For A Good Time, Just Add Water.

I opened a bank account yesterday. Kinda.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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

Everyone Has An Opinion, And In Mine, Reunions Are Terrifying.

When I was pregnant (well after Bill Haley and His Comets flamed out, thank you very much, but well before the sun rose on Green Day, or practically any other band heard on Sirius 26), I found all kinds of ways to dodge The Question:

“What are you going to name the baby?”

Even now, when I hear someone else – even a total stranger – being asked The Question, I want to shriek, “Don’t answer!  It’s a trick!  You’re about to have your bubble burst, your dreams shattered!  You’re exposing your tender and most intimately-considered plans to a gut-sucking, albeit cape-less, emotional marauder of comic book proportions.” 

No, I don’t think I’m overstating.

We hear stories of newborns named, unexpectedly, after obstetricians, nurses, and, if you ascribe to urban myth, hospital food.  Surely you’ve heard of the tiny twins afflicted with the unfortunate monikers of “Orangello” and “Limongello,” ostensibly for the gelatin flavors the new mom most enjoyed post-delivery?  Truth be told, who could blame her?  After all the baby-naming babble and umbilical cord snipping and opinion-injection of every English-speaking person on the planet – and perhaps a few Aussies – it’s easy to lose track of your own opinion.

Did I really name my kid ‘Orangello’?  Do I even like ‘Orangello’?  Didn’t I hear about a school bully named ‘Orangello’?  Wait.  Am I hungry?  Are you going to eat that chicken?  Can we have Jello for dessert?  Maybe banana-strawberry flavored?

High school reunions, it seems, evoke a similar reaction.  Everyone has an opinion.  And the current universal opinion seems to be that I’m a smack-talking, lily-livered, Scotch-drinking, feather-shedding chicken butt.

I recently wrote about my ambivalence – fine, call the spade by its name, “terror” – regarding my upcoming 30^th high school reunion.  I couldn’t believe how many people chirped up.   You have to go.  30^th is the best ever.  Everyone’s counting on you.  You’ll regret it if you don’t.

Holy cow.  (Or, as my mom’s husband says, “sanctified bovine.”)

I’m going already.  But until then, I’m working my butt off.  Actually, that’s not accurate.  I know you can’t “work” your butt off.  Nor can you “talk” someone’s ear off.  And saddest of all, you can’t “laugh” your ass off. 

I’ve tried. If all it took was working, talking and laughing, I'd be the skinniest person around.  And my friends wouldn't have anything to hook their sunglasses onto.  But I’ve tugged on those “fat jeans.”  Trust me, everything's still there.

I’ve got a few months to go, though.  I just need to work out more.  And eat better. 

This Black Bean and Corn Salad is a good start.  Easy to make, lots of protein, lots of fiber and low in fat.  It’s really, really good served as  a salsa with Fritos Scoopers, too.  But for now, I’m passing on Fritos.  Jello, too.

Besides.  I heard that Orangello might make it to the reunion.

Black Bean and Corn Salad With Lime Dressing

1 can black beans, rinsed and drained well

1 can sweet corn, rinsed and drained well

½ cup finely chopped red onion

½ cup finely chopped red bell pepper

juice of two limes (about ¼ cup)

¼ cup canola oil

½ teaspoon chili powder

½ teaspoon kosher salt

¼ teaspoon fresh ground pepper

1 avocado, peeled and sliced, or optionally, halved

Combine all ingredients except avocado.  Stir gently and refrigerate until well chilled.  Serve over avocado slices.

The Top 10 “Overheard In My House” 2009. In Other Words, Can You Not Hear Yourself Speaking?

I love this time of year – not just because of all the holiday gatherings and new movie releases and celebratory drinks (Bacon Bloody Mary, anyone?), but also because we’re finally, finally, finally reaching the conclusion of those irritating Snuggie commercials, featuring -- inexplicably -- full-grown adults oblivious to the fact that they are wearing unusually-flammable bed coverings in lieu of clothing to sporting events.

Thank the advertising geniuses that be, those mawkish Lexus “December Holiday Event” ads are also winding down.  Which means I no longer have to ask, every time one airs (which feels like every six and half minutes), “Cheese and rice.  Did she really have no idea she was getting a car?  And where did he get that big-ass bow?  At the big-ass Wal-Mart?”  (Sorry, Mom.  I know how you feel about that kind of talk.)

Actually, what I love most about this week between Christmas and New Year’s Day is the cornucopia of lists proclaimed and broadcasted in every media outlet:  The 50 Best Movies of 2009, Most Popular Baby Names for 2009 (Jayden?   Really?), YouTube Top 2009 Videos (including the JK Wedding Video I adored) Noteworthy People Who Died In 2009, and the Top Ten Cryptozoology Stories of 2009.  (Honest folks, you can’t just make this stuff up.  Or, considering the cryptozoology example, maybe you can.)

