Stormy Weather. Just Couldn't Get My Poor Self Together.

Twenty years ago today, I called a client in Richmond, Virginia to explain that I might miss a deadline.

“The electricity's out, but I’m sure it will be back up in a couple of hours.  No problem.”

Oops.  That was my first mistake.  That was no simple storm that had blown through the night before.  It was full-forced Hurricane Hugo, downing trees, snapping power lines and severely debilitating Charlotte for days and weeks to come.

I’d known Hugo was making landfall, of course.  Just not here.  Indeed, I’d been urging my Charleston family to come to my new home in Charlotte -- which we'd owned for less than a month -- and “be safe.”  Not one of them would consider it. So I spent the entire night worrying.  It never occurred to any of us that Hugo could come so far inland.  As the storm raged and transformers blew and oaks the size of bridge pilings tumbled like blocks, crushing homes and cars, I peered out the windows, thinking, “Wouldn’t you know it.  We bought one of those houses where you hear every single drop of rain.  Damn.”

I was still in denial as the sun came up.  Alongside our neighbors, we lurched like zombies, still in robes and pajamas, surveying the aftermath, climbing over fallen trees and mystified by the thick green confetti (leaf shreds) and swarming yellow jackets (apparently, they nest in the roots of trees -- who knew?)   "Well," I thought, “it can’t be like this everywhere.”

That was my second mistake.  Of course ours wasn't the only neighborhood hit.  We weren't the only ones who couldn't get their cars out of their driveways.  Even if we could, there was nowhere to go.  All – and I mean all – the streets were blocked.  (Miraculously though, as we stood outside, dazed, the delivery guy from The Charlotte Observer swashed a path through the neighborhood, tossing the day's paper in our driveways.

Just the day before, I'd stood in line at The Fresh Market.  I'm a Charlestonian, so with a storm abrewing I knew it was time to stock up on the basics -- milk, bread, beer.  Duh.

The woman ahead of me bought 10 pounds of shrimp (on sale!), and I remember thinking:  She's not in her right mind.  Southern storms often bring power outages.  What would she do if her freezer thawed?

I thought about that woman for days.  Maybe she just wanted to cook to settle her nerves.  Lord knows I did.  But post-Hugo, without a stove or oven or refrigerator, there was little I could do.  Yes, we grilled.  And grilled and grilled.  (Grilled coffee became a specialty of the house, as were scrambled eggs with almost anything tossed in, and grilled meat four or five times a day.)  In all, we were without power for about 10 days.  Faced with rapidly defrosting freezers we gorged on steak and shrimp (and one neighbor's venison).  We sipped warm beer.  Yuck.  We piled clothes in and around the hamper, in anticipation of an eventual laundry day.  Once some of the streets were cleared, one neighbor ventured out of town and returned with a bag of ice for us.  Upon receiving it, I kid you not:  I cried.  But most of my time was spent scheming about what I would cook when electricity once again graced our home.

Truly.  When power finally returned (and the Harris Teeter re-stocked and re-opened), I had all four burners going -- with chili, my favorite pasta sauce (the way I like it -- with peppers and mushrooms -- because I didn't have any kids to please), soup, you name it.  I was filling my stomach, filling the freezer and filling the house with comforting aromas.  I was like Scarlett O'Hara -- I would never go hungry again.

And that was my third mistake.  It wasn't bread or milk or even beer that I should've stocked up on before the storm.  Non-perishable, savory food would've been wiser.  Next time I'll know better.  As the next storm takes a turn, I'll be taking my first batch of Super Savory Cereal Mix out of the oven.  And stocking up on ice.  Warm beer is the pits.

Super Savory Cereal Mix

This is your basic "chex mix," but amped up.  I like mine much more flavor-filled than most recipes allow.  This is a particularly zesty version -- with lots of nuts, but no peanuts.  And it keeps for weeks.

3 cloves garlic, peeled and each impaled on a toothpick

1 stick of butter (not margarine)

1/3 cup worcestershire sauce

1/3 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice

1/2 teaspoon Tabasco sauce

1, 12-ounce box of Crispix cereal

1, 6.6 ounce bag of Goldfish snack crackers

1, 2-pound jar of deluxe mixed nuts (no peanuts)

1-2 teaspoons kosher salt

Preheat oven to 250.  In a very large roasting dish with high sides, stir in first five ingredients.  Put pan in oven until butter melts -- about five minutes.

