easter, folks!

Bacon and Egg Salad Sandwiches

6 eggs

3-4 tablespoons mayonnaise

1 teaspoon (or more) whole grain Dijon mustard

¼ teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon fresh dill, minced (optional)

3 strips bacon, fried until very crisp and chopped fine

fresh ground black pepper (lots)

Cook eggs.  Put eggs in pot and cover with cold water.  Bring to a boil.  Once boiling, reduce heat to a simmer and cook for five minutes.  Then, turn off heat, put lid on pot, and let rest for five additional minutes.  Drain and fill pan with cool water.  When eggs are somewhat cool, remove from pan and peel.  Cut peeled eggs in half and remove yolks to a medium-sized mixing bowl.  Finely chop egg whites.  Set aside.  Using a fork, mash the egg yolks, gradually stirring in mayonnaise, one tablespoon at a time.  Consistency should be very smooth.  Stir in salt, pepper, dill and bacon.  Finally, stir in egg whites.  Serve, chilled on toasted wheat bread or crackers, garnishing with additional dill and bacon, if desired.

Making Lists, And Then, Reindeer Cookies.

It was inevitable, I suppose.

I can’t find …

I seem to have misplaced …

I just can’t put my hands on …

Dagnabbit.  I lost a list.

I am an inveterate list-maker.  At this time of year, I even keep a list of my lists, including:

•  Wish lists from Snarky Son and Darling Daughter, itemizing their ideas for gifts I purchased months before they made their lists; gifts I’m not giving, but may purchase on behalf of stymied (I did not say “feckless”) family members; gifts they probably don’t want but I’m giving them anyway; and gifts I wouldn’t give even if they came with a bucket of water and my hair was on fire.  Doesn’t hurt to ask, though.

•  List of things to make/bake/mix/ladle/freeze, including the usual holiday sweets like the saltine-based Chocolate Toffee Treats, the semi-homemade Sausage Bread we have to have but never actually eat while tearing into gifts Christmas Day, and, inevitably, something ridiculous, like Julia Child’s Boeuf Bourguignon, which I have no business attempting under the best of circumstances, much less during the time of year when a bowl of cereal is considered a fairly complete dinner Chez Wiles.

•  Gifts to wrap/deliver/mail, including the Feminine Wiles cookbooks I had made up which are absurdly priced, but I am  distributing as if they were Belk department store perfume samples.

•  The always outdated grocery list.  Despite constant updates and the best efforts of SS and DD, who know that, if you don’t write it down, it won’t go in the cart, I’m now visiting our neighborhood Harris Teeter at least twice a day.  On no fewer than half of these visits, I’ll be distracted by something like those darling bags of crushed peppermint (perfect for Chocolate Toffee Treats!) or tiny cinnamon chips and will completely forget that milk, milk, MILK is the one item I’m supposed to buy.

•  A Christmas card list.  What am I thinking?  For the previous two years, during my separation and divorce, I didn’t address a single card.  Even my parents have abandoned all hope of finding anything in their mailboxes bearing my return address.  But if good intentions count for anything, I do have a list.  Check.

•  The daily “To Do” list.  This one includes such important items as when to pick up my various carpools, and more importantly, where.  It also includes “clean out the fridge,” which seriously, is something I have to do at the beginning of any holiday season.  For me, a clean fridge equals a clean mind.  Or a clean slate.  Or at the very least, a place to put the milk.  If I remember to buy it.

Santa help me, because the List goes on and on, including everything but the kitchen sink -- and, regretfully, the misplaced Shared List I made with Little Sis which included such mundane things as parent gifts I said I'd buy.

Umm.  Sorry, Sis?

Yep.  Time to simplify.    I can’t really eliminate any of the items on the lists.  They’re important to me.  They’re important to the kids.  They’re part of our holiday tradition.

What I can do, though, is lighten up.  I don’t have to wrap every cookbook with hand-painted paper.  A bow-tied ribbon (a really lovely one, of course) is plenty.  An e-mailed Christmas letter or card will get the job done.  And although I’m desperate to try the Salted Chocolate Covered Caramel Cookies described in A Good Appetite,  I may not get to them before DD’s cookie swap this weekend.  Instead, these adorable three-ingredient Reindeer Cookies, made with Pillsbury dough will be plenty good enough.

