The Sounds Of Silence. For Four More Days.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013. Julia is winding up seven weeks as an exchange student in South Africa. Carter is three weeks into his freshman year at the University of Georgia. DB is working in Raleigh, which is notable only because he usually works where he lives -- in Charleston.

And me? And I am home alone.

Just writing about it makes me take a deep breath. Because I miss them all. I do. But to the consternation of well-intentioned friends, I am actually fine. Peachy. Hunky dorey. A-OK. In other words, don’t hate me because I’m beautiful* (because I am not), hate me because, when I wipe down the kitchen counters in the morning, they’re still clutter-free when I return from work. Hate me because I only do laundry once a week and when I do, the hamper remains empty until I fill it myself – with my own clothes. And that Ben & Jerry ‘s NY Super Fudge Chunk in the freezer? That’s right. It's mine. It will be there whenever I want to dive in. Unless later tonight, I use it to soothe myself in the wake of nightmare involving under-nourished lions, elephants and bulldogs roaming a college campus in search of their Monday morning Afrikaner history class.

No worries, though. Because even if I end up with a self-imposed ice cream headache, that sticky empty container will end up in the trash. See? Now you can hate me. Because while my teenagerse are away, there are no “all-but-empty” pints of ice cream in my freezer. No teaspoonfuls of milk remaining in a gallon jug. No deceptively empty boxes of Nilla Wafers.

Enough gloating. As you can see, I don’t mind being alone. “Lonely” just isn’t part of my vernacular.

But I miss them. Oh, how I miss them.

In all this free time, I’ve put clean sheets on all the beds and clean towels in the bathrooms. I’ve tidied the closets and cleared the desks. I’ve stocked the pantry. True, I haven’t actually sorted through all the old family photos, but I did think about it more than once, and surely deserve some credit for that.

And, inspired by Julia, who sends me regular text messages about all the meals she’s been in enjoying, I’ve been cooking. Julia it seems, has found a new-found appreciation for under-appreciated vegetables like cabbage and squash and legumes. So I’ve been a frequent visitor to our local farmers' market  and dining on lentil salad, black-eyed pea soup,  apple slaw, and cauliflower soup. And, in a nod to Julia, I’ve worked butternut squash into the repertoire, too.

Because in four days, she’ll be home. Carter will be back for a visit. And DB will be with us, too.

So now, I’m not lonely. I'm not. Really. But in four short days -- clean countertops and full freezers be damned -- I won’t be alone, either!

Roasted Butternut Squash, Cauliflower and Tilapia

I am always a fan of "one dish" meals. This summer, I've enjoyed a number of variations on this particular one, roasting a pair of veggies -- in this instances cauliflower and butternut squash -- until nearly done, and then, adding a piece of fresh fish for the final five minutes.

1 cup of diced butternut squash (per person)

1 cup of cauliflower "florets" (per person)

4 tablespoons good olive oil

4 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

red pepper flakes (to taste)

curry powder

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

1 tilapia filet (per person)

chopped fresh chives

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Toss together all ingredients except tilapia and chives. Using a strainer or slotted spoon, move vegetables to a flat baking sheet. Bake at 450 degrees for 15 minutes, tossing occasionally. In the meantime, marinate tilapia filet in remaining juices. When vegetables are slightly brown and fork tender, add tilapia filet to baking sheet. Bake an additional 5-7 minutes (until fish is done and flakes easily). Remove from oven, garnish with chopped chives and serve!

* Remember that old Pantene commercial?

You Can’t Go Away To College!You Don't Even Know How To Make A Grilled Cheese Sandwich!

Dear Son,

As I count the dwindling days until you depart for college, it has become apparent that I have failed you. Miserably so.