I guess I’m so enamored of these 365-days-summarized-in-bullet-points, because I’m an unrepentant listmaker myself.  My own year-end wrap-up comes straight from posts I’ve made this year on Facebook.  So here now, the Top 10 “Overheard In My House*” quotes from 2009.

*Note:  These are actual quotes, but to protect both the innocent and the guilty, I’m not naming names.  Although yes, you could probably guess.

Overheard In My House -- 2009

1. My child, “I didn’t know what you meant.”  Me, “When I said, ‘Get the wet towels off the floor,’ you didn’t know what I meant?”
2. From a child trying out for a sports team: "I don't want to practice. Practicing doesn't make any difference at all. Everyone knows that."  Me: [Silent.  But only because rolling eyes don’t make any noise, and with enough practice -- which I have -- neither do grinding teeth.]
3. From a teenager, “You know, I might want to go to the University of South Carolina.  It looks like you don’t have to know what you want to do there, but you still get to have a lot of fun."
4. Me, "No. That would be three sleepovers in a row. Come Sunday, you would be so awful that I would do something awful and that means I'd get arrested." My child, " Just let me do it, Mom. I can break you out of jail." 
5. Four weeks before Christmas, spoken by a child who should know better, "I know it's $500, Mom, but it's better for you, because then you’d only have to get me one gift."
6. From a child, hoping to go to a friend’s house, "I DO SO understand. I've got to do my homework, take a shower, pick up my room and eat dinner first. So do you think I can go over there in about five minutes?"
7. Me, “You’re hungry?  How about a bowl of cereal, or some scrambled eggs, or a quesadilla, or a peanut butter sandwich, or some nachos, or a bowl of soup, or some buttered pasta?”  My child, sighing, “No.  There’s nothing to eat in this house.”
8. Son, "Mom, where's the rug?" Me, "You mean the 6 x 8 rug that was at the top of the stairs, which I rolled up and removed FIVE days ago for cleaning?" Son, "Yeah. That one. Where is it?"
9. My child, “I don't have any homework today. Unless you count those vocab words. And reading. And that presentation that's due tomorrow. And there's a math test, too. But, you know, you can't really study for math. So, nothing, really.”
10. And the prizewinning quote (drumroll, please), overheard in my house, 2009, spoken by a teenager, “When you write down what I say, I sound stupid.”

Ahem.  Nuff said.  I may, however, need a little something sweet for my kiddoes after posting this blog.  Fortunately, everyone here loves fresh fruit.  This unusual and simple salad should do the trick.

Minted Grapefruit, Cherry and Strawberry Salad

Two red grapefruits, peeled and sectioned

2 cups fresh cherries, pitted

2 cups strawberries, halved or quartered

Dressing

3 tablespoons orange juice (or Triple Sec)

3 tablespoons honey

3 sprigs mint

Combine dressing ingredients in a small bowl and let macerate for at least 30 minutes.  In a large bowl, gently combine fruit.  Pour dressing over, straining out the mint.  Serve chilled.

Keeping My Cool When Kanye, Joe and Serena Cannot.

With apologies to my Mom, who, in addition to always encouraging me to wear clean panties, strongly cautions me against blogging inappropriate language.  Sorry, Mom.

"He’s a jackass."

That’s what President Obama replied when asked his opinion of egocentric rapper Kanye West’s treatment of ingénue country singer Taylor Swift at the recent MTV video music awards.  (For a clip from the awards show, click here.)

(Soon-to-be-former) ABC reporter Terry Moran, apparently so gleeful to have harvested this "off-the-record" tidbit, scarcely paused before sharing the scoop on Twitter (hence my “soon-to-be-former” assumption).

Although the President’s statement was made "off the record," I heartily agree -- two thumbs up to The Chief.  But only "off the record," because as a parent, I’ve got to come up with a more delicately worded response when my kids ask my opinion of  Kanye's literal “upstaging” of Taylor.

Recent news stories about adult behavior challenge my parental obligation to calmly respond and explain without judgment.  I had to edit my wording when I talked to the kids about SC Congressman Joe Wilson’s recent outburst (“You lie!”) in last week’s joint session of Congress.  And tempestuous tennis superstar Serena Williams’ thuglike-threats at the US Open left me all but speechless.

I know I should regard these recent news items as “teachable moments.”  But cheese and rice.  Cheese.  And.  Rice. (Is that OK, Mom?)  Does anyone else feel that civilization as we know it is rapidly swirling down a super-sized toilet?

Look.  Although I’m from the South, I’m not insisting on magnolia-manners or plantation-politeness here.  Manners misdemeanors abound Chez Wiles.  My days of expectedly chanting, “And what do you say?” have long passed.   After a third elbows-on-the-table infraction at any meal, I just look the other way.  And my kids give me props for being a fearsome burp contest contender.  (The trick isn’t swallowing air.  It's being patient.)

Still.  WTH?  What.  The.  Aitch?  (Again, apologies to Mom.)   Has it become cool not to keep your cool in public?

