What You Really Need To Take To College. (Plus Spicy Summer Noodle Salad)

Darling Daughter is about to leave for college. Don’t ask me when, because for once in my life, I’m not keeping a daily countdown. I don’t want to know. Instead, I’m spending our dwindling days together like 52-year-old doe in headlights, immobilized by an onslaught of “What To Pack For College” lists.

I. Hate. Those. Lists. Hate ‘em. Not just because they signify Darling Daughter’s imminent departure, but because most manage to be both tedious and absurd.

If you have a college-bound student, you surely know what I mean. And if you don’t have a college-bound student, then you may be even more irritated than I am, because at this time of year, “what to take to college” (and its equally irritating cousin, “what not to take to college”) is the topic du jour for morning talk show hosts and mid-day journalists and Facebook bloggers and, let’s not forget -- total strangers in the aisles of Target.

One such list urges coeds not to leave behind their phone chargers and tampons. Phone chargers and tampons? I’d like to meet the girl who is ever farther than 10 feet from one of her (many) phone chargers. And tampons? The only time a typical teenaged girl is without one is when she’s heading to CVS to buy more.

Another list suggests that a college freshman shouldn’t fail to pack costume clothing and a step ladder. Say what? In 18 years, I’ve never once seen Darling Daughter atop a step ladder. Whatever would she do with one in a dorm room that’s only slightly larger than her shower stall?

Nonetheless, we’re neck-deep into buying “stuff” to ease the transition from home to school – extra long sheets, rugs, mattress pads, and really, sheet straps? But I worry that I’m losing sight of the most important things she needs to take. For example:

Self-respect. Darling Daughter, you’re a smart girl, but a lively (both academically and socially) campus environment can leave even the smartest girl questioning what she stands for, hopes for, and lives for. I’m trusting you – my darling, precious, daughter – to take care of you -- mind, body and spirit. Make the decisions that are right for you. You’re the only one who can.

Self-confidence. You’re about to tackle some gargantuan life changes – moving away from home, leaving friends you’ve known since preschool, demanding college classes, seemingly limitless freedoms. And while, pretty much everyone you know will be facing the same changes, that doesn’t make them easy. There will be days when classes are tough, professors are unreasonable, and some people won’t like you. There will be days when you question your abilities and your worth. But Sugar, that’s how it is here in the real world. So remember, I didn’t raise you to please other people. I raised you to be you. So go ahead, be you.

An open mind. Darling Daughter, despite and because of my best efforts, you have lived a sheltered life. And for the most part, that’s been a good thing. Even though you’ve had opportunities to roam the globe, you’ve been raised and educated in a pretty snug little community, where you’ve been protected and nurtured and kept safe. These next four years, you’ll be exposed to things and people and events you (and I) can’t even begin to imagine. And while some may be shocking and appalling, others will be eye-opening and, if you allow them to be, life-shaping. Please remember that “different” isn’t the same as “bad” or “wrong.” Keep an open mind; your life will be forever enhanced.

Perspective. People love to say that college represents the best four years of your life. To me, that’s a heck of burden. You can’t look at things that way. You’ve got to just take one day at a time. When you’ve had a great day, build on that. When you’ve had a rotten day – and you will – remember that it’s just that one day. The next day, you get a fresh start. So go ahead – start fresh.

Common sense. One of the things I love about you is how very, very practical you are. You think ahead. You plan. So if you’re ever tempted to pull an all-nighter, rather than preparing along the way, or trying to convince yourself that you can start studying at midnight, or that you don’t need to return my calls or texts, consider what advice you’d give to a friend who was making the same unwise decisions. You know what to do. And when you do the right thing, you won’t have regrets.

So that’s it. That’s my own “what to take to college list.” Or, at least, it’s the beginnings of one. Oh -- and a cooler. Take a cooler. Because although I can’t help you pack self-confidence or self-respect or an open mind or perspective or common sense, I can pack a cooler. And when you come home for a visit – I’ll want to fill yours up with favorite foods, like this cold veggie noodle salad.