But first, has anyone seen that list?  I think it was on graph paper.  Three-hole punched.  And have you looked inside my fridge?  Nice.

Reindeer Cookies

1 package Pillsbury Gingerbread refrigerated dough

Pretzels (for antlers)

Red and green M&Ms

Preheat oven to 350.  Line cookie sheets with parchment paper.  (Parchment paper, I think, is the key to any successful cookie.)  Using a serrated knife, slice dough into ¼-inch discs, placing on parchment paper 3-4 inches apart.  Know, using your thumb and forefinger, squeeze each disc into a kind of hourglass shape.  Press two pretzels into the top of each cookie, as antlers.  Add two green M&M candies into the top half of the hourglass, as eyes.  Press a red M&M candy into the bottom half, as a nose.  Bake about 8 minutes, or until dough puffs up and loses that “shiny” look.  Let cool and remove to racks.  There, that was easy.  Check it off the list.

Where Would We Be Without God, Spiderman Underwear and Bacon Bloody Marys?

Some 12 years ago, when Snarky Son (SS) was merely Sweet Son, his preschool class made a Thanksgiving “tree.”  Each child came home clutching a six-inch green felt leaf and was given the assignment of decorating it with a picture of something for which the child felt grateful.  SS didn’t hesitate.  His thankfulness was both sincere and well-placed.  For God.  And Spiderman underpants. 

I think – and laugh – about that every November.  Make no mistake, there are many blessings in my life and I am thankful beyond words for my family and friends, my health and happiness, my faith and freedom, and my country and the honorable men and women who make it a safe home for me and mine.  I can’t even begin to express my gratitude for these life-altering blessings, despite the many times our family has attempted the “write down what you’re thankful for” game at Thanksgiving dinner.

Even so, at this time of year, I can’t help but think of the other blessings in my life, including:

•  My mother and the scales in her guest bathroom.  Mom’s scales are consistently set back about five pounds.  What a gift to any guest silly enough to step on before a holiday meal.  These scales are practically a signed permission slip to head back to the buffet for more mashed potatoes and gravy.  Or just gravy.  And maybe some macaroni and cheese.  For this, I am grateful.

•  Folly River oysters.  OMG.  Salty.  Succulent.  Slurp-worthy.  Dang.  Does anyone know how to clean drool off a keyboard?  For that, I would also be grateful.

•  Christmas music.  For 47 years now, I’ve practically made a career of mangling lyrics.  It was 25 years before I realized that, in Dream On, Steven Tyler of Aerosmith was not crooning “sing women,” but instead “sing with me."  And it turns out that Jimmy Buffett stepped on a poptop in Margaritaville.  Not a Poptart.  Christmas music, mercifully, inundates our eardrums 24/7 for some 45-60 consecutive days of the year.  We begin chanting it before we begin kindergarten.  And we never have to learn new songs or lyrics.  It’s the same.  Every.  Single.  Year.  Perfect for a lyric-impaired-learner (LPL) like me.  For this, I am grateful.

•  Turkey roasted in a brown paper bag.  For details, see “Folly River oysters” above.

•  Krispy Kreme doughnuts.  But I digress.

•  Cell phones.  The only reason this might not make my children’s top five list is because I’m constantly marveling at the ways I can use my cell phone and pointing out to the kids that “back in the day” (not when dinosaurs roamed the earth, but perhaps, sabertoothed tigers), we didn’t even have cordless phones.  We were tethered to the wall – usually in the most popular room in the house – which made those tearful “I know, but WHY are you breaking up with me?” calls all the more painful.  Nowadays, I don’t know how to complete a shopping trip without someone calling me to ask, “Are you still at the store?  Well, can you go back and get some whole cloves/limeade/shoe insole inserts?”  For technology, I am grateful.

•  Food.  I know, it sounds as if I’m about to revisit that whole oyster, turkey, doughnut thing, but my point here is different.  It’s variety I’m talking about.  I still marvel over the fact that there are now some three dozen options in my local Harris Teeter for salad greens.  And you no longer have to purchase parsley in dessicated little flakes, fluttering in a jar suitable for a urine sample.  Fresh is available year-round.  And does anyone else remember the days when there were three types of peas, and all were canned?  Green Giant.  Le Sueur.  And the tragically labeled Generic.