How do we explain to our kids that bad behavior isn’t cool – even when it’s rewarded with clamoring reporters and unending television coverage and, in the instance of Congressman Wilson, vastly increased financial support? How to explain that some people, despite extravagant blessings of fame and wealth and talent and power, can't exercise the basic self-control a kindergartner?  How to convince a teenager that being a good guy will pay off in the long run?  Really.  I promise.  No kidding.

For me it's an ongoing challenge.  Who knows what could confront us on tomorrow morning's Today Show?  I shudder to think.  Right now, though, it's one news story at a time, and I'm hoping that somehow, some time, in a galaxy not too far away, our kids will derive some positive lesson from this outrageous -- and unacceptable -- behavior.  I'm reminded once again that the future is in their hands.  All we parents can do is offer some basic guidance.  And of course, some basic role-modeling in ways to keep your cool, including this somewhat unusual, scrumptious cucumber salad.

Oh.  And one more thing.  Kanye West?  Off the record?  He's a jackass.

*Keeping Your Cool Cucumber Salad*

1 seedless cucumber, peeled, cut in half lengthwise, then sliced

1 tablespoon minced fresh chives

1 teaspoon toasted sesame seed oil (or 1 tablespoon regular sesame seed oil)

1 tablespoon white balsamic or rice wine vinegar

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

toasted sesame seeds for garnish (optional)

Toss first four ingredients together. Season generously with salt and pepper. Chill. Sprinkle with toasted sesame seeds, if desired, and serve.

Going With What You've Got (Gingered Carrot & Pineapple Salad)

I couldn't help myself.

Yes, the temperature has shifted – I now shuttle to the morning bus stop in cropped pants, not shorts.  Yes, Labor Day came and went earlier this week.  And yes, I know the rule about not wearing white after Labor Day.

Too bad.  I’m not quite ready to stow my cute white denim clamdiggers with my bathing suits and cover-ups and other wait-‘til-next-summer clothes.  As ready as I am to embrace fall, I can’t quite let go of summer.

These clamdiggers are some kind of white, too.  Not “off-white.”  Not “winter white.”  And certainly not “cream.”  Nope, these are bleached-bright, bone-in-the-desert white.  The kind of dazzling white you can only get in a dentist’s chair.  The kind you wish you'd worn when you were 15, and your best friend's bedroom had a black light.  Or better still, when you were shopping in the back room at Spencer’s in the mall.

Sometimes you just gotta go with what you've got.

Earlier this week, I got to watch Darling Daughter’s (DD’s) first cross-country meet.  Actually, this particular race was a relay, which is a fun and relaxing way for a first-time runner to compete, because running only one mile in a three-mile race can take the pressure off.

Right.  When I get there, I learn that another runner had gotten sick, so DD had been “called up.”   She'd be running the second leg on team with much more experienced runners – a team which previously had been expected to win the race.

The team had to go with what they’d got.  And they got DD.

So much for a fun and relaxing event.  I was now in full-on Prilosec-Popping-Mom mode.  The other two girls have had a lot more training.  One, in particular, is a truly gifted runner.  How did my little girl end up in this mix?

I positioned myself on the course so I could watch a good portion of the second leg.  My eyes flicked frantically between the course and my watch, trying to predict when DD would emerge from the woods.  And then she appeared, smack in the middle of the leaders.  I took in her run, watching her stride lengthen, her cheeks puff and her arms pump as she concentrated on the runner just ahead of her – not on me as I mindlessly shrieked encouragement.  (“Mom.  You’ve got to stop.  It’s embarrassing.  She can’t even hear you,” her brother later advised.)

Across the lake, I could see her teammate waiting for the hand-off.  DD’s brother, an experienced runner, had positioned himself farther down the trail, so he could let her know when it was time to dig deep and sprint. As DD ran past me, I stopped breathing, unsure whether she could keep up with the forerunners, whether she had the energy and ability to last those last few minutes.

OK.  Did I really doubt her?  Call me Thomas.  Still, all of the sudden, my girl was right there at the front, making the tag.  I took another look – to make sure she was done – and re-inflated my lungs.  After DD made her (leisurely) way over to where her teammate would soon finish, her brother noted admiringly, “She didn’t even break a sweat.”

As predicted, DD’s new teammate finished first.  Her team had gone with what they had -– DD – and that was enough.

Later, DD shared with me that she’s a bit nervous about next week’s meet – where she’ll run as an individual, not as a member of a relay team.  “I think people will be expecting something of me,” she said.

“Maybe not expecting something of you,” I offered cautiously, “but maybe interested to see what you can do.”


In my mind, though, I want to do whatever I can to help her live up to those expectations – which admittedly, isn’t much.  Just like those white clamdiggers, I’ve got to go with what I’ve got – and that’s cooking.

I can't force her to sleep more or practice harder, but I can offer gracious plenty nutrition – starting with this tasty and healthy carrot salad.

Gingered Carrot & Pineapple Salad

Excellent with grilled fish.