Yes, you hold a high school diploma. Your AP exam performance has earned you college credit. And your grades and scores paved the way to substantial college scholarships. You remain, however, ill-prepared to leave home. And sadly, as is so often the case Chez Wiles, the blame can be plunked squarely on my parental shoulders. I tried, but I plainly didn’t try hard enough. Here are just a few lessons I have yet to successfully impart:

How to replace toilet paper. In the few remaining days before freshmen year begins, we will begin with this most basic of tasks. When I have shared my knowledge with you, you’ll be able to replace a roll of toilet paper – without prompting – in fewer than 60 seconds. Moreover, if I have done my job properly, you’ll also install said toilet paper in the proper direction – with the paper rolling over the top, and not from underneath. With this under your belt, next summer’s class -- Replacing Paper Towels 201 -- should be a breeze.

How to turn off a light. This summer, I gave you 100% responsibility for purchasing and changing all light bulbs here at home, in hopes that you’d recognize the necessity and importance conserving energy and managing our electric bills. At the very least, I thought you’d weary of constantly climbing up and down the ladder. Silly me. Still, I will persevere. Indeed, once you’ve mastered this skill, you'll also learn how to determine – entirely on your own and without parental eye-rolling– when any given light should be turned off. Even those dastardly lights outside the house and in the pantry.

Load the dishwasher. Here, I must congratulate you, as you have nearly mastered the task of returning dirty dishes to the kitchen. Now, though, I’m going to push you further than you ever thought possible, beyond the limits you’ve self-imposed, so you can get to the point of opening the dishwasher door and then, accurately placing each dish so it can be properly cleaned during the wash cycle. If this goes as well -- and I believe it can -- you’ll have the opportunity to earn extra credit by operating the garbage disposal. Otherwise, we can address that particular task next summer.

How to close a door. What does it say about me as a parent that I’d assumed this lesson to be self-evident -- that he who “opens” would naturally – even gladly -- take on the responsibility to “close.” And while I’ll grant that the consequences of an open door are hardly on par with global warming, your inability to properly close a door does lead to “local cooling,” as the air conditioning (for which I pay handsomely) flows freely into the garage, the backyard and crawl space. Similarly, the refrigerator door, when left ajar, contributes unnecessarily to an already air-conditioned kitchen. Perhaps the difficulty of this seemingly basic task lies in not understanding the needed action: Is it a push or a pull? Confounding, I know, but as you’ve noted many times this summer, you are now 18 years old. As such, I have faith in your ability to conquer this. With college beginning in 19 days, however, you must begin now.

How to manage email. I understand the issue here. Managing one’s email involves a number of seemingly absurd steps, such as: 1) Checking your email, 2) Opening your email, 3) Reading your email, and on occasion, 4) Responding to your email. When you acquire this sadly outdated skill, it will work to my benefit, as I am your most frequent email correspondent; however, I must also note that your chosen university has announced its misguided, but firm, intentions to notify you, and only you, when tuition is due. Madness. Moreover, they insist upon notifying you (and only you) by email. What evil is at work here? Do they not know how to text? Only God, AT&T, and the Board of Regents know. Regardless, my darling Son, should your college tuition email remain unopened, unread, and unpaid, you will resume your less than promising life as yard boy living in the basement Chez Wiles. Surely, a person such as yourself, who can manage and sift through tens of thousands of digital downloads and can instantly (through means I do not wish to understand) procure virtually any television show or movie ever produced, can manage his email on a daily basis. You can do this, Son. I know you can.

How to cook. This may be my most appalling failure. As recently as last week, you declared that you didn’t know how to make a simple grilled cheese sandwich. Or a quesadilla. Or nachos. You even stated that bacon is “too hard to make.” It was a fork to my heart. So here, I share my "recipe" for grilled cheese. The key, you’ll see, is to use good bread and good cheese. Be sure to cut all the richness by serving with a pickle. And for bonus points, try cutting the sandwich on the diagonal. It’s more photogenic that way.

As you can see, Son, I’m here to help. Together, we can work through this, and you’ll be fine. And God willing, I will be, as well.

xxx ooo

Mom

Grilled Cheese Sandwich

Two slices of "good" bread (You know full well what I mean -- either whole wheat or a hearty French or Italian loaf. I do not want to find that over-processed mushy white bread in your kitchen. Ever.)