I love you,

Mom

Spicy Summer Noodle Salad

Salad

8 ounces spaghetti or rice noodles, broken into 3” – 4” lengths, cooked al dente, rinsed in cool water and tossed in 1 tablespoon canola oil

2 carrots, grated

1 English cucumber, halved lengthwise, sliced into very thin moons

1 cup raw sugar snap peas, stacked and sliced, crosswise, thinly

2 scallions sliced thinly

½ red bell pepper, halved lengthwise and sliced very thinly

¼ head purple cabbage, sliced thinly or grated coarsely

1 handful of fresh mint leaves, chopped coarsely

Dressing

¼ cup crunchy peanut butter

¼ cup rice vinegar

¼ cup canola oil

¼ cup ponzu sauce

juice of one lime

1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger

generous squeeze of sriracha sauce

1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil

1 teaspoon coarse salt

In a large bowl, toss noodles and fresh vegetables. In a small bowl, whisk together dressing ingredients. Toss dressing and salad in large bowl. Adjust seasonings and serve salad chilled or at room temperature. Pack leftovers in small containers, seal well, pack in a cooler, and send back to college with your precious daughter.

Ten Tips For Cross Country Parents

I love cross country running. Whoa there, Speedy Gonzalez -- I love cross country running for my kids, not for me! Running is hard. Running hurts. It hurts when you practice doing it, it hurts when you're actually doing it, and then, it hurts for days after. Or, if you're 52 years old like me, it hurts for months after doing it, because you've torn a hamstring and can't recall where or how. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you'll feel when you try to explain that to a medical professional?

But I digress, because really, from a parent's perspective, cross country is a terrific sport. Trust me. Sure it's hard, and it hurts, but have you ever had a kid wrestle? I have. Every match, I had to choose: Shall I hyperventilate or asphyxiate today? Because there was no way I could draw a normal breath as some mini-Hulk Hogan put a move on my kid.

Ever had a kid play baseball? Not as physical as wrestling, of course, but baseball is a sport without a clock, folks, which sounds charming enough until you remember that you've got bills to pay, beds to change, meals to make, and oh yeah, other kids who know how to dial DSS if you don't at least occasionally check in on them.

Ever had a kid play soccer? Right -- that just makes you and every other American parent of the 21st century -- and all of you are sure that, among the swarm of shinguard-sporting magnet ball players, yours is the next Mia Hamm. Let me know how that goes for you.

Seriously. Cross country is perfect. Not too physical. Pretty darn quick. And when you get down to it, your kid is really racing against herself, so if she beats her previous time, she's a winner -- and you get to scoot along home.

There are pitfalls, though. I've been a cross country mom for eight seasons now, so believe me when I say that there are a few rules you'll need to follow.

1)  Race courses are pretty wide open, so when you arrive at the event, you'll be able to walk right up to your child. DO NOT DO THIS. If you must acknowledge your runner, do so from a distance. Behave as if you may have met before but are not quite sure. Only after making eye contact should you try to determine whether she wants you to approach. That's it. So now you think she wants you to approach? You are wrong.

2) Observe your runner from a safe distance. Did he warm up sufficiently? Are his laces tied? Should he be doing something to hydrate? Should he look that relaxed? Should he look that tense? Why is he acting exactly like everyone else? Why isn't he acting exactly like everyone else? Stop. Here's a rule of thumb: For every question you ask before a race, your runner will blame you for adding 10 seconds to his finishing time. Don't do it.

3) Cross country races tend to begin right on time. Give yourself time to get to the starting line, and set your watch. Do NOT attempt eye contact with your runner. Do NOT call your runner by name.

4) At the gun (the start of the race), start your watch. Again, do NOT call out your runner's name. Although she wouldn't actually hear you, another parent might, which would ruin your runner's entire life.  Do not cheer other runners by name, either. You may, however, cheer the team because, as noted, your runner will not hear you.

5) After the runners pass, you will see parents "in the know" walk hurriedly in another direction. Follow them. They know the course and know where you'll be able to spot your runner mid-course. One thousand, two hundred and twenty-three runners will pass before you finally see your runner. Just when you worry that you must have missed him and that he has already crossed the finish line, you will see him. At this point, remember the rule of NO engagement The only POSSIBLE exception to the rule of NO engagement is photography. For most parents, this is ill-advised. Proceed at your own risk.