Once butter has melted, gently stir in Crispix, Goldfish and nuts.  Bake for one hour, stirring (gently) at 15 minute intervals.

Remove from oven, and while still hot, sprinkle with kosher salt to taste.

Allow to cool and serve.

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.

What's Left Behind (Day Nine)

Yesterday was Day Nine of the Kids-At-Camp-Mom-Not program. Ideal day to chill some white wine. It was, after all, a Monday.

Don't judge me.

So I swing by The Wine Shop (truly, that’s the name of the business -- The Wine Shop) for a bottle of my fave sauvignon blanc. So far, so good.

Once home, I open the fridge to realize that there is zero room for wine. I can't jam in a single sprightly bottle of New Zealand’s finest. (Since I’m the type to plan ahead, I’d been hoping to chill two.) I’m dumbfounded. What gives?

Well, even though Darling Daughter and Snarky Son have been away for over a week, it appears they left mementoes, including such oddities as a one-gallon 1% organic milk jug holding nothing but the dried film of 1% organic milk, a space-hogging plastic gallon container encapsulating less than half a gallon of Gatorade, a two-liter bottle of Cherry Sprite holding two liters of Cherry Sprite less two sips, a two-quart Rubbermaid bowl of two-week-old Sausage Pasta (click here for recipe), four jars of assorted jams and jellies (notable because my kids don’t like jams or jellies), and inexplicably, two packages of Oscar Mayer Steakhouse Beef and Pepper Jack Deli Creations.

Say what?

Being the thoughtful kids they are, they wouldn’t dream of confining the treasured reminders of their existence to the fridge alone. Nope. After they left for camp, dirty laundry paved their bedroom floors, candy wrappers cluttered the dressers and plastic cups of Coke sludge could be found on the windowsills. “Sludge” of course, is what remains after the popular soft drink has roasted in a windowsill for 10 days. The resulting residue has the "stickability" factor of day-old chewing gum combined with Super Glue served to a patient with lockjaw. Never mind that neither kid is allowed to have food or drink in their rooms. Whatevs.

I’ve also found countless random price tags – ripped from items such as wind pants, sunglasses and other essential items that they just “had to have” before heading to camp, unopened bottles of sunscreen which were cast aside as unnecessary, as well as the flotsam and jetsam dislodged from their lockers at the end of the school year.

Hmm. Time to make good use of some 13-gallon plastic kitchen garbage bags. Because even now, as the kids are at camp, they are sending reinforcements home. But this time, I’m not complaining, because the reinforcements are in the form of envelopes containing the most precious items of all – letters home.

Sigh. I love these kids.

I can't even begin to pretend to be annoyed by their mail. In fact, it was fortuitous that I wasn't home when Mike The Mailman came by with the precious papers. I likely would've kissed him square on the lips.

What I learn from the kids' letters is that each of them is fabulous, fine and funny. Snarky Son, inexplicably, has been re-named “Brad” by his cabinmates. In the event that “Brad” doesn’t take, “Drake” is the name-in-waiting. Darling Daughter, who’s never been to a camp like this, declares that everything is fabulous, -- the activities, the friends, the counselors, the sleep and most shocking of all – the FOOD. She would, however, like me to send her a Crazy Creek chair. Whatever that is.

On the other hand -- fabulous food? Sign me up.

But first, I want to make room in the fridge here at home. I trash the empty milk jug, the outdated Gatorade, the unloved Cherry Sprite and two of the jam jars. Perfect. I now have ample space to chill three bottles of Sauvignon Blanc and some seedless watermelon. Which is just what I'll need to get started on some Watermelon Sangria for the Independence Day weekend.

Watermelon Sangria

2 cups of seedless watermelon puree (just toss chunks of watermelon in a blender or food processor)

1/2 cup vodka

1/2 cup watermelon schnappes

1/2 cup sugar

10 peppercorns, lightly crushed

1 knob fresh ginger, thinly sliced

1 lime, thinly sliced

1 cup ginger ale, chilled

1 bottle sauvignon blanc, chilled

kosher salt

Combine watermelon puree, vodka, schnappes, sugar, peppercorns, ginger and lime in a lidded container. Shake or stir to dissolve sugar, and chill -- at least four hours, or better still, overnight. After flavors have melded, stir in chilled ginger ale and wine, strain into stemmed glasses with ice. Sprinkle with salt and garnish -- either with lime wheels, watermelon wedges or (for Independence Day) blueberries. Cheers!