Yep.  I’m plenty grateful.  And grateful to have so many things to be grateful for.  Like this crazy good Bacon Bloody Mary.  Not as giggle-worthy as Spiderman underwear, perhaps, but still, I am grateful.

Bacon Bloody Mary
Note that you have to begin this a couple of weeks in advance – but it’s worth it!  Would make a great holiday hostess gift, too.

Pepper Bacon Vodka
4 cups good quality vodka
1 teaspoon peppercorns
12 strips of bacon, cooked ‘til crisp and drained
1/4 teaspoon Liquid Smoke

Combine all ingredients in a glass pitcher.  Cover and keep in a dark, cool place, allowing it to steep for two to four weeks.  Strain through cheesecloth (or a coffee filter) before serving.  (Discard peppercorns and bacon.)

Bloody Mary Mix
46-ounce bottle V8 juice, chilled
2 cups Pepper Bacon Vodka
Juice of six limes
¼ cup prepared horseradish
2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
½ teaspoon celery seeds

Garnish
Crisp strips of bacon
Lime wedges
Celery sticks

Combine all ingredients in a large pitcher.  Stir well, and serve over ice, garnishing with bacon, etc.

The Day Before The Night Before Thanksgiving, And We’re All A Little Bit Nuts

For our family, no holiday is as draped in tradition as Thanksgiving.

Most obvious, there’s the food – eagerly anticipated and unfailingly abundant.  Then, there are the activities:  truly, there’s an unsettling sense that the earth might violently split open and gulp us down whole if we didn’t shuck oysters at Dad's on Wednesday, or whine about driving through the Festival of Lights after the Thursday feast, or slip out way before dawn to shop with Super Sis on Black Friday. 

There’s the music, too.  From this moment through December 25, only holiday music (and variations thereof, including, but not limited to, anything that’s ever been heard on a Peanuts television show) will blare in my car.  And should Darling Daughter and Snarky Son complain, (as they will even before their seatbelts are buckled), I’ll also sing.  Loudly.  Enthusiastically.  Off-key.  With no respect for actual lyrics.

We are also proud defenders of the “I forgot my toothbrush” tradition – which usually isn’t even acknowledged until a good 48 hours after we hit I-77.  There’s a variation of this at Thanksgiving dinner as well.  Just after we’ve said the blessing and everyone has been served, Mom will announce, “I forgot the rolls/salad/cranberry sauce.”  And we'll all be thinking the same thing: “For the love of Pete.  I don’t want any rolls/salad/cranberry sauce.  But lookey there, I can make extra space if I just shove this marshmallowed sweet potato casserole on top of that molded lime gelatin salad.”

All of this, of course, follows the decades-old tradition of pulling the turkey from the fridge and remarking, with great surprise, “Hmmph.  This turkey is still frozen!”  Come on.  I don’t care what it says on the label --  no self-respecting turkey can thaw after two nights in a refrigerator.  Sadly for our family, we can only remember that fact once a year -- Thanksgiving Day -- and no sooner.

Throughout the weekend, our family will also remain entrenched in the fine tradition of picking up other people’s full drinks and claiming them as our own.  Until, of course, that drink is sucked down below the ice line (or, if a beer, below the coozie line), at which time it’s necessary to subtly abandon that drink and claim someone else’s.  I actually tried to “remedy” this tradition one year, by handpainting our names on a set of glasses.  Didn’t work.  The glasses were pretty, though.

The best Thanksgiving tradition of all, though, is the stories.

I'm not certain, but in the TV shows I’ve seen, other families don’t engage in the full-on, get-down-and-dirty tattletaling we revel in.

There’s nothing like those “remember the time?” dinner stories that leave your face streaked with tears, your hands clutching your freshly fattened sides, and your eyes darting wildly about to make sure the kids didn’t catch the details and innuendoes.  Most of the stories are about us growing up, but there are gracious plenty about the adults we knew back in the 70s, too.  The way we see it is, “Hey, if you don’t want us to talk about you, then you ought to drag yourself to Thanksgiving.”

Nah.  That’s a lie.  Everyone is fair game whether they're here or not.  But if you were here, at least you could defend yourself.  Or distract everyone with a story about someone else.  (And no, I’d rather not hear yet another re-telling of the night the bridge was stuck and the parents couldn't get home after work and we teenagers were left to our own devices.  I was young, OK?  And stupid.)