3 carrots, grated

2 cups fresh chopped pineapple

1 teaspoon fresh grated ginger

1/2 juicy lime, juiced

1 teaspoon soy sauce

1 tablespoon honey

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1/4 teaspoon curry powder

fresh ground pepper

kosher salt (to taste)

Combine all ingredients in a large glass or ceramic bowl.  Chill until serving.  Keeps well for 3-4 days.

The Measure Of A Successful Summer. (Among Other Things, A Second Artichoke Salad)

I’m counting my blessings.

It’s Day One of Everyone’s-Back-Home, and after fewer than 24 hours, the kids are already well-immersed in friends and visiting and storytelling and outings.

After the five hour ride home from camp Friday, Darling Daughter (DD), didn’t even make it into the house before loudly reuniting with a darling friend whose mom, upon hearing the shrieks from nearly a block away, rushed over, anticipating a bike accident or at the very least, an attempted abduction, but instead, found two 12-year-olds greeting each other in the fashion fitting a four-week separation.

(Snarky Son, a.k.a. SS,  wryly observed, “I don’t get girls.” Out of context, these may be words he’ll live to regret.)

So the kids are home, and my number one activity is now: Laundry. Lots. Loads. Lurid. A few items of my own needed to be laundered as well, but there’s no way I’d subject my clothes to that mosh pit. I wouldn't even put the dog blanket in.

By the numbers, I’ve done eight super-sized loads already. The volume of dingy, dirty, soggy, sandy items expelled from the kids' footlockers was so massive, I got to micro-sort. Three loads of whites, and then, one each of navy blue, black, khaki/gray, red/pink and light green/light blue. The whites were first to be done. Sadly, despite generous dousings of Clorox, they're still dingy. But done.

Each load plainly tilts toward one child or the other. Setting aside the five sets of towels and three sets of sheets, SS took the “whites” loads in a landslide. His victory included, among other things, a baker’s dozen T-shirts (10 with printing, three without) and four and half pairs of socks. The missing sock doesn’t give me a moment’s pause. Its very absence indicates it was not the better half.

Another pair of his socks appear to have been tie-dyed at camp – mysteriously, only from the heel up. Can he explain this? Do I even want to know?

From the navy blue load, DD could claim five pairs of shorts and three tops, but still couldn’t be declared the winner. SS took the title with four shirts plus 10 pairs of shorts. Better still (from a story-telling standpoint), two of those pairs of shorts didn't originally belong to him. One pair belonged to a cabinmate, and the other to a girl he met at a dance. Don’t ask. I didn't.

When it comes to bringing home other people's goods, however, SS only takes the red ribbon. DD, our blue-ribbon-winner, brought home an expensive Vineyard Vines belt from her “Johnny” (camp code for “boyfriend”). Again, I’m not asking. I am, however, cringing every time the phone rings, anticipating calls from irate parents.

Back on the laundry front (because really, I can no longer wrap my mind around the casualness of the camp clothes-swap), SS also took the prize for the light green/light blue load, which should’ve been an easy win for DD, since these are two of her favorite clothing colors. However, 15 pairs of boxers in the load put SS over the top. In truth, though, only 10 pairs made it to the finish line – the dresser drawer. The other road-weary, limp and threadbare pairs went directly into the trash.

There's ample space for all these clean clothes in their rooms, though, because after weeding out their closets while they were gone, I carted three lawn-and-leaf-sized plastic yard bags of old clothes to the Salvation Army. So far, neither kid has detected nary a missing item.

In the midst of all this sorting, washing, drying and folding, SS was brazen enough to ask how much money I owed him for writing to me from camp.

Now, this isn’t entirely out of line. He's only 14 years old, which means his brain development is, ahem, incomplete. And yes, I had agreed to pay one dollar for each well-written letter home. However, given that four of his last four letters included the phrase they’re forcing me to write, it's safe to assume that he’s not going to rake in the big bucks.

The four-week tally? At this point, it looks like SS: 9, DD: 12. But wait. Three of the SS letters were only one sentence, which means they didn’t nearly meet the well-written criteria. Final payout: $6.00 to SS, $12.00 to DD. That's right. The kid who already has more cash than she can count (or even locate) earned double.

Add it all up, and it’s already been a fairly successful summer Chez Wiles. I even came up with not one, but two, artichoke salad recipes this past week, which means that while the kids gorge on waffles, bacon and berries for supper (for the best waffle recipe ever, from my first blog post ever, click here), I get to polish off the last of the artichokes.

That, you can count on.

Double Artichoke Salad

1 box frozen artichoke hearts, thawed

1 well-cleaned fresh artichoke heart, shaved or sliced thinly

1 tablespoon capers, drained

4-5 long, thin strips of parmiggiano-reggiano (use a vegetable peeler)

2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley

Boston lettuce leaves, well-cleaned and dried

For dressing

1 ½ tablespoons white balsamic vinegar

1 ½ tablespoons fresh lemon juice

½ teaspoon kosher salt (or more to taste)

generous grinding of black pepper

¼ cup extra virgin olive oil

In a large bowl (a lidded bowl helps), combine salad ingredients – except lettuce. In a separate small bowl, whisk vinegar, lemon juice, salt and pepper together. Gradually whisk in oil, to form an emulsion. Pour over artichokes mixture and toss well (or better still, seal with lid and shake). Spoon dressed ingredients over lettuce leaves, arranged to form a cup. Season with additional salt and pepper as needed.