6) Find the finish line. Other parents may know additional spots where you can spot your runner along the course; however, they also then know how to sprint over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house before catching the final seconds of the race. Don't risk it. Get thee to the finish line.

7) Note the time as your runner crosses. Do NOT note as she grimaces, hobbles, and limps through the final chute.

8) Find your runner. Have water. Have a towel. He will not accept either, but that's not the point. These are merely good-parenting props. Your runner may, in a lapse of exhaustion-induced insanity, deign to speak to you. He may ask, "How did I do?" Even though you will know the precise time of his finish, there is only one possible response: "That was a strong finish!"

9) Post race, your runner will be required to do warm downs and hydrate. She may even have to endure speeches from the coach. She will be hungry and thirsty. She will be hot and sticky. Offer to help with her bags. Remember, she will not appreciate your thoughtfulness. You make this offer only to know that you did the right thing in front of other parents.

10) As your runner hobbles to the car, he may finally speak to you -- to remind you of how awful cross country is. In this case, revert to number one -- acknowledge him from as much distance as you can wrangle inside of a car. Do not attempt to engage. If you think he wants you to engage, you will be wrong.

On the upside, though, the whole thing took something like 30 minutes -- giving you plenty of time to get home and and throw together something super simple like this "Green Pasta."

"Green" Pasta

I've prepared a number of "Green Pasta" versions this cross country season, but this one is our favorite, especially when served with grilled chicken tenders.

2 cups of uncooked ditalini pasta

2 cups of small broccoli f1orets
3-4 cups of baby spinach leaves, chopped

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 zucchini, cut in a small dice
1 garlic clove, minced
red pepper flakes

juice from half a lemon
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 can chicken broth

Bring a large pot of well-salted water (it should taste like the ocean) to a boil. Stir in pasta, cooking until almost done. In the meantime, heat olive oil in a heavy skillet over high heat. When rippling, stir in zucchini, garlic and a light sprinkling of red pepper flakes. Sauté until zucchini is lightly browned.

Just before the pasta is done cooking, stir in broccoli. Cook two minutes, drain, and return to pan. Toss spinach with hot pasta until wilted. Stir in zucchini mixture. Stir in lemon juice, oregano and about half the can of chicken broth. Adjust seasoning. Add more chicken broth, according to your preference. Serve hot or at room temperature.

“Close The Door.” Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

“Close the door.”

I’ve been a mom for some 16 years now, which means, without exaggeration, I’ve uttered those three little words some 5,840 times.* In fairness, like most newborns, my firstborn couldn't actually close a door -- much less tee-tee in the potty -- for his first 18 months, but when you consider all the variations of "close the door"  -- “Why's the car door still open?” “Stop standing in front of the open refrigerator,” “Am I the only one who knows how to close the pantry door?” and “I’m not paying to air-condition the backyard,”** -- I’m pretty sure 5,840 represents only a sliver of the actual figure.

Sigh.  Those were the days.  As a parent of two teenagers, I’ve gone from “Close the door,” to “Open the door,” to “What are you doing in there?” to “Well, if you're not wrapping a present for me, then open the door,” and ultimately to, “Open the door.  Dammit.”

Of course I don’t really say that last bit. Not out loud. I hope.

Still, I don't understand how this happened.  I'm struggling.  " Close the door" was my mantra.  "Open the door" doesn't roll off the tongue nearly so eloquently.  Besides, what is this need for privacy? What’s the secret? What are they doing in their bedrooms?  Believe you me, my kids are not wrapping gifts.  Presents to me are far and few between.  Besides, between the two of them, I believe only one knows where to find the scissors and scotchtape.

It's comforting, then, to know that after all my rapping and tapping, and pounding and nagging, I still have a predictable way to pry those doors open -- if only temporarily.  I pour myself a glass of wine, and send the following text message, "Dinner's ready."

Hear those sounds?  Those are doors.  Opening.

*  Once a day, 16 times 365 days a year.