I guess we’re all kind of nuts.  But it’s not just the time of year.  It’s just us.  And oddly enough, we all look forward to it.  Just like these Sugar and Spiced Pecans.

Here’s to family.  And traditions -- even those that are a little bit nuts.

Sugar and Spiced Pecans

2 egg whites

1 tablespoon water

1 teaspoon salt

2 cups sugar

4 teaspoons cinnamon

2 teaspoons nutmeg

1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon ground cayenne

2 pounds pecan halves

Beat egg whites, water and salt until frothy, but not stiff.  Stir in sugar and spices.  Add pecans and mix until all nuts are coated.

Spread on cookie sheets sprayed with nonstick spray. Bake in a 225 degree oven for one hour or until dry, stirring every 15 minutes.  Separate nuts and let cool.  Store in resealable freezer bags.  Can be made 3-4 days in advance.

It's Never Too Early To Prepare -- Gingered Orange Cranberry Sauce

Twenty-four years ago, in the weeks before I was married, I had nightmares.

It's typical, I know, for brides-to-be to envision being abandoned at the alter, or being betrayed by a bridemaid, or being propped up at the altar in something other than -- or rather, less than -- their wedding gown.  (Funny how none of us foresee our eventual divorce.  Hmm.)

My scary dream, on the other hand, was that my mom arrived to the church late.  Silly, right?  But I justify the worry as significant because there was even a song about it.  Remember?  "Get Me To The Church On Time"?

Anyone who knows me knows I like to be prepared.  I plan ahead.  I make lists.  I arrive on time  And in fairness, so does my mom.  Well, everything except that "on time" bit.  (I love you, Mommy!)  Nearly 30 years after their divorce, Dad still torments Mom about her, um, "flexibility" when it comes to schedules.  But really, we don't want to go down that path now ...

You should see the black-speckled composition book Mom gave me a few years after the wedding, crammed with Scotch-taped scraps of paper and Post-It notes itemizing all my wedding details -- catering, flowers, and clothing selections.  Budgets.  Guest lists.  Looking back, I'm surprised it didn't contain a honeymoon packing list.  Perhaps both of us had the good sense to ix-nay that one.

Hmmph.  Not hard to see where I acquired the "need to be ready" gene, right?  Which is why this time of year makes my skin want to crawl right off my body and into a solitary confinement cell.  I know full well what the coming weeks hold.  Lists wouldn't begin to meet my current cravings.  I'm beyond lists now.  I want to check things off those lists.  I don't want to plan.  I want to do.

I want to shop.  I want to procure.  I want to stash.

I want to wrap.  I want to write.  I want to address.

I want to slice.  I want to dice.  I want to cook.

Problem with cooking, though, is that there are still days to go before Thanksgiving.  And even more in the way of me and Christmas.  I've already stashed some Sausage Bread in the freezer, with six loaves of Pumpkin Bread companions.  The Cheese Wafer dough is in the fridge.  Gingered Cranberry Orange Sauce is next.

I love homemade cranberry sauce.  It's super simple to make and keeps for at least a week (maybe two).  This version is particularly flavorful.  Where the canned stuff may seem a little, ahem, peculiar to picky eaters, this version is fresh and tart and flavorful -- and nightmare-free.

Gingered Orange Cranberry Sauce
1 cup water
1 cup sugar
1 seedless navel orange, cut in fine dice
2 teaspoons fresh grated ginger
2 whole cloves
2 whole allspice
2 peppercorns
1 12-ounce bag fresh cranberries

In medium saucepan, bring water, sugar, ginger and orange to a boil.  Reduce to simmer.  Put spices in a teaball or small cheesecloth bag and immerse in mixture. Stir in cranberries.  Simmer 15-20 minutes until thickened.  Remove spices, allow to cool to room temperature, and then, refrigerate.

'Tis The Season For Panic -- And For Baking

Right now, our front sidewalk appears to have been booby-trapped by Wile E. Coyote (Supergenius), except that instead of being lined with marbles fresh from The Acme Company, our sidewalk -- weed-whacked-edge-to-weed-whacked-edge – is encrusted with acorns.  Thousands and thousands of acorns.  Which, actually, with their needle-tipped ends, are more hazardous than marbles.  Even steelies.