"What Do You Do All Day?"

I'm a stay-at-home mom.

It happened haphazardly.  Fourteen years ago, when Son was born, we quickly realized that someone would have to stay home and tend to him.  (Like most first-time parents, we considered our child to be unusually advanced, but would he be able to change his own diaper at six weeks? Iffy.)  Since I was self-employed at the time -- and therefore available and cheap -- I was as likely a candidate as anyone.  Indeed, when you consider that I'm roundly-acknowledged to be a wee bit of a control freak,  I may have been the only candidate.

When Darling Daughter was born two years later -- and refused to be held by anyone other than, well, me -- the "self-employed" facade came crashing down.  In no time at all, I was 0% bringing home the bacon and 100% frying it up in the pan.

Well-meaning friends would sometimes ask, "When are you going back to work?" but when it became plain I had no immediate intention of turning a bedroom into an office, much less returning to a world of artlessly-written job reviews, mind-numbing meetings, and incomprehensible healthcare plans served with a cup of burnt coffee, they'd then ask, "What do you do all day?"

The brave ones still do.

The honest answer?  I do what has to be done.  I wish it included eating bonbons and lifting my feet as the "help" runs the vacuum.  Instead, a huge chunk of my day is spent in the car -- chauffeuring, eating, doing homework, running errands, getting to doctors' appointment and after school activities, and commiserating with the kids about their day.  During soccer and baseball seasons, our all-but-abandoned house functions more like an over-priced closet than a home.  It is simply the place where we stash our clothes and Christmas decorations and dishes.  As the car floormats attest, most of the "real" living and dining is done in our Honda Pilot.

I also volunteer at the kids' school a lot -- as in, "a lot" more than the kids would like.  Bummer for them, but I enjoy it.  Eighth graders -- so cool and charming -- are quick to greet me, only slightly averting their eyes to ensure I understand my place.  Sixth graders aren't able to fake it.  They all but shield their eyes and moonwalk backward to avoid having to say, "Hello, Ms. Wiles."

Now that the kids are older and so preoccupied, a return to the workforce wouldn't be out of the question -- except when you consider that the current N.C. unemployment rate is about 11%.   My time will come.  So for now -- I'm sticking with my bonbon-less life.  I'll keep doing whatever has to be done and enjoy this gift of spending time with the kids and their friends.  Every now and again, I'll throw a party to celebrate the many blessings in my life.  And when I do, I'll be serving this amazing sangria.  Cheers.

Sangria

Although you can mix this up on the day of your party, it's even better if you give the fruit and spices a couple of days -- even a week -- to macerate in the rum.

5 lemons, sliced into thin rounds

5 limes, sliced into thin rounds

5 oranges, sliced into thin rounds

5 peppercorns

1 stick cinnamon

5 whole, dried allspice berries

5 whole, dried cloves

5 cups spiced rum

2 1/2 cups sugar

5 (750 milliliter) bottles dry red wine, chilled

5 cups orange juice, chilled

In a very large pitcher, combine sliced rounds of three lemons, limes and oranges (reserving remaining fruit for when sangria is served), spices, rum and sugar.  Stir and mash until sugar is dissolved.  Chill for at least two hours, or even better, up to a week.

When ready to serve, crush fruit lightly, and strain into punch bowl or serving canister.  Add fruit that had been set aside.  Stir in wine and orange juice.  Serve over ice, garnished with a lime wedge.

Note:  Leftover sangria keeps well, chilled, for about a week.

The Price Of Putting Your Kids Out The Car? Solitude.

OK. Someone has to say it.  A mom put her bickering kids out of the car and told them to walk the rest of the way home?  (Complete news story.)  

Big deal.

(Notice I didn't say, "BFD."  Not because I don't feel that way, but because my kids may read this.)

Err --- what I meant to say was:  Scandalous!  Ghastly!  Appalling!

Puh-leeze.  Cheese and rice, people!  Every mom can relate to how she was feeling, and if you haven't done what she did, I bet you know someone who has.  (Don't ask.  I'm not giving up my peeps.  They inspire these blogs!)