**  An homage to my dad.  Re-worded to omit profanity.


Lemon Spaghetti (Spaghetti Al Limone) with Pan Seared Shrimp

After pork, pasta is my kids' favorite food group. The shrimp is optional.

1 pound spaghetti

1 palmful of salt, plus additional for seasoning

1/4 cup olive oil
1 pound shrimp, peeled and deveined (optional)

2 cloves garlic, minced

One pinch of red pepper flakes

2 lemons, zested and juiced

1/2 cup heavy cream

1/2 cup minced parsley

1 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil with the palmful of salt.  Stir in spaghetti and cook just until done.  


As pasta cooks, in a large non-stick skillet, heat oil over high heat, tossing in shrimp, seasoning well with salt and pepper, and cooking until barely done -- about 3 minutes per side.  Remove cooked shrimp and set aside, reduce heat to low, and stir in garlic, red pepper flakes and lemon zest.  Saute until garlic is very fragrant and very lightly browned.  Before draining cooked pasta, stir two ladlefuls of pasta water into skillet with fragrant oil.  Drain pasta.  Stir cream, lemon juice and parsley into garlicky oil sauce in skillet.  Cook down -- about a minute or two.  Quickly stir in cooked pasta and herbs.  Season with salt and pepper as needed.  Toss with cheese, and serve hot!

The Grass Is Greener – Everywhere But Here.

Another super simple recipe for my friend Megan -- one pot and seven ingredients -- if you include lemon juice and red pepper flakes.

Lionel, our now 14-pound indoor cat, got out again yesterday.

I retrieved him fairly quickly  this time – not because I’m particularly fleet of foot, but because I’m patient and he, well, he was distracted.  He started out well enough, zipping past the catnip flourishing by the door, but then, couldn't make it another five feet before being waylaid – by a leaf, a twig, a bug, the “outsideness” of it all. 

Poor kitty.  His furry fanny was tossed back inside before he set paw off the driveway.

I can’t help but laugh.  That cat spends most of his waking hours, which admittedly aren’t many, lurking by the back door, plotting his getaway.  But why?  Inside, he’s kitty king – with his choice of canned or dry food, a cat condo, and two litter boxes.  Not to mention access to every bed and sofa when we’re home, and every countertop and table when we’re not.

All that, and yet, he yearns to be outside.

Josie, the rescue dog, is of like mind – although she only has access to the beds and sofas when we’re not at home, and the counters and tables when she masters the art of canine levitation.

The grass is always greener, I suppose, somewhere else.

My eyes are blue.  If I believe what folks have told me, they are blue, blue, bluer than blue.   So why, when I was a kid, did I want brown eyes?  As well as braces?  And glasses?

Along these same lines, Son and Darling Daughter would always rather be at someone else’s house.  Sure, there are plenty of extenuating circumstances, what with the divorce and our lack of a hot tub, but I don’t take this personally.  There’s even a Facebook fan page titled, “I’d rather do nothing at your house than at mine.”  Already, 1.6 million fans have signed up.  And counting.

Lucky for me, the exception – for my kids and kids of all ages  – is Mom’s home-cooking.  Sure, there have been incidents where my kids have begged me to get recipes from other friends’ moms.  (Let it be noted, though that on two occasions, the recipe was “boxed Alfredo sauce” and “pre-made mac n’n cheese.")  Still, when it comes to certain dishes, no one does it like your own Mom.  Son and DD love my Sausage Pasta.  My Waffles of Insane Greatness are -- for my kids -- beyond compare.   And they wouldn’t know what do with Pork Fried Rice served in a restaurant.

My former mother-in-law, who was an enthusiastic and accomplished cook, used to tell her son, “You can't talk about my cooking with other women in your life.  Don’t talk about my macaroni and cheese.  Don’t talk about my cheesecake.  It’s just not fair or right.”

I agree.  No one does it like Mom.  Even now, I won’t put a fork to any egg that wasn’t fried by my Mom.  Green tomatoes fried anywhere other than "home" may as well have been left on the vine.  And although it may not be authentic, my Mom’s version of Veal Parmesan prevents me from ordering it in any restaurant.  Ever.

In a way, I suppose, we moms ruin our kids for anyone else.