This sidewalk is hardly a paved path.  It’s an ankle sprain waiting for crutches and the EMS to arrive.  Followed immediately thereafter by a personal injury lawyer.

Our neighborhood squirrels are frenzied – near panic – trying to harvest and store the bountiful harvest before it’s crushed beneath villainous car tires and Mike the Mailman’s heels.  Or worse, collected as evidence in the aforementioned lawsuit.

I’m with the squirrels.  The holiday season is upon us, and I’ve got my own frenzy -- making lists and stashing them in my purse, my room, the desk drawer, on the computer, the iPhone, and the backs of Harris Teeter receipts.  I’ve also begun stashing gifts, and in the process, have even found a few “lost” gifts from Christmases past.  (As if someone in the household could still fit in size “00” jeans.  Sigh.)

I’ve also, joyfully, begun holiday cooking.  Next week will be filled with pies – pecan, pumpkin, the dreaded mincemeat, the Best Cheesecake Ever – and the surprisingly irresistible Gingered Orange Cranberry Sauce.  This week, though, is devoted to things that can be prepared in advance, the impossible-to-eat-just-one Cheddar-Blue Cheese Wafers, cranberry-spiked Pumpkin Bread, Super Savory Crispix Mix, and the inadequately named and homely-sounding Sausage Bread.

Sausage Bread requires only three ingredients and is a holiday necessity Chez Wiles.  Not only is it the mandatory breakfast for both Thanksgiving and Christmas mornings, it makes a terrific tailgating treat, a welcomed hostess gift and is easily prepared in advance and frozen for travel.

Not quite, perhaps, as “genius” as Wile E. Coyote, but pretty darn close.  And to this point, no lawsuits either.

Sausage Bread

1 pkg (three loaves) frozen white bread dough (I use Bridgford)

2 lbs. good quality bulk sausage (I use either Fresh Market’s or Neese’s)

1 lb. grated Cheddar-Montery Jack blend

1 onion, diced, sautéed (optional)

1 bell pepper (any color) diced, sautéed (optional)

flour

mustard

Thaw dough and allow to come to room temperature.

Brown sausage in large skillet, breaking into small bits.  Stir in onion and bell pepper, if using.  Drain well in a colander.

Working with one loaf at a time, on a well-floured pastry board, roll and stretch dough out into a rectangle, measuring (very roughly) 9” x 14”.  (Note:  If dough is too chilled, it will not stretch sufficiently.)  Scatter 1/3 of sausage over dough.  Sprinkle with 1/3 (1 1/3 cups) cheese. 

Starting along long edge, gently roll up dough, tucking in sausage and cheese as you go.  This is a sloppy and imperfect process.  The dough will is very forgiving and will stretch, which is a good thing.  Just try not to tear it.

Once you’ve rolled up the entire loaf, jelly-roll style, use your finger to dampen the entire long edge with water, which will help “glue” the dough to itself.

At this point, I either cut the loaf in half, lengthwise, to form two smaller loaves, tugging the dough at either end and using water to “glue” it closed, OR, I form the entire long loaf into a circle, tucking one end into the other.  (The round loaf makes a lovely presentation as a gift.)

Repeat with remaining loaves, moving each to a well greased baking sheet.  Then, allow loaves to rise, until overall size increases by about 50%.  Depending on the temperature in your home, this may take 2-3 hours.

Once risen, bake in a 350 oven for 30-45 minutes, until well browned and crusty.  Remove from oven and cool on racks.  Serve warm with mustard, or allow to cool completely and freeze until needed.

The Key To A Well-Stocked Kitchen and Perfect Mashed Potatoes.

I am not a pack rat.

My local Salvation Army could very well attest to that fact.   Indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if they developed a frequent donor program in my honor, complete with key tags, bumper stickers and punch cards  (“After your sixth donation, your seventh one is, um, welcome?”)

I’m not unsentimental, but where some people live by The Golden Rule and others are guided by The Serenity Prayer, the inspirational, uplifting words I live by are, If you haven’t worn it or used it in the past two years, lose it.  I have no problem disposing of unworn clothes, unneeded dishes, unopened boxes of glasses (adorned with hand-painted holly berries), unused gifts (Oh, you shouldn't have -- really!), or even an ex-husband’s bundle of high school newspapers and the snowsuit he wore when he was two.  (OK.  I actually asked whether he wanted those.)