There are only two reasons I haven't shoved my own kids out the Honda Pilot backhatch.

One, my kids don't usually bicker in the car.  They save it for the dinner table, church, or (my personal favorite) when we have guests.  Their best performances are reserved for family members we see only a few times a year.

Two, I never thought of it.  Dang.

Here's my real question, though.  As she spent the night in jail (you betcha she was incarcerated!), how did the mom feel?  Badly?  Duh.  Guilty?  Sure.  Humiliated?  You bet.

Yeah, she was wrong.  She lost it.  She over-reacted.  Her kids were hurt.

Plus, joining the penal system meant making a a few sacrifices, including that reprehensible mugshot, a glow-in-the-dark jumpsuit, and those matching, intertwined plastic bracelets.  On the upside, though, her lucky family's now got a go-to story every Thanksgiving for their rest of their lives.

Still, for her night in the big house, I hope that mom reveled.  What a brilliant plan!  She needed time away from her kids.  She needed peace and quiet.  She needed to be able to go to the bathroom on her own.  Ick.  That last one may have come off the table in this deal, but overall, she got most of what she wanted, right?  Great success!

In the end, I am confident that they all -- every one of them -- will be OK.  Truly.  I once heard of a dad who put his rambunctious kids out of the car on the INTERSTATE, telling them to run to the next exit, where he would be waiting.  They were fine.  And are still laughing.

Of course, mom probably should make a little special something upon her return home -- just to fast-track everyone's road to recovery (and minimize the number of future therapist appointments).  I'd recommend these crazy good chocolate toffee treats.  Just as with their mom, you're not exactly sure what's going on inside.  But it's all comes together in a surprising way.

Chocolate Toffee Cookies

1 sleeve saltine crackers

2 sticks butter (not margarine)

1 cup brown sugar, firmly packed

1 12-ounce bag of good chocolate chips

1 cup chopped toasted pecans

Preheat oven to 350.  Line a rimmed cookie sheet (11 x 15) with foil, and spray with nonstick spray.  Place saltines, in a single layer, in the pan, covering the entire pan.  You may need a few extra to fill in all the spaces.  Now, heat butter and brown sugar in a small saucepan.  Bring to a boil and continue boiling three minutes, stirring occasionally.  Pour mixture (carefully) over crackers and spread to edges.  Bake for 20 minutes.

Remove pan from oven and immediately sprinkle with chocolate chips.  When chips soften from heat, spread to edges with spatula and sprinkle with pecans.  Chill for at least 30 minutes, then break into bite-size pieces.  No one will ever guess that crackers are the base of this treat!

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.)

Isn't There Something You'd Like To Say?

Yesterday was one of those days where I had to do what every good parent has to do from time to time -- absolutely nothing.  I simply sat on my hands and bit my tongue.  Suffice to say, my tongue is perforated.

It's a hard thing to watch your kid make a mistake.  It's miserable to sit on the sidelines while they learn "the hard way."

Nevertheless, there are lessons we all have to learn.  One of them is how to say, "I'm sorry."

A good "I'm sorry" resolves a myriad of issues. I'm not talking about one of those through-the-teeth and half-unspoken, "I'm sorry" (and silently, that you ran full force into my clenched fist.)  Or, "I'm sorry that your feelings were hurt" because you're such a wimp.  Or, "I'm sorry" that I got caught.  Or worst of all, "I'm sorry" that my mom is making me apologize.

I'm talking about a selfless, "I made a mistake, please forgive me, what can I do to make this better?" that eases the pain of the recipient and the provider.

Empathy can be a tough thing to teach.  But as my own kids hear over and over again, in addition to being the "right" thing to do, apologizing and admitting your error can make you feel better.

It's our job as parents to help them learn this, and the sooner the better.

So I've got a question for the various CEOs and bonus-hoarders and investment bankers and Ponzi-schemers currently making headlines and devastating American families and institutions alike:  Does your mother know what you're up to?

Actually, I've got quite a few questions.  Were you raised in a barn?  Do I have to call your father?  Where are your parents?  Isn't there something you'd like to say?

Yes!  Lawyers be damned, there is something you need to say.  Two words.  1) I'm.  2) Sorry.