Take this “Not Clams Linguini.”  Couldn’t be tastier.  Couldn’t be simpler.  And I’m guessing my kids believe it couldn’t be made any better than than it is at home.

The grass may be greener elsewhere, but home is home and dinner is dinner.  And no one wants lawn clippings for dinner.

Not Clams Linguini

Sadly, if you’re wearing braces, linguini – as well as spaghetti, angel hair pasta and vermicelli – can be a challenge to eat, so for now we’re using lots of other pasta shapes, including piccolini.  Wide egg noodles would also work well.

8 oz. piccolini (or slightly more)

4 slices of bacon, diced

2 cans, chopped clams

1 cup chicken broth

1 pinch red pepper flakes

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

fresh ground pepper

salt

½ cup (or more) chopped parsley

Cook pasta according to package directions in large pot of boiling, well-salted water.  Drain.  In same pot, cook diced bacon over medium high heat until very crispy.  Remove bacon bits and set aside.  In remaining bacon fat, stir in clams (including juice), broth and seasonings (except parsley).  Bring to a boil.  Stir in cooked pasta and parsley.  Sprinkle bacon bits on top.  Serve hot, making sure to include ample broth in each serving.

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.

Exams Are Over, and All I Want For Christmas Is A Clean House. And Soup.

With so many stomach “bugs” going around, I’m wondering whether furniture can get sick, too.  Because here we are, Day Four of exams, and it appears that every desk, dresser, backpack and closet Chez Wiles has violently and uncontrollably spewed their contents. Hoo boy. This, my friend, would be a good day for a HazMat suit.

Mysteriously, it’s not only textbooks and quizzes, notecards and calculators, highlighters and writing utensils that now carpet every flat surface. It’s also laundry and blankets, soft drink bottles and bread wrappers, dust pans and tape dispensers, boots and bathing suits (bathing suits? really?), and an extensive collection of "lucky" wool socks. (I also understand that "studying" is lucky for exam-taking, but what do I know?)  

It's going to take more than a vacuum to reverse this wreckage.  More like a shovel.  Or a backhoe.  And of course, the aforementioned HazMat suit.

The kids aren’t solely to blame. In an effort to minimize distractions and maximize opportunities for exam prep, I let a lot of things slide. That ride, however, is over.  I am the Fat Lady, and I have sung.

So today, we’re back to the real world. Back to beds made before noon. Litter boxes cleaned before the cat relocates his potty to my down comforter.  Bedtime before sun up.  Shoes put away before the dog uses them as expensive – very expensive -- chew toys.

We’re also back to “mom” food.  Not that the kids have been complaining as we’ve enjoyed everyone’s favorite breakfast-for-dinner (Waffles of Insane Greatness), hard-to-argue-with Pan-Roasted-Chicken and many meals featuring the Wiles’ family favorite food group, sausage (Not So Dirty Rice, among other delights.)

A few weeks ago, when Little Sis (LS) was here (and the kids were not), she made a huge batch of avgolemono (Greek lemon egg soup) for me and some girlfriends. Tart and well-seasoned, it’s one of my favorite soups ever.  LS, of course, made it the “real” way, starting with a whole chicken and vat of water.  And that’s what I craved while the kids sat for exams and Project Exam Aftermath commenced here at home, but I didn’t have time for all that.  So, using some of the chicken stock I had stashed in the freezer, I came up with this “Greek-inspired” lemon soup.  Not authentic, to be sure, but making this quick, and somewhat more hearty, version gives me a little more time to get the house back in order.

Does this HazMat suit make me look fat?

Greek-Inspired Lemon Chicken Soup

Six cups chicken stock with chopped chicken

1 bay leaf

1 teaspoon oregano

1 teaspoon lemon zest
½ cup orzo (or rice)

2 eggs, separated

juice of one lemon

salt and pepper to taste

In a large pot, bring stock, bay leaf, oregano and lemon zest to a boil.  Stir in orzo.  As orzo cooks, whip eggs whites in a mixing bowl until soft peaks form.  Whisk in, individually, egg yolks.  Whisk in lemon juice.  When orzo is almost done, remove stock from heat, and remove and discard bay leaf.  Very gradually, stir in one cup of hot stock into egg mixture.  (This important step tempers the eggs, so they stay frothy and don’t curdle.)  Gently stir tempered egg mixture into stock.  Soup will be creamy-looking, and somewhat frothy.  If you want to be fancy, sprinkle fresh chopped parsley, or better still, fresh dill, on top and serve.