I couldn’t possibly recall all the times Darling Daughter or Snarky Son (before he was "snarky") asked, “Have you seen my Beanie Baby/Lego Star Wars C3PO/15¢ McDonald’s Happy Meal Toy?” and to which, because I’m not a gifted liar, I'd have to look away and mutter in response, “Oh.  Can’t you find it?” knowing all the while that the suddenly-desired toy had taken a one-way, no-return trip to Goodwill.  And also knowing, that I may eventually discard something of such future monetary value that my then-adult child will have no recourse but to take me to court.  Just so you know, I’ll be good for the cost of therapy, but no other damages.

Last week, I loaded the Pilot up to the sunroof with a motley assortment of donation items which had been cluttering the attic for years, including teeny, tiny children’s backpacks, ridiculously-large pieces of luggage, slightly worn double-size bed sheets and twin-size comforters, a kitchen-sized Glad bag of dresses for third grade girls, two unused miniature Bose speakers and a brand new laser printer.  Or, at least it was "brand new" three years ago.

Despite these frequent purges, my closets, cabinets and pantry remain ridiculously well-stocked. I may not be a pack rat, but I stock up like a squirrel in acorn season.

Need some parchment paper?  Here’s a fresh roll.  Lemongrass?  Check the spice cabinet.  A biscuit cutter?  What size? 

And since Thanksgiving’s just around the corner, I’m also reminded that I have a ricer.

I only make mashed potatoes six or seven times a year, but this is one kitchen tool that will never see the inside of the Goodwill bin.  When I was a kid, my mom had a ricer too, but to my recollection, she only used it for ricing hard-boiled eggs to serve the day after Easter over shredded lettuce with Thousand Island dressing.  Since I was a kid, my natural reaction was, “Ick.”

I was an adult before I realized that the ricer -- not a masher, or heaven forbid, a handmixer --  is also the secret to making perfect-every-time, never-gluey-or-gloppy, velvety mashed potatoes – the only kind that should grace a table -- at Thanksgiving or any other meal.

Always Perfect Buttermilk Mashed Potatoes

Buttermilk adds the perfect tang – just like sour cream on a baked potato – without adding any real fat.  Despite the rich-sounding name, buttermilk has about as much fat as 1% milk.  Adding goat cheese makes the potatoes a bit richer and fancier.

2 lbs. Yukon Gold potatoes

3 cloves garlic, peeled
3 tablespoons butter

¾ cup buttermilk

4 ounces goat cheese (optional)

1 tablespoon minced fresh chives (optional)

1 tablespoon minced fresh parsley

fresh ground pepper

gracious plenty kosher salt

Put unpeeled potatoes and peeled garlic in a large stockpot.  Add enough water to cover and one tablespoon of kosher salt. Bring to a boil, then, reduce heat to simmer and cook gently until potato is easily pierced with a fork.  (Potatoes will cook more quickly if the pot is lidded.)

Remove and drain potatoes.  When cool enough to touch, use your fingers to peel off skin.  Cut potatoes in chunks.

Push through the ricer in batches, into a large bowl with remaining ingredients.  Heat from the potatoes will melt the butter and warm the milk.  (You could, of course, zap the ingredients in the microwave before adding the potatoes, too.)  Stir everything together, adjust seasoning, and serve.

Getting Things Right -- With Or Without Me.

Tonight was Snarky Son’s first Homecoming Dance.

It’s a pretty big deal at his school.  In anticipation of the big night, many of the freshman girls, frantic there will be “nothing left” come October, buy their dresses over the summer, well before they have dates.  The same frenzied line of thinking, I suppose, prompts many of the freshman boys, despite repeated warnings from upperclassmen not to be “that guy,” to brazenly invite girls to the dance the very first week of school.

(Yep.  Everyone over the age of 18 knows that some of those pairings won’t actually make it to the dance.  And some that do, shouldn’t.)

I was pretty enthusiastic about SS’s first “big” dance.  Considerably more enthusiastic, as it turns out, than SS.  He informed me, gently at first and then unyieldingly, that he had zero intention of inviting someone to the dance.  He was going with a bunch of friends.  The end.  Just. Chill. Mom.