Living Life To The Fullest -- At Camp And At Home.

Nearly impossible to believe, but mere hours from now, I’ll be en route to Arapahoe, North Carolina to retrieve my two happy campers, Snarky Son (SS) and Darling Daughter (DD).

A friend warns that the kids will have changed. Hair length and skintone are obvious, of course. Four weeks without a barber, and sunscreen left in the hands of disinterested teenagers will do that. But I’ve also been advised to be alert for changes in height and shoe size, posture and confidence, attitude and – for lack of a better word – vocabulary. (This last is true. SS returned with some real eye-wideners last summer. And a couple of eyebrow-lifters, too.)

When I was little, I believed our house was rigged with cameras – all of them, naturally, focused on me. I’d perform, ahem, behave, accordingly. I’d sing, I’d dance, I’d pose for hours on end. I’d tuck myself into bed, hands folded preciously across my skinny little chest, waist-length hair arranged just so on my pillow. A little narcissistic? Yes. A tad creepy? No kidding. The thing is, I felt that people, namely my parents, noticed my every little gesture.

I have no doubt I'll see differences in the kids on Friday. I can't help but wonder whether they'll see me differently, too?

In DD’s most recent letter, she declared her intention to “live life to the fullest” (LLTTF) her last week at camp. This from a girl I constantly attempt to harangue and badger into optimism! (Truly. We have glasses here at home with the words “Ottimista” and “Pessimista” printed at the half-full/empty line. Suffice to say that DD cringes when I chant these dreaded Italian words. BTW, harassment doesn't necessarily evoke cheerfulness.)

I simply adore DD's enthusiasm and it occurs to me that I, too, have been LLTTF this summer. For the first time since the divorce, I had the luxury of relaxing, even slightly, the mantle of parenthood. So albeit unexpectedly, I’ve indulged myself these past few weeks. Visits to the spa and salon. Trips to Boston and Charleston. Potato salad for breakfast. Popcorn and wine for dinner. (Fine. Wine for dessert, too.) Not to mention the sheer ease of laundry and dishes and shopping and housecleaning for one. (Hey! Has everybody brought their dirty clothes to the laundry room? Why yes, I have!)

Make no mistake. I missed my kids. Terribly. There were days when I scarcely knew what to do – how to breathe – without them. I scanned the camp website every morning, checking for photos of them. I wrote them daily -- and sometimes, even more often. I tackled their rooms, cleaning out closets and adding a level of organization which they'll surely appreciate -- but only when they are parents themselves. OK. Maybe not even then. But truly, I’ll be thrilled to see them Friday.

Because whether they realize it or not, LLTTF these past few weeks has been good for all of us.

Yes, I'll eagerly tackle the laundry and attitudes and even the language they'll bring home with them. But for dinner tonight, I indulged myself one last time with a dish the kids would eat no way, no how -- artichoke salad. In fact, I was feeling so hedonistic, I made up with two artichoke salad recipes – and ate both! Here’s the first, along with a reminder from DD -- to LLTTF.

Artichoke, Olive, Fennel and Spinach Salad

1 box frozen artichoke hearts, thawed
½ bulb fennel, shaved or sliced thinly
12 kalamata olives, sliced
1 teaspoon fresh grated lemon zest
1 rib celery, sliced thinly, on the diagonal
2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley
fresh baby spinach
For dressing
1 ½ tablespoons white balsamic vinegar
1 ½ tablespoons fresh lemon juice
½ teaspoon kosher salt (or more to taste)
generous grinding of black pepper
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil

In a large bowl (a lidded bowl helps), combine salad ingredients – except spinach. In a separate small bowl, whisk vinegar, lemon juice, salt and pepper together. Gradually whisk in oil, to form an emulsion. Pour over artichokes mixture and toss well (or better still, seal with lid and shake). Spoon dressed ingredients over a bed of raw baby spinach. Season with additional salt and pepper as needed.

Kids At Camp. Mom Not. All Is Well.

Day 18 of the Kids-At-Camp-Mom-Not program. At this point, though, I suppose the program could be renamed the Eight-Days-Remain program. As in, Eight Days Remain until I drive five and half hours to retrieve two exhausted, over-sunned, iPod- and mobile-phone-deprived campers for what will surely be some top quality car time with me. Hoo boy. Yep. Best to strap on those seat belts. That re-entry could be a little rocky.

Unexpectedly, I’ve been rather enjoying myself in their absence. I’d anticipated, after dropping them at camp 18 days ago, that I’d make the lonely return trip awash in tears, wracked by sobs so debilitating that I'd have to pull over to the shoulder and get myself together.