We Need To Cook.

“Mom, we need to cook.”

Were more inspiring, gratifying words ever spoken?

Darling Daughter (DD) and her darling friend (DF) indulged me this weekend, accompanying me to Julie & Julia, the movie based on the true story of an aspiring writer who, in a pique of resentment with her friends’ career successes, decides to tackle all 524 recipes in Julia Child’s opus, Mastering the Art of French Cooking Vol. 1.  Making her hastily-considered idea even whackier, Julie self-imposes a time limit of one year.  That’s right.  That's 524 recipes (many of them extraordinarily complicated) in 365 days.  In a cramped NYC studio apartment.  While working a full-time job.  Blogging all the while.  And ultimately, publishing her own book, Julie and Julia:  My Year of Cooking Dangerously.

Now that I’ve finally seen it, I'm embarrassed it took me so long to get there.

When I was growing up and learning to cook, Mom had an entire shelf of cookbooks I could thumb through and splatter on, including the venerable classics, The Joy of Cooking, with its endearing red ribbon bookmark and The Better Homes & Gardens Cookbook, with its recognizable red and white gingham cover.  There was also local favorite Charleston Receipts, which, just like an oven or a yard, appeared to be standard issue in every house on James Island.  And there was my very first cookbook, blandly titled Kids’ Cooking, which in fact, was my source for tuna salad.

I also could leaf through Mom’s older cookbooks, one with the titillating title, The Way To A Man’s Heart, which, if memory serves, included a recipe for a lettuce wedge with blue cheese dressing – the only type of salad a manly man would deign to eat.  Finally, of course, there was Julia Child’s master opus, Mastering The Art of French Cooking.

I used all Mom's books liberally – both for precise recipes and guided inspiration -- as I learned to simmer and bake and roast and saute.  All, that is, except Julia’s.

Julia’s was an overwhelming book, published in two volumes, each of which was 500-600 pages.  It was impractical, too; we had the paperback version, rendering each more similar to a chunky Michael Crichton novel than a reference book.  Is it possible it was thicker than it was wide?  I could hardly prop it open, much less flop it open.

Even more challenging for me, though, was that most recipes were so exotic I couldn’t even conceive of them, much less muster the ingredients.  This was in the mid 70s, when Parkay, not butter, graced most tables, garlic salt, not a garlic clove, was king, and well, who was to say that Cool Whip wasn't "real" whipped cream?

Even if, for example, I somehow managed to procure the three pounds of lean stewing beef and 24 tiny white onions needed for Julia’s legendary Boeuf Bourguignon, then what?  What about the "three cups of full-bodied young red wine" Julia ordained?  The Blue Nun Liebfraumilch our family kept on hand was clearly no substitute.

And beef aspic?  Really?  Who eats such things?  (Of course I read the recipe, but it was like reading a horror story.  I couldn’t put it down.)

Nevertheless, beef aspic and all, DD was enchanted by Julie & Julia.  I was inspired as well and before the lights went up, I determine to go directly to the bookstore to get my own copy of Mastering and immediately begin sauteeing the luscious mushrooms we'd seen in the movie.  (The phrase "food porn" comes to mind.)  Before I could get my own thoughts out, though, DD insisted that we had to go home and “cook something.”

"Mom, we need to cook."

Surprised, I tried to suppress my joy.  "What should we cook?" I asked.

"Something from that book," DD replied. "Something good.  Something like baked ziti."

DF quickly chimed in.  "I love baked ziti!  Do you have the recipe?"

Um.  Baked ziti?  French cuisine?  Julia Child?

You know.  That sounds perfect.  Let's cook.

DD's Baked Ziti (Without Yucky Ricotta)

This is an easy recipe, quickly assembled with any pre-made red sauce or marinara sauce.  I keep lots of homemade sauce in the freezer, though, with Italian sausage as my kids prefer.  Click here for the recipe.