Groveling isn't required, but surely would work in your favor.  Belly-crawling would be fine by me, as well.  I'd even accept tears, but since I suspect you'd only be able to muster the alligator variety, I won't insist.

To be sure, this mess is so deep and so smelly that an apology wouldn't actually fix anything, but it might ease the pain of some of your many victims.  And, if, down the road, leniency is ever an option, a heartfelt and well-rendered apology may work to your benefit.  OK.  Probably not in this life, but maybe in the next.

My son's seventh grade science teacher had a phrase that comes to mind --  "Man up."  When any of the boys in class shirked their responsibilities or complained about the workload, she'd summon a sharp, "Man up!" to remind them to behave accordingly.  I love how much meaning is packed into that one phrase.  Man up:  Stop thinking only of yourself, you are better than this, do the right thing, we expect more of you, take responsibility.  Man up.

That's my advice to Wall Street:  "Man up."  Apologize.  And start setting this right.

If your mom is Southern, she'd probably point out that proffering a plate of cheese wafers wouldn't hurt, either.  Some of the best apologies are catered.  This recipe makes about 300, which isn't nearly enough for the mess you've made.  But combined with a good, old-fashioned "I'm sorry," it's a start.

Cheese Wafers

These crackers are the perfect nibble at cocktail parties.  The recipe is easily halved, but I prefer to make a larger batch and then, freeze half of the dough "logs," to be thawed and baked as needed.

1 lb. extra sharp NY cheddar cheese (alternatively, use 1/2 lb. cheddar and 1/2 lb. blue cheese, crumbled), grated

1 lb. unsalted butter, room temperature

2 teaspoons kosher salt

4 cups flour

1/2 - 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

2-3 tablespoons poppy seeds

2 cups pecans, chopped (optional)

Beat butter until light and fluffy.  Stir in cheese, salt, cayenne pepper and poppy seeds.  Gradually stir and mash in flour.  Eventually, you'll have to use your hands to incorporate all of the flour, because dough will be very crumbly, and then, stiff.  Using your hands, incorporate the pecans.  (Be patient, this takes a while.)  When all ingredients are incorporated, break off a chunk of dough about the size of your fist and roll it out into a log.  I prefer my wafers small, so my "log" is usually slightly larger than the diameter of a quarter.  If you're feeling fancy, you can then roll the log in any extra poppy seeds or nuts (or even kosher salt -- lightly!).  Wrap the log in plastic wrap, and repeat with remaining dough.  Refrigerate logs for at least four hours (or as long as four days).  To bake, preheat oven to 400.  Remove plastic wrap from log, and, using a serrated knife, slice into 1/4" thick wafers.  (Note:  dough will not rise or spread.  What you cut is what you get.)  Place wafers on parchment paper on a baking sheet and bake approximately 10 minutes, or until lightly golden.

A Failed Foodie

I want to know what yuzu tastes like.  Actually, I'd be happy to know what yuzu looks like.  Is it a fruit, found in the produce section?  Can it be a powder, like wasabi or mustard?  Does it come in a jar -- like some sort of exotic jelly?

I honestly don't know, but after taking in countless cooking shows, including this season's Top Chef, I'm beginning to feel like that one girl in 6th grade who didn't get an invitation to the slumber party.  Has yuzu become some sort of double top-secret ingredient for chefs?

Since I don't know what yuzu is, I'm not sure where to find it.  Can I even get it on the shelves (racks, bins, freezer) of my friendly neighborhood Harris Teeter?

Is it near the truffle oil?  That was last year's foodie favorite and it also blew right past me.  But at least I can imagine what it looks like.  (Oil, right?)  I also understand how to cook with it.  (Sparingly, duh.)

One food trend I wish I had missed is cilantro.  It rolled into Charlotte about 15 years ago and just won't go away.  The first time I cooked with cilantro, I dumped the entire dish in the trash.  I figured it was the recipe, but nope, it was the cilantro.  Everyone else seems to love cilantro (a.k.a. fresh coriander).  I even hear folks order, for crying out loud, extra cilantro on their burritos and tacos.  To me, it tastes like parsley-shaped pieces of Dial soap.  But not as tasty.

I'm very comfortable cooking with balsamic vinegar, goat cheese, frozen puff pastry and proscuitto, which is a clear indication of how far off the food trend cliff these ingredients have fallen.  They had their day in the sun and now they're having their day in my fridge.  I regularly use a couple of these foodie fashion outcasts in one of my favorite go-to hors d'oeuvres -- Proscuitto Palmiers.