Um. Didn’t happen. I did get to listen to whatever I wanted on the car CD player, though, all the way home. And I got to sing. My songs. Loudly. Repeatedly. And off-key.

Originally, I’d thought it possible that I’d get a call from Kleenex manufacturer Kimberly Clark, thanking me for my singular increased tissue usage, which had prompted spiking stock prices. Hmm. Well. Looks like there are still plenty of tissues here, so I’m not worried about missing that call.

I had even boldly predicted that, for the four weeks they were at camp, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from getting up in the night to check on the kids, only to be reminded, sadly, that they’re not here. Right. Turns out, I got re-trained pretty darn quickly. I don't have to check. They’re not here. I'm OK with that.

I know I should feel guilty about how easy this has been for me. ‘Cause I really do love my kids and bask in their company. And they both know that. But it's only four weeks, and I've been making the most of it. And the fact is, the kids are doing everything they can to make sure I don't miss them.

Just look at an excerpt from the letter Mike The Mailman delivered today from Snarky Son (SS) – Not much to say, um, they’re forcing me to write. I’m having loads of fun … send candy!

Um, I love you, too?

And this, from Darling Daughter (DD), There are 10 days left of camp. I can’t believe it’s almost over. I don’t want to leave!

That's all right. Anyone could read between the lines on that one. She's desperate for me, right?

Let’s just say that I'm not counting on a Disney-type moment when I retrieve them next weekend. I well remember last summer, when SS made his return trip from camp to reality – and chores, rules, veggies, required-footwear and poop-scooping. He wasn't home 24 hours before he asked, in all seriousness, whether he could return to camp for another four weeks. What a lovable kid.

Lucky for me, I’ve still got another eight days to relish ... um, mourn ... their absence. And there's no better way to do it than with one of my favorite – and their least favorite – dishes. Potato salad.

I really do believe that this recipe (based on my mom’s) is the best ever. It's very old-fashioned and very simple – no boiled eggs, no bell peppers, no ornamental paprika and none of that yellow food coloring my grandmother occasionally called upon to give her salad just the right appearance.

And the way I eat it -- starting the day with breakfast and ending the day as bedtime snack -- it’ll be long gone before the kids return to reality. Lucky for them -- and me.

Old Fashioned Potato Salad

2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes (about 5)

3 ribs celery, sliced

1 large kosher dill pickle, cubed

1/2 large sweet onion (Vidalia or Maui), diced

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 cup mayonnaise

1 1/2 tablespoons yellow mustard (or slightly more, to taste)

generous grind of black pepper

Put whole, unpeeled potatoes in a large pot of salted water. Bring water to a boil, reduce heat somewhat and simmer until fork tender. Drain, let cool slightly, peel and cut in rough 1/2 inch dice. Stir in celery, pickle and onions. Stir in about half of the mayonnaise and all of the mustard. Continue stirring in remaining mayonnaise as needed until moistened. Stir in pepper and additional salt if needed. Chill well and serve!

Could I Have Phantom Kid Syndrome?

Today is Day One of the Kids-At-Camp-Mom-At-Home experiment, and I’ve got to confess, there have already been a few glitches. Not with the kids -- you can be sure they are fabulous and achieved the “Mom who?” stage within minutes of my departure yesterday. Nope -- I’m the old dog who can’t learn new tricks.

To my credit, after waking up at 5:30 this morning, I did remember that it is summer, so I knew I could burrow back down for another hour or so of nightmares about my 14-year-old-son driving. Before dozing off to those chilling images, though, I got up to look in on the kids, who natch, weren’t there. Oops.

When I woke back up at 7:00a, with sunlight lasering into the room and Lionel (the feline alarm clock) clawing at my toes, it seemed like a perfect day to support my local Starbucks. (True. Any day is the perfect day for a 'Bux outing.) Darling Daughter is also a fan, so I decided to treat my girl to a carton of her fave – vanilla milk.

Double oops. And I don't drink milk. Think it’ll keep for four weeks? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure it wouldn't survive the shipping.

Medical experts say that some amputee patients have sensations, including pain, in a limb that is no longer there. Phantom limb syndrome is what it’s called, I believe. I’m no doctor -- I don't even play one on TV -- but I think I may have phantom “kid” syndrome. They’re no longer here, but to me, it feels as if they are. To make matters more real, I’m considering going upstairs right now and flipping on the lights in Snarky Son’s bathroom and bedroom. Later tonight, when I go back upstairs, I’ll yell down, “Get up here right now and turn off these lights!” And I’ll get the same response as if SS were here. Crickets.

But we (the royal feline and I) are working it out. We’ve got plans. Big plans. OK. Lionel’s plans are actually the same as always: Eat, yawn, sleep, stalk. Repeat. On occasion, act indignant.

I, however, have compiled an absurdly long and ridiculously hopeful To Do List. Come on, now. What makes me think I can wire and install a ceiling fan by myself? Or clean out and organize the attic in 95 degree heat?