There was a back story, of course.  There’s always a back story.  But still.
Not that there’s anything wrong with the “group date,” of course.  But I’d been looking forward to this dance.  The way I saw it, it was an opportunity to make sure he got things right.

I’d intended to share with him – from a “girl’s” perspective – the many responsibilities and requirements of a young man on a date.  You’ve got to ask a girl out in person, for example, not by text, Facebook or the dreaded “through-a-friend.”  You’ve got to consider the color and style of your date’s dress when ordering a corsage.  You’ve got to choose your restaurant by asking your date and her friends what they want (soup and salad), not what you and your friends want (steak and steak).

I was prepared to impress on SS the impression a clean car makes – even though he’s too young to drive said spotless vehicle.  I’d make sure he knew to open his date’s door – and that he wouldn’t close said door on her dress, shoes or worse, her.  I’d remind him that, while being attentive to his date, he can, and should, also dance with other girls – particularly those who arrive without dates. 

I was ready – armed and dangerous.  But as my dad would say, I had nowhere to go and all day to get there.  Despite, and perhaps in spite of, my substantial preparedness, SS denied me the chance to exercise my vast experience and opinions.  He would not ask a date.

I was flummoxed.  Without a date, how could I make sure he learned to get things right?  Is it possible he’ll go all the way through high school, and I'll never have another opportunity to impart my wisdom?  Could he land in college, entirely uninformed and inept, and as a result, spend four years, entirely dateless?  Will he then be spit out into the real world, unable to make his way socially, forced to live a meaningless existence of night-after-night ramen noodles eaten in front of a TV?

Whoa. Was I hydroplaning there for a minute?

OK.  The truth is, although SS had entirely circumvented my overwrought intentions, he was fine.  He was, after all, going to the dance.  He had his ticket.  He was going with friends (most with dates, but some without) to dinner.  His shirt and slacks were pressed, his blazer from last spring still fit – although this is surely its last public appearance. He also opted, perhaps in a concession to me, to wear a tie that's one of my favorites.  Pink.

He was set.  But then, a friend-who’s-a-girl-but-not-a-girlfriend texted him this morning.  (Of course there’s a back story.  There’s always a back story.)  Turns out her date had the flu.  As she told SS, now she didn’t have a date to Homecoming, either.

I"m not sure what happened next, because without warning and without guidance and without the benefit of my carefully prepared, but unverbalized teachings, SS got things right.

“I’ll go with you,” he texted back.

Um.  Did that just happen?

Better not to ask.  Better, I suppose, to direct my over-thought, unnecessary attention to other things – like some easy-to-assemble Halloween treats.  If only for rising to the occasion, SS deserves them.

Besides, no one else is downstairs right now.  If I head down to the kitchen, I can do my own little happy dance, and no one will be the wiser.  Because I’ve got a kid who, every now and again, despite my very best efforts, knows how to get things right.

Witch Hats, Witch Brooms and Peanut Butter Ghosts

Witch Hats

You’ll only need four ingredients for those sweet treats – Keebler Fudge Striped Cookies, Hershey’s Chocolate Kisses, a can of spray frosting, colored sprinkles.

Unwrap a Kiss for every cookie.  Turn cookies striped side down.  Squirt frosting on bottom of Kiss and stick on the cookie, forming a hat.  Apply sprinkles to excess frosting on top, shaking off the extras.  Let dry.

Witch Brooms

This one only requires two ingredients – thin pretzel sticks and fruit roll-ups.  Unroll one fruit roll-up, cut in 3-inch (approximately) lengths.  (Leave on paper.)  While still on paper, use scissors to cut fruit roll-up into “fringe” (cutting about 2/3 of the way up).  After cutting, remove “fringe” and wrap around end up pretzel stick.  Repeat.

Peanut Butter Ghosts

My kids love this one, but we try to remember that, because of allergies, many of their friends can’t enjoy them.  All you need is one package of Nutter Butter cookies, a bag of white chocolate chips, and some miniature chocolate chips.  Lay cookies out on a sheet of plastic wrap.  Melt some (about half) of the white chocolate chips in the microwave.  Dip cookies, one by one, in melted chips.  (Alternatively, you can brush or spread melted chips on.)  Lay dipped cookies on plastic wrap and use miniature chips as eyes and mouths.  May take a couple of hours to harden.