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.

How Did You Find Me Here?

In the market for “Spiderman underwear for women”?

If so, you might ending up clicking on Feminine Wiles.

Looking for “ways to apologize to a Southern woman”?  Again, you could land on my blog.  Honest.  It’s been done.
Look. I’m no lingerie vendor.  (I do sometimes struggle to keep up with the laundry around here, but I’m certain no superheroes adorn our undergarments.  The washer is a comicbook-character-free zone -- no Betty or even Veronica.)

Apologies aren’t my forté, either.  The only advice I have to offer is that a genuine apology doesn’t include “but.”  (For example, “I’m sorry, but … you don’t understand/you took the wrong turn/what the hell were you thinking?”)

It’s not that I’m a technology-savvy blogger.  I’m not. Other than family and a few friends, I don’t really know who reads Feminine Wiles.  I don’t know everyone who subscribes to Feminine Wiles.  Some days, I don’t even know why I write Feminine Wiles.

But thanks to the supreme navel-gazing-for-bloggers web tracker, StatCounter.com, I can see what “keywords” a person Googled before landing on my blog.

Useless?  Utterly.  Entertaining?  Vastly.

Just imagine the disappointment of “had to use the ladies’ room” when she landed on a blog post about the temperature in my house.

And, to the folks (more than one!) who Googled “how to study for exams with mom” and ended up reading tidbits like, “Put cat in dryer,” I’m sorry.  (Please.  It’s not as if the dryer was on.)

Can I define “feminine wiles”?  Um.  Not really.  And that’s a real shame, because “feminine wiles” is the most-Googled phrase leading readers to my blog. I hate to disappoint, but well, I do.

Here’s another puzzler:  “I can be as good or as bad as I want to be.”  Really?  ‘Cause I think once you’ve come to terms with that essential truth, there’s no help my – or any --  blog can offer.

Really, if you’re coming to Feminine Wiles for any kind of help, the most I can offer is recipes.  I’m slogging through life and parenting and middle-age just like everyone else.  And sometimes, I can get bogged down in even the simplest things.

Take these Rosemary-Garlic Oven Fries, for example.  Once you master the cutting of potatoes, oven fries should be about the simplest thing in a cook’s repertoire.  But for some reason, I was never satisfied.  Not until, after endless variations, I started soaking the raw potatoes to rid them of extra starch, which I suspect had been sapping them of crispiness.

So when it comes to oven fries, problem solved. 

But when I look at “master stir fry in peru keep cats in basement, I haven’t the foggiest.  Thoughts?

Rosemary-Garlic Oven Fries

Note that you’ve got to begin these fries a solid hour in advance.

3 medium-sized baking potatoes, well scrubbed

1 teaspoon fresh rosemary, chopped

1 clove fresh garlic, minced

1 egg white

½ teaspoon kosher salt

additional kosher salt (or seasoning salt, such as Canvender’s Greek Seasoning) nonstick cooking spray

Cut potatoes (skin on) lengthwise into ½" wide fries.  Place in a large bowl of cold water and allow to soak for 45-60 minutes.   (The bath helps remove surface starch, resulting in crispier fries.)  Drain well, using a clean kitchen towel to pat dry and return potatoes to (dried) large bowl.

Preheat oven to 450.  In a small bowl, use a fork to whip egg white until very frothy.  Stir in rosemary, garlic and ½ teaspoon kosher salt into egg white.  Pour over potatoes, tossing until well-coated.

Spray baking sheet well with nonstick cooking spray.  Spread potatoes on baking sheet, so the fries are not touching.  Spray potatoes with additional nonstick cooking spray.  Sprinkle with additional salt and bake approximately 10 minutes.  Remove from oven, toss and turn fries, spray again lightly with nonstick spray before returning to oven for another 10-15 minutes, or until well browned.  Serve hot.

Another New Year. Another New Year's Resolution. Bring On The Potatoes Au Gratin.

Yes.  I have a calendar.  An up-to-date one, at that.  But like so many stay-at-home-moms, my “New Year’ didn’t begin until today – the day the kids returned to school.  And holy educational system, Batman – this was one rocky day.  Cranky, tired, disorganized and unfocused.  And I’m guessing the kids’ day wasn’t much better.

I’m sheerly overwhelmed by the “things to be done” – the undecorating, the clutter-clearing, the return-to-schedule.  Not to mention, of course, the “New Year’s Resolutions.”  (Seriously, am I the only one who imagines that bellowed in a deep, echoing, theatrical voice?)

According to USA.gov (whose slogan, “Government Made Easy” makes them a wee bit suspect), the most popular New Year’s resolutions are:

• Lose weight

• Manage debt

• Save money

• Get a better job

• Get fit

• Get a better education

• Drink less alcohol

Hmm.  Plainly, I don’t need to draft my own list, because that one is pretty much on target.  Check, check, check, check, check, check and -- sigh --  check (except for sangria, natch).

Post-holiday time is already rife with “things to do.”  Do we really need to add to that list just because yet another 12-month period has begun?

Besides, in some ways, I began my own “new” year several months back when I became divorced.  I’ve got plenty on my plate – plenty that no one would ever want to see itemized.  Like, “call school to explain change in marital status.”  Or, “find reasonable health insurance as unemployed homemaker.”  Or how about, “learn to recognize when you’re being hit on.  And not."

Honest.  It’s harder than you'd think.

Nevertheless, I do have my own list of “good intentions” for 2010, and perversely, most of them coincide with the items listed on USA.gov.  Turns out, I’m just another common citizen.

But given the rocky start to my own New Year, I’m going to ease in.  I did go to the Y today (check, “get fit”) and I did not drink sangria tonight (check, “drink less alcohol”), and I even considered spending the next month as a vegetarian.

The following recipe, however, probably won’t help me accomplish that top goal, “lose weight.”  But holy potato, Batman, it is so very good and easy – and makes for a much easier return home from that first day back to school.

Simply Sublime (and Sublimely Simple) Potatoes Au Gratin

It's hard to believe that something so decadent is so simple to make.  You can dress these up, I suppose, using fresh thyme or minced garlic or half gruyere and half parmigiano-reggiano.  A little zip of cayenne wouldn't be out of place either, but basically, all you need is butter, potatoes, cheese and cream.  Yum.

2 tablespoons butter

3 medium sized baking potatoes, peeled and sliced thinly

1 cup (about ¼ lb.) gruyere cheese, grated

1 cup cream

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

½ teaspoon ground thyme

Preheat oven to 350.  Use 1 tablespoon butter to grease bottom of medium sized baking dish.  Place one layer of potatoes (not overlapping) on bottom of dish.  Top with 1/3 cup cheese.  Sprinkle with salt, pepper, thyme (and, if you’re feeling fancy, 1 minced clove garlic).  Repeat layering (except for thyme and garlic) two more times.  Pour cream over all, and bake for 1 hour, until browned and bubbling.  Remove from oven and let rest 15-20 minutes before serving.  Eat extravagantly.  No need for meat.

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

I am not a pack rat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always Perfect Buttermilk Mashed Potatoes

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

2 lbs. Yukon Gold potatoes

3 cloves garlic, peeled
3 tablespoons butter

¾ cup buttermilk

4 ounces goat cheese (optional)

1 tablespoon minced fresh chives (optional)

1 tablespoon minced fresh parsley

fresh ground pepper

gracious plenty kosher salt

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

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

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

Waging, But Not Winning, The War on Bathroom Lights, Halloween Costumes and Wet Towels.

I am a winner.

Or, at least, I have won the battle.  OK.  I have won a single battle.

Still.  As the single mom of 14-year-old Snarky Son (SS) and 12-year-old Darling Daughter (DD), I engage in hand-to-hand, wit-to-wit combat every day.  I'll take any victory I can get.

Some encounters are predictable, of course.  Every parent of school-age children sees frontline action in routine academic-expectations conflicts -- some more bloody than others.  We also encounter ongoing appropriate-dress skirmishes.  Really, who would think I would ever have to say -- out loud, mid-winter -- "no pants, no dinner"?  Do manufacturers no longer make girls' tops with sleeves?  And are those jeans?  Or some kind of new-fangled denim tights?  Clothing casualties abound Chez Wiles.