Making matters more ridiculous, I foolishly continue tacking items onto The List. Think I can wallpaper the bathroom tomorrow? I've never wallpapered so much as a shoebox. Write a novel in three weeks? Um. These one page blogs pretty much max me out.

I’ll have more to occupy myself in the next day or so, though, when I can commence stalking my own prey: Mike the Mailman. Seeing as how SS attended camp last year, Mike already knows the drill. Before he even gets to my yard (where I wait impatiently on the front steps), he’ll shout out, “No letter today, Cheryl!” Or, “You got two, today, Cheryl!” (“Cheryl” is the name on all of my bills. I’ve never had the heart to tell him I’m only called that when I owe someone money. Or am in trouble. Or both.)

I’m hopeful about receiving letters this week. And I have reason to be. As the kids and I made the trek to camp, I beseeched, coerced, and ultimately, bribed them to write home. We struck a deal at one dollar per well-written letter. BTW, a note that begins, “Dear Mom, Camp is great” does not pass the “well-written” test. Nor does any letter with “Dear Mom, Please send me …” as its auspicious opener. Writing BIG does not qualify as writing WELL, either.

In fact, until I get a letter, I think I'm going to disregard The List. I'll consider it my own form of protest. Kind of like a hunger strike, except there's no way I'm going to let myself go hungry. With the kids away, I can cook whatever I want -- just for me -- starting with this tangy, crispy Mexican chopped salad.

Mexican Chopped Salad with Spicy Butttermilk Lime Dressing

Dressing (Note: I like my dressing thin, but if you like it thicker, use more sour cream and a bit less buttermilk.)
2 tablespoons sour cream

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

1 small clove of garlic, minced

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper (or more to taste)

juice of 1 lime (at least 1 tablespoon)

1 cup buttermilk

fresh ground pepper

Salad

1/2 avocado, cut in 1/2 inch dice

1/2 cup diced jicama

1/2 of a 15-ounce can of chickpeas (garbanzo beans) rinsed and drained

kernels cut from one raw cob of corn (about 1/2 cup)

1/2 pound shrimp, sprinkled with Old Bay seasoning, grilled or seared in a hot skillet

romaine heart, chopped

Make dressing. Stir together sour cream and mayonnaise until smooth. Using butcher knife, mince garlic with 1/2 teaspoon of kosher salt, to make a paste. Scrape garlic paste into sour cream mixture, and stir in cayenne pepper and lime juice. Stir in buttermilk. Season with additional salt and fresh ground pepper as needed. Chill for at least an hour or overnight, to allow flavors to meld and mellow.

Compose salad. On a bed of chopped romaine, arrange remaining ingredients, topping with the warm shrimp. Pour dressing (as needed) over.

Just Like They Make It In Peru.

Just to be clear, I will not be cooking guinea pig tomorrow.  Will not.

Ditto for beef heart.  Not gonna do it.

This is relevant, because for the past four months, my daughter's sixth grade humanities class has been working on "International Day."  Students are assigned countries from around the world, researching the culture, geography, history and yes, cuisine.  The only part requiring parental assistance -- or more accurately, parental intervention -- is the cuisine portion.  For tomorrow night's International Day Festival, we're to bring food representative of the student's assigned country.

Perfect.  Because really, who better to intervene than me?

Of course it's not that easy.  Never is.  Darling Daughter's assigned country is Peru.  Riiiiiiiiiiiiiggghhht.  Peru.

A quick Google search turns up a number of recipes, including such national favorites as beef heart and guinea pig.  Apparently, beef heart (anticuchos) is a popular casserole dish.  I actually enjoy a good casserole, but this one doesn't have to touch my tastebuds for me to know that I'm anti-anticuchos.  Guinea pigs (cuyes) can be prepared any number of ways -- grilled, roasted, fried, stewed and baked.  (No mention of Bubba Gump-style gumbo, pilaf and scampi.)  However, since none of the cuyes actually survive to spin the wheels in their little cages another day, I can't go there, either.

I interrogate Darling Daughter:  Why couldn't you get France?  Croissants, boeuf bourgogne, coq au vin?  Sign me up.  How about England?  Shepherd's pie may not be the most sought-after dish in middle school, but at least it's familiar.  And Mexico?  Hello, four-one-one, can you give me the number to Taco Bell?  

I'd even go with Australian Vegemite (yeast paste) sandwiches before noshing on a pet.   Or a rodent.  Or a pet rodent.

(As an aside, it does tickle my funnybone to imagine going to my neighborhood Harris Teeter and asking Frank the Butcher for a couple dozen guinea pigs, gutted, skinned and butterflied as described in one recipe.  But I digress.)

Hey!  Isn't Juan Valdez of the coffee commercials from Peru?  My dear friends at Starbucks could cater!  Except, sadly, a Google search indicates that Juan isn't from Peru.  He's from Colombia.  Which means he's got other problems on his plate.  And probably wishes he lived in Peru.