½ box (about 8 ounces) ziti

2 ½ - 3 cups red sauce, heated

4 oz. fresh mozzarella cheese, cut in ½ cubes

½ - ¾ cup grated mozzarella, or grated Italian cheese mix (I used Sargento brand, which includes mozzarella, parmesan, provolone, asiago etc.)

Preheat oven to 350.  Spray an 8 x 8 baking dish with Pam. 

Cook ziti in a large pot of boiling water until almost done, or slightly chewy.  Drain well, and stir in sauce.  Stir in cubed cheese.  Pour into prepared baking dish and sprinkle grated cheese evenly over.  Bake until heated through and bubbling – about 20 minutes.

The Memory Game. (Curried Couscous with Cranberries and Pinenuts)

If I were still married, today would be my 24th wedding anniversary.

But I’m not, and it isn’t.

Not that today is particularly difficult or regretful for me. (Truly, there’s no pity partying Chez Wiles. I don’t need Kleenexes – or even sangria.) Today is just ... different.

I’m 46 years old, which means that for over half my life August 24 has held special significance. True, I’m now divorced, but none of those fiercely-contested -- or more nicely put, "not-coolly-discussed" -- court documents can spackle that particular groove in my memory.

Part of what I’m dealing with, of course, is simple emotion. Today's date evokes memories of both failure and success. The failure is obvious -- the demise of my marriage; however, severing that tie didn't obliterate the success came from it -- most notably my two remarkable children.

I won't ever be able to think of August 24 as just another day. Consequential dates aside, though, I believe other numbers can take on special significance, too, sometimes clogging and slowing the synapses of our minds.

How else to explain that I still remember the number of my PO box at the University of South Carolina in 1980? (81355, in case you wondered.) I also recall my college checking account number – 1107 4820 – at C&S Bank (which begat NationsBank which begat Bank of America.) I’m now a BoA customer, but when face-to-face with the teller at my neighborhood branch, I struggle to recall my current account number. More than once, I’ve proffered my outdated number. Why does this ancient information continue to occupy valuable brain space a quarter of a century later?

Smokey, my childhood cat, succumbed to feline leukemia before I went to college, but I remember her birthday still -- July 13. To be precise, Friday the 13th. (It was also my next door neighbor Dow’s birthday.) From high school, I remember Karen’s, Kellie’s, Lisa’s and Sharon’s birthdates. And Greg’s and Thomas’s. I feel badly that I can't dredge up Joan’s.

I can also name every single one of my grade school teachers. Unless you’re willing to pay up, don’t test me, because I’m not the slightest bit shaky. My first phone number was 795-2074. The last four digits of my current phone number are 4278, which I first learned by memorizing that four times two isn’t seven, it’s eight. I know. Whatever.

Wouldn’t my mind be better served by being able to recall useful information? Every August, I need to supply the kids’ social security numbers to their school. And every year, I have to look them up. And what about health insurance numbers? Wouldn’t I be better stashing those in my mind? Perhaps replacing the measurements for a perfectly proportioned quiche? After all, who eats quiche anymore? (Other than me.)

We can’t “pick” our memories, of course. Who knows what will stay and what will wash away with tomorrow’s wave of events? And who’s to say that, 20 years from now, one of the kids won’t say, remember that night we had lamb and couscous right before school started? Remember that stupid thing you said?

Time to get started on some new memories, I suppose. But first, I need to get the lamb on the grill. And put together a batch of cranberry-pinenut-couscous, which may be the quickest sidedish known to mankind. Or, at least, to me. So far as I can remember.

Curried Couscous with Cranberries and Pinenuts

1 cup uncooked couscous
1 ¼ cup chicken broth
¼ teaspoon curry powder
1 handful dried cranberries (Craisins), coarsely chopped
1 handful pinenuts, lightly toasted
handful of fresh parsley, minced

In a medium saucepan, bring chicken broth and curry powder to a boil. Stir in couscous, cover, and remove from heat. Let stand about five minutes (until broth is absorbed). Fluff with a fork, and lightly stir in cranberries, pinenuts and parsley. Ta-dah. You’re done!

School Is Great, School Is Good. (Pesto's Not Bad, Either.)

I know full well what time of year it is.

I don’t need the news anchors at WCNC reminding me of bus stop protocol, or classroom supply lists delivered by Mike the Mailman, or menacing 6-foot-tall “Back To School” banners billowing at every shopping center to prompt me to check my iPhone calendar.

It is time, time, time for my kids to get back to school.

Yes. I love Darling Daughter and Sensational Son, and I love the time we've shared this summer. But it's time to get those bodies back on the bus. I know this, because we have now completed our unofficial tour of Charlotte medical facilities. In the past 12 weeks, we've propped our feet in nearly every waiting room within a five-mile radius.

No kidding. With school sports, school activities and duh, school work, summer's the perfect time to catch up on routine medical check-ups. Yesterday, however, when I made the mistake of tallying them all up (not a proud admission, but still) I count that the three of us have flashed our insurance cards over 30 times – for appointments at dentists, pediatricians, therapists, allergists, shamans (OK, that last is a stretch) - since school let out.

This, despite that fact that one of us was here only two-thirds of the summer. This, despite that fact that another of us was here only half the summer.

Never mind the fact that we are all -- blessedly -- pretty darn healthy. Never mind the fact that our average age is a robust 24 – not an ailing 76.

Other local businesses may be limping along, but Tar Heel doctors are not suffering due to inattention on behalf of Charlotte moms. Anytime I’ve mentioned our various schedules to another mom (two dental appointments today, orthopedist yesterday, and the orthodontist earlier in the week!), she’ll trump me with her own medical professional schedule (endodontist yesterday, neurologist the day before, and the “down there” doctor later this week!)

I can’t compete with that. And -- hoo boy -- I don’t want to.

I can also tell it's time to pack those backpacks because the kids and I are far enough into summer and are oh-so-very-familiar with each other that I'm now feeling qualified – no, indeed, compelled -- to lead a few seminars these next few days Chez Wiles, including:

How To Turn Off A Light – For advanced attendees only, this seminar will also reveal tips for darkening the wily three-way lamp and the elusive closet light.

How To Close A Door – Upon successful completion, seminar attendees will be able to securely close – and lock! – front doors, back doors, French doors, screen doors, storm doors, cabinet doors, car doors, shower doors, refrigerator doors, barn doors (“xyz!”) and the oh-so-tricky garage door.

How To Return A Carton of Milk to the Refrigerator – Should talented attendees show preternatural ability, seminar will advance further to include “How To Dispose of Empty Beverage Containers.” (Seminar progression to be determined solely by seminar leader. Results not guaranteed.)

Yep. Although my Vitamin D levels are nearly back to normal, it seems I’m still a little on edge at this late point in the season. As I step out the back door, the signs of waning summer are there. The lawn is crispy. The mosquitos are the size of flying squirrels. The 4" basil plants I set out in early April are now 24” and bolting.

I can’t control when school starts. That’s firm – August 26. And despite the latest, greatest bug repellents, zappers and barriers, I can't resolve the mosquito problem. But I can do something about that basil. An abundance of basil can lead to only one thing -- an abundance of pesto. And pesto pasta -- which everyone loves -- helps ease us ever closer to the start of school.

(Brrrrr-iiinnnngg! It that a school bell I hear? Love you, kids! Mean it! Have a good day!)

Pesto Pasta

Because I currently have it on hand, I added the bright taste of fresh parsley and mint to this pesto. A squeeze of fresh lemon or lemon zest wouldn't be out of place, either.

2 cups (packed) fresh basil leaves

1/4 cup (packed) fresh parsley (optional)

1/4 cup (packed) fresh mint (optional)

1/2 cup pine nuts

1 clove garlic, chopped

1/4 cup fresh grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt (or more, to taste)

generous grinding of black pepper

Blend all ingredients except olive oil in food processor. Gradually drizzle in olive oil, pulsing until a coarse paste forms. Taste and season as needed. Recipe makes enough to sauce about 1 1/2 pounds pasta. Use as needed, freezing remainder in tightly sealed zipper bags.