I can't help but engage in the day-to-day respect-for-your-elders battle, even when I brandish nothing more threatening than such war-weary cliches as, "Because I said so," and "I don't care what your best friend is doing," and ultimately, "Just stop talking to me."  Easy to see how I earned the title, Worst Mom Ever, right?  And chores-ignored?  Well, as SS and DD hear it, Whah, whah-whah, whah-whah.  Hmmph.  So much for my planned stealth attack on individual responsibility, contributing to the household, and those dang cat litter boxes.

These are just the routine clashes, of course.  We've recently added the issue of rock concerts.  On school nights.  And phone calls.  After midnight.  And appropriate language.  For 14-year-old boys.  And 12-year-old girls.  And there's always Old Faithful -- the perpetually "up" bathroom switch.  Seriously.  Is it that hard to turn off a light?

One current issue is the upcoming Halloween holiday.  When the kids were little, I'd choose what they'd be, I'd make the costumes, and I'd decide which houses we'd visit -- based largely on the type of beer I'd be offered.  I'd then decide when we were done (serendipitously coinciding with when my beer bottle was drained), and I'd eve help the kids decide which candy they would like.  ("Yuck.  You won't like those.  Let me get rid of those Kit Kats for you.")

Sigh.  Those choices haven't been mine for a while.  This year, DD is dressing up as a Wannabe Ballerina.  Don't ask.  All I know is that it involves striped tights, navy blue lipstick and a Fat Hen t-shirt.  Nice.  SS is considering gathering his posse to make the rounds for their own sugar stash, but knows I'll insist on a costume.  ("No pants, no dinner.  No costume, no candy."  Who thinks these things up?)

So here's the question:  Does a t-shirt reading, "No, really.  This is my Halloween costume" count as a costume?  I was afraid so.

Yep.  Parenting only gets tougher as they get older.  These kids are clever.  Persuasive, too.  As SS recently said, "I just told you a lot of stuff that should make you change your mind."  Sheepishly, I agreed.  Yet, I have my victory.

The dreaded wet-towel-on-the-floor beast has been slain.

I fought the good fight.  I pleaded, I threatened, I cajoled, I reasoned.  I docked allowance, billing the resister with a "maid service" fee every time I scooped up a soggy towel.  I made reminder checklists and dutifully called any offender home from a playdate should so much as a washcloth be left on the floor.

I told embarrassing stories to friends and family, and at one point, I banished towels altogether.  Turns out I was more uncomfortable with the resulting 70s-style streaking than they were.  That, and I couldn't help but join in with the giggling.

The power shifted one recent evening, though, when I called a repeat-offender upstairs, with the usual admonishment, "Towels belong on the rack, not the floor."  (If I only had a beer for every time I've uttered that phrase.  I could open a pub.)

Then, genius struck.

"Think about this," I said, "See where you left your towel?  That's exactly where the cat walks on his sweet, little pink paws. Just after he steps out of the stinky, smelly litter box, after depositing a fresh batch of the dog's favorite treats -- Tiny Tiger Tootsie Rolls.  You dropped your damply absorbent towel there.  And later, you're going to rub that same towel on your body.  Yuck."

Hasn't been a towel on the floor for three days now.  That's one in the "W" column for Mom.

To keep my winning streak alive, I'm making one of the kids' favorites for supper -- corned beef.  Actually, their "favorite" favorite is corned beef hash, but since I wasn't able to cook the corned beef in advance (BTW, the slow cooker is the best way to go), I'm making Not Corned Beef Hash -- serving roasted potatoes, etc., with all the flavors of hash, alongside the corned beef.

Another victory for me.  I now feel brave enough to tackle the perpetually-on-bathroom-lights -- after snagging a few Kit Kats for dessert.

Not Corned Beef Hash

3 Yukon Gold potatoes, unpeeled, cut in 1" dice

1 onion, peeled and cut in 1" dice

16-20 baby carrots, cut in chunks

1/4 vegetable or olive oil

several sprigs of fresh thyme

1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

1 ladle corned beef cooking broth (about 1/2 cup)

Soak potatoes in cold water for about 30 minutes (to remove excess starch and improve browning), rinse and drain well.

Preheat oven to 450 (or 400, if using convection).  In a large roasting pan, toss drained potatoes with onions, carrots oil, thyme and Worcestershire sauce.  Sprinkle with kosher salt.

Roast about 15 minutes, or until vegetables begin to brown.  Stir in cooking broth, toss well, and continue roasting until done -- browned and crispy -- about 20 minutes.

Serve with freshly sliced hot corned beef.

What I Do Best: Worry. And Then, Cook.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. Darling Daughter’s eyes were bloodshot, her cough sounded like that of a smoker with a 60-year-habit, and her forehead was eerily akin to a baked potato fresh from a 400 degree oven. No doubt about it.  She was sick. As I rubbed her back, she attempted a weak smile, but ended up in a puddle of tears.  Within minutes, she collapsed into a deep, damp sleep.

I snuggled her favorite pale pink jersey blanket against her cheek, smoothed the sticky tendrils of silken hair off her forehead and tiptoed downstairs.

What a relief. 

An hour later, I tiptoed up to check on her.  Just in case.  Yep.  Still sleeping.

Another, somewhat more anxious, hour passed.  I checked again.  Yep.  Still dozing.  I turned to leave.  But wait.  Had I seen her chest rising and falling?  I spin back around, fighting back ridiculous worries.  Yep.  Definitely breathing. 

Or was she?  I inched closer.  I couldn’t tell.  The blanket was moving, wasn’t it?  Or were my eyes are playing tricks on me?

I chastised myself for being so paranoid.  But what if … ?  I’d never forgive myself.

I edged closer.  I considered getting a mirror.  In old movies, that’s what they do.  If the person is breathing, even slightly, their breath fogs the mirror. 

Have mercy.  What was I thinking?  Was I thinking at all?  I’d never seen that in a movie.  I’d only heard about it.

So.  Breathing or not?

I edged closer still.  I couldn’t decide.  Time to panic?  Or time to tiptoe my crazy butt and crazier thoughts back down the stairs?

Then, without warning, DD shifted her legs.  Slightly.  I recoiled as if struck.  My heart felt as if it were trying to exit my body.  Yep.  Definitely breathing.  Humiliated, I slinked downstairs while DD slumbered on, blissfully unaware of the preposterous thoughts of the woman who gave birth to her.

When our kids are babies, we parents can scarcely stop worrying about them.  But so far as I can tell, as the kids get older, those worries don’t cease.  The scene I just described is from last week, when 12-year-old DD had the flu.  The only difference between my parental worries now and when she was a baby is that maybe I don’t show my panic as much now.  Maybe.

Worrying is what we parents do best.  We worry when they’re sick.  We worry when they might get sick.  We worry when they’re with a sitter.  We worry when they’re so old they don’t need a sitter. We worry when they don’t eat.  We worry that they eat too much junk.  We worry when they don’t get perfect grades.  We worry that they’re working too hard to get perfect grades.  We worry when they’re “out.”  We worry when they’re "in" and everyone else is "out."  We worry when they worry. We worry they don’t worry enough.

It’s exhausting.

It’s been a week since DD was sick, and although she still has a lingering cough, I feel like I’m also recovering, trying to make sure she gets ample rest, hydration, and of course, nutrition.

As her appetite returned, we started back with bland food.  But “bland” doesn’t mean “tasteless.”  Even something as basic as rice can be something special.  And when I prepared this Thyme-Scented Lemon Rice last week, I got a genuine smile from DD -- and no tears.

Plainly, we’re both well on the road to recovery.  Wonder what I'll worry about next.

Thyme-Scented Lemon Rice

1 cup raw rice

2 cups chicken broth

1 lemon, zested
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

2-3 springs of fresh thyme

juice of ½ a lemon

1 tablespoon butter

Combine rice, broth, lemon zest, salt and thyme in a 2-quart, lidded saucepan.  With lid off, bring to a boil.  Once boiling, turn heat down to low, put lid on and cook (without stirring) 13 minutes.  When rice is done, remove thyme springs, fluff gently with a fork, and stir in lemon juice and butter.  Serve hot.

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 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.