Still, I may be on to something.  A Peruvian beverage might be just the ticket.  Pisco sours look interesting.  But I suspect Darling Daughter would be transferred to another school, posthaste, if I were to serve Peruvian brandy to 100 kids and parents.

Just when I'm ready to throw up my hands, I see it.  Quinoa Salad.  Who knew?  Even though I've never made it before, I'm certain it will work.   And given the alternative, I bet I can even get Darling Daughter to give it a taste.  More to come ...

PS -- Darling Daughter concurs that the salad was very tasty and should become a regular staple here at the Wiles house.  It may not be authentic, as I adjusted some of the quantities to my taste, but still, it's very good!

Quinoa Salad

6 cups cooked quinoa (more, of course, if you're cooking for 100), cooled

1 jalapeno pepper, seeded and finely chopped

1 seedless cucumber, cut in fine dice

2 roma tomatoes, diced

1/4 cup fresh mint, chopped

1/3 cup fresh lime juice

2/3 cup extra virgin olive oil

2 teaspoons kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

1 head iceberg lettuce, shredded (optional)

In a large bowl, whisk together lime juice, olive oil, salt and pepper until creamy.  Gently fold in remaining ingredients.  If desired, serve over bed of shredded lettuce.  Garnish with additional mint leaves if desired.  Be glad you're not eating guinea pig.

Looks As If I Need To Make My Own Luck

I am, without a doubt, a see-a-penny-pick-it-up, jinx-you-owe-me-a-Coke, lift-your-feet-over-the-railroad-tracks kind of girl.  (I still raise my feet at the railroad crossing by South Windermere in Charleston -- even though those tracks were extricated years ago.)

I have limits, of course.  Despite having a baseball player in the house, I've never indulged in the lucky-unwashed-socks, inside-out-dorky-looking-rally-cap, jockstrap-over-the-head approach to altering life's courses.  Given my age and gender, that's better for all of us.

Still, for much of my life I've felt "luck" was on my side.  I'm somewhat embarrassed to consider how many times I've said, verbatim, I am the luckiest person I know.

I have been lucky -- particularly when it comes to lovable, quick-minded, fun-to-be-with, thought-provoking kids  Before them, I had a career where people paid me -- really good money -- to do what I loved.  Even my recent divorce wasn't as dreadful as it could have been.  We never showed our faces in court.  And I was never arrested for slashing his tires with a machete.  (Just a fantasy.  No reason.)

Still, I can't say I've felt terribly lucky as of late.  Maybe part of luck has to do with perspective.  So here's the question:  Do we make our own luck?

I used to think I was lucky.  And I was.  Then, I didn't think I was lucky, and well, tah-dah -- that's what the inside of the crapper looks like.

Then again, maybe I am.  That Rembrandts' song I adored, but no one else ever listened to 15 years ago (Just The Way It Is, Baby)?  It was playing in a neighborhood shop recently.  Carole King's You've Got A Friend popped up on the radio a few days later.  A vacationing friend asked me to keep an eye on her pool this weekend, and sure enough, it's 78 and sunny.  And get this -- the dill I planted a month ago, with zero expectation of it surviving?  It's thriving.  (See my post, "Hope Springs".)

In the novel I'm currently reading, American Wife (ironic, I know), the main character, apropos of nothing, makes lentil salad.  Although I've never tasted such a thing, I couldn't get it out of my mind.  I determined to make it today.  How hard could it be?  Lentils, some seasoning, fresh veggies and a piquant vinaigrette.

I can't get enough of lentils.  I wasn't looking forward to cooking them, though.  It's already hot and sticky outside, and I didn't want to make the house hotter and stickier still.  Nevertheless, preparing lentils is pretty basic.  Simmer gently in a simple broth including a rib of celery, a carrot and a bay leaf.  Don't season until they're done.  I could handle that.

I headed to my beloved Trader Joe's for ingredients.  Cuke and tomatoes?  Check.  Feta cheese (in brine)?  Natch.  But look at this -- right there on the bottom shelf, where no one would ever think to look -- pre-cooked beluga black lentils. Are you kidding?  Serendipity!

The tiny, tender lentils look like little black pearls.  And there are only two bags.  Sold.  Looks as if I will, indeed, be having lentil salad tonight.  The salad would be great, too, with a slab of grilled salmon.  But I won't press my luck.  I'm doing just fine as it is.

Lentil Salad

1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil

3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

1/2 teaspoon (maybe more, depending on the saltiness of the feta) kosher salt

1 tablespoon fresh chopped dill

fresh ground pepper

3 cups gently cooked lentils (preferably black beluga or French green)

4 ounces feta cheese, crumbled

1/2 of an English cucumber, peeled and diced

20 grape tomatoes, halved

In a large bowl, whisk together vinaigrette ingredients -- oil, lemon juice, salt, dill and pepper.

Gently stir in remaining ingredients.  Serve at room temperature.  Omigosh.