These savory bites are scarfed up every time I make them.  Flaky puff pastry may be passé, but this is a case where, I don't care who you are -- good is just good.  And I know exactly where to find the ingredients in my grocery store.

Proscuitto Palmiers

1 pkg. frozen puff pastry (two 18 x 11 sheets), thawed

dijon mustard

fresh thyme, finely minced

2 cups freshly grated parmesan or gruyere cheese

8 oz. thinly sliced proscuitto

2 egg whites

2 tablespoons water

sea salt

Roll out one sheet of puff pastry on a lightly floured board.  Brush scantily with mustard and sprinkle with thyme and half of the cheese.  Arrange half of proscuitto evenly over the cheese.  Starting at one long edge, roll up the puff pastry (snugly) like a jelly roll just up to the middle of the dough.  Then, roll up the other side in the same fashion, making the two rolls meet in the center.  Repeat with second puff pastry sheet and remaining ingredients.  Chill rolls for about 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Using a serrated knife, slice the rolls crosswise into 1/2" slices.  (At this point, slices can be frozen, well-packaged -- for baking later.)  Place slice on cookie sheets lined with parchment paper and press lightly with your hands to flatten.

Beat the egg whites and water together and brush tops of palmiers.  Sprinkle lightly with sea salt.  Bake until puffed and lightly golden, about 10 minutes.  Remove to rack to cool.  Can be prepared a day in advance.

Friday-Night-Pizza-Night (Blue Cheese Dip)

It's Friday-night-pizza-night at the Wiles house.  What started as an end-of-the-week, someone-else-needs-to-cook treat is now a fully established tradition.  Initially, as I saw the custom settling in, I was uncomfortable.  Really, pizza again?  Shouldn't the kids be exposed to more variety?  What if they only eat cheese pizza for the rest of their lives?

Turns out though, we weren't the only ones.  Friday-night-pizza-night is rampant in homes with school-age children.  No matter whose house they're at, kids count on it.  But I am so over it.

When they were little, it was kind of cute.  We'd jump into our jammies, pop in a special movie, munch on some raw vegetables and blue cheese dip (not that the kids would ever actually eat the dip -- gross!), snuggle down and await the man-of-the-day to arrive -- the pizza delivery guy.  Even the dog recognized him.

But sometime after my 332nd slice, I just got over it.  True, we did move on from cheese to one-topping pepperoni (large, hand-tossed), but I'm done.  Would it kill us to add something approximating a vegetable (even olives!) to our order?  Probably.  According to my calculations, it took eight years to add the pepperoni.  In another eight years, it'll just be me, the cat and the dog here.  I'm not ordering pizza for them.  Not even with olives.

The one thing I don't tire of is the blue cheese dip.   It's easy to make and requested by everyone I know but didn't birth.  I suppose I should be proud though, because although the kids won't get close to any dip (not even ranch), they do accept that other people are different.  Darling Daughter will even ask, as we leave to have dinner at someone else's house, "Aren't you supposed to bring dip?"

Good with nearly any raw vegetable, and particularly tasty paired with steamed asparagus or sugar snap peas, blue cheese dip has gotten me through many a pizza night.  Of course, I also like it spooned into baked potatoes.  Or scooped up with Fritos.  Or a spoon.  But I suspect that's just me.

Killer Blue Cheese Dip

(All amounts are approximate.  For the first four ingredients, I use an amount that's about the size of my fist.)

4 oz. blue cheese (and better blue cheese, such as Maytag or sigh, Clemson, really is better), crumbled

About 3/4 cup (or more) of sour cream

About 3/4 cup (or less) of decent mayonnaise

About 3/4 cup (no kidding) of minced fresh Italian parsley

About 1/4 cup of finely minced celery (optional)

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Generous shake of Tabasco

3/4 teaspoon kosher or sea salt

Generous grinding of pepper

Stir everything together.  Taste.  If it still needs "something," try a bit more lemon juice or salt.  Then, if you can stand it, stash it in the fridge for an hour or two, to let the flavors mellow.  Serve with fresh celery, carrots, lightly steamed asparagus, radishes, etc.  And a spoon.