Yummy slices of cheese (You prefer sharp cheddar, pepperjack, edam, fontina or provolone. There is no such thing as American "cheese." Only American cheese "product" or cheese "food." Which doesn't sound appetizing because it is not.)

Softened butter

Heat a non-stick skillet or griddle over medium heat. Spread one side of each slice of bread with softened butter. Assemble the sandwich by laying one slice of bread, butter side down, in the skillet. Top with one layer of sliced cheese, and then, the remaining slice of bread, with the butter side facing out.  Cook slowly in the skillet until golden brown (may take 6-10 minutes). Flip carefully, and cook remaining side until golden brown. Slice diagonally, serve with a pickle, and thank Mom that you know how to cook.

Nothing New For The Class Of 2013

I could never be a commencement speaker.

First – and most obvious – I’d never be asked. Any two-legged primate with a sign-language vocabulary of 20+ words would receive an invitation before I would.

Second – I don’t have anything to wear. At Carter’s recent high school graduation, I wondered, as I do every time I hear the strains of Pomp and Circumstance, wherever do all those teachers and commencement speakers get those gowns? My own college graduation gown was constructed of fabric so flammable that it likely would be banned from any public appearance in this century. So where to get the goods? Mortarboards ‘R Us? CapAndGownCo? TasselTown? (Poor taste. My bad.) Certainly not at my favorite store, Marshall’s, where I’ve never seen any garment in my alma mater's colors -- garnet and black. (But since we’re on the topic, “How ‘bout those Gamecocks?”)

And third – I don’t have anything to say.

And that’s a shame, because I like commencement addresses. I genuinely do. I'm inspired by those messages of reality and encouragement and energy. But what could I possibly say to 18-year-olds who, by definition, already know "everything" -- or at least, far more than I knew at that age? Nothing more sophisticated than what I preached to my then-toddlers:

Be nice.  Our world is home to some seven billion people – some generous, some powerful, some evil, some needy, some wealthy, some impoverished – and some your future employers and in-laws. You’ll make greater inroads with all of them – not to mention leading a happier, more pleasant life – if you yourself are kind and thoughtful. Indeed, “being nice” is the easiest and most certain way you can make a difference in this world.

Put that down. When you were little, you wanted to lay your sticky little fingers on all sorts of potentially dangerous items. As an 18-year-old, you now know that there are objects with far worse consequences than plastic picnic knives, fireplace pokers, and glass paperweights. You know exactly what I mean, Mister. Put that down.

Take that out of your mouth. Plainly an auxiliary to “Put that down,” this bit of advice warrants its own rule because when you’re no longer under my roof, you’ll have opportunity upon opportunity to indulge and over-indulge in substances both legal and not. You have a choice. Don’t be that guy.

Time for bed. Study upon study proves that sufficient sleep is beneficial to performance at school and at work. It makes us better thinkers. It makes us better drivers. And although you don’t need to know this just now, a good night’s sleep also makes us better parents. As a bonus, when you’re sleeping, you don’t have to consider any of the other rules, because you’re sleeping. This rule also comes with two auxiliaries which you’d be wise to bear in mind: Nothing good happens after midnight, and everyone sleeps better on clean sheets. Never doubt either.

Say you’re sorry. Apologizing doesn’t make you less of a person. Admitting you’re wrong makes you more of a person. But here’s the trick:  You’ve got to mean it. A real apology doesn’t sound as if your mom is making you say it. A real apology never begins with “I’m sorry, but.” “I’m sorry” isn’t some Dixie Cup of a phrase, easily crumpled up and tossed away.  When you say it and mean it, everybody feels better.

Use your words. I guess now is as good a time as any to admit
I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. All those times that I said I knew “exactly” what you were thinking, I was bluffing. Big time. Going forward, if you want people – friends, girlfriends, teammates, professors or employers – to understand what you need, hope and fear, well then, Bucko, you’ve got to communicate. And if “using your words” ends up helping you save your marriage or negotiate a peace accord in the Gaza Strip, all the better.

You can do it. From the time you were born, we always said, “Come on -- you can walk, run, fly to the moon, write, spell, find the cure for cancer, memorize, make friends, make good decisions.” Now that you're 18, dude, you realize that it's a choice. Make the choice. You can do it.

Give me a hug. You’re never too big, and there’s never a bad time. Now, in fact, would be just fine. Five minutes from now would be good, too.

I love you. To the moon and back. Be nice, put that down, take that out of your mouth, time for bed, say you're sorry, use your words and you can do it. Now give me a hug.

What's So Special About 17?

Carter celebrated his 17^th birthday this week, but according to him, 17 is nothing special.  No big deal.  It’s not 16, it’s not 18, it’s just kinda whatever.

I disagree.  Vigorously.  For me, 17 is momentous.

First of all, as Carter himself said to me few months ago, “Look, Mom, I’m not smart yet, but my stupidity is on the decline.”

Thank you, Jesus.  And please don't take offense, because that’s not blasphemy.  That’s genuine gratitude.  Maybe not every mom would consider herself blessed to have a child with “declining stupidity,” but since I live with two – count ‘em, two – hormonal, impulsive, illogical, unpredictable teenagers, “declining stupidity” sounds pretty darn good.   Particularly in the face of my own hormonal, impulsive, illogical and unpredictable behavior.

Mostly though, Carter’s 17^th birthday reminds me marvel at the man he is becoming.

When he was just a toddler, and I was pregnant with Julia, a friend remarked, “I am SO glad you’re having another baby!”  Then, she shared this insight, “Now you’ll realize that you don’t get to take all the credit for what your child is or does.  And you don’t have to take all the blame, either.  They are who they are.  They just come out that way.”

They do.  For 17 years, I’ve tried to guide and shape and nurture.  I’ve tried to teach and encourage and motivate.  And I’ve tried to predict.  Lord knows how I’ve tried to predict.  Carter used to devour books:  English would be his favorite subject!  Until he was four, he wouldn’t poke a toe out of bed until I came to get him:  He would never be a risktaker!  He loved whole fruits and vegetables:  He’d never succumb to fast food!

Riiiigggghhhtt.  Or actually, wrong.  Wrong, wrong and wrong.

He's not crazy about English, he's well-acquainted with risk-taking, and more often than not, he'll drive through, rather than drive by, a Chick Fil A.  But I'm awestruck as he makes his way toward becoming the man he chooses to be.  He’s bright and funny and irreverent and opinionated.  He’s mellow and outrageous, devil-may-care and fiercely devoted.  

He just came out that way.  Or, he just chooses to be that way.

Either way, I don’t get to take the credit.  I simply get to appreciate the person he is.

Happy birthday, son.  Being a parent to you at age 17 is something special, indeed.

Holiday News From The Wiles. Or, At Least, The Bits We Can Share.

Julia and Carter, Christmas 2011

Dear Friends and Family,

For most people, today would be seven days too late for a holiday letter. To that, I say, bah humbug. December 31 is actually the traditional seventh day of Christmas, landing it squarely mid-merriment and prime for festive greetings, right? Provided, of course, that I am also serving up seven swans-a-swimming and figgy pudding.

Truthfully, 2011 has been terrific. However, unlike in years past, I can’t tell you much about the kids because:

1. Teenagers are keen on privacy, 
2. I respect my teenagers’ privacy, 
3. Teenagers’ actions aren’t always suitable for publication,
4. Which is all to say that teenagers’ actions aren’t always suitable.

Still, we made it through 2011 without extended hospital stays or negative impact on “permanent records,” so I’m declaring the year to be success. As Carter says, “Mom, I may not be smart yet, but my stupidity is on the decline.” OK. Hardly a ringing endorsement, but OK.

Carter is in his junior year of high school, so allow me to speak on his behalf: He doesn’t know where he wants to go to college; he doesn’t know what he wants to major in, he doesn’t know his class rank, he isn’t sure of his GPA, and he doesn’t know where he’ll apply. But go ahead and ask him yourself. Every English-speaking friend, family member, casual acquaintance and complete stranger in the tri-state area does. And Carter loves it. Absolutely adores it.

In fairness, he has identified a few criteria. He likes schools with large football programs. He doesn’t like coats, hats, gloves and scarves. He likes schools with a high proportion of females to males. He doesn’t like studying. But mostly, he really, really, really wants to go to college. Otherwise, what would he do? Work? He did that this summer – as a country club lifeguard – and it was really hard. Like, they wouldn’t even let you text while five-year-olds were jumping off the diving board. Isn’t slavery supposed to be illegal in the United States?

Julia is in her freshman year of high school and can now fit in nearly all my clothes and shoes. But “gross.” Except for my boots, heels, and sweaters. On occasion, my jewelry’s not altogether hideous, either. But even so. Eww.

Seriously, Julia is a diligent student, maintaining an absolute focus on the two topics most critical to freshman success – getting her driver’s permit and finding a dress for the next dance. And shoes. Really fabulous shoes. That no one else has. They don’t have to fit. They just have to look good. Tossed in a corner of the floor. Because no one actually dances in shoes. How could you not know that?

I guess I ended up with the biggest news of the year. Cougar Bait (David Bonner) took full leave of his senses, giving me a surprise birthday party and then, proposing. Marriage. Silly him. According to all accounts, I didn’t draw a full breath before snatching the ring, slipping it on, and asking, repeatedly, “Did I say ‘yes’?” Whatever. The ring is mine. And so is he.

Plainly, 2011 has been a year of blessings for us, and we hope the same has been true for you!

Much love and happy holidays,

Cheri

Thanks, Harry Potter. It Was Magic.

It’s 5:30 a.m. and Carter and Darling Daughter just went to bed. Five-thirty in the morning, and we just returned from the movies – an experience easily summed up with a single word – magical.

I’m referring only in part to the movie Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part Two (or, in devotee shorthand, HP7.2) – the final installment based on JK Rowling’s books set in a world of wizardry and magic. HP7.2 was, far and away, the best in the series, by turns demoralizing and compelling, poignant and playful, thunderous and hushed, terrifying and ultimately, uplifting.

More magical for me, though, was that Carter and DD were willing to tug their sleep-deprived, teenaged selves from bed at 2:15 a.m. so we could make the show. I tried not to make a big deal about it, but I was thrilled – or more apropos of the occasion, charmed, or perhaps, enchanted – that they’d deign to go with me and be among the first audiences in America to say goodbye to magic and Muggles, quills and Quidditch, witches and wands, and horcruxes and hallows.

As the final credits rolled, I was unexpectedly overcome with emotion – not because of the ending (which is faithful to the book – full of promise and hope), but because it struck me that I was marking another “last.”

I’ve made mental notes of “last” times for some 17 years now -- ever since I became pregnant with Carter. Over the years, I sadly noted the "last" time I'd experience the delight of an unborn child hiccuping inside my belly. The last time I’d ever nurse a baby. The last time one of them would be small enough to heft on my hip. The last time I'd be able to get them into coordinating Christmas outfits.  The last time I’d be acknowledged as the family computer expert. The last time I’d reach down – rather than up – to administer a hug.

Over the years, we read the Harry Potter books together, questioning our own “muggle-ness” and magical powers.  We were so smitten with the world set in Hogwarts that Carter once directed a barber to cut his hair "like Harry Potter."  And of course, we’d watched all the movies. In fact, in preparation for HP7.2, we’d “re-watched” all of them. 

HP7.2 was the last one. Another “last.” Another reminder that – at ages 16 and 14 -- my “kids” won’t be “kids” much longer.

Driving home from the movie, the adrenaline rush that had been sustaining us collapsed. The kids were subdued. Drained. Exhausted. As I tried to initiate some post-movie chatter, Carter said, “It was great and I’m glad we went, but Mom, it’s 5:30 in the morning. Can you stop talking?”

Once home, the kids crawled back into bed for a few more winks before Carter heads to his summer lifeguard job, and DD meets up with friends at the mall.

I headed to Starbucks. As I waited for my latté, the barrista listened to my story about getting the kids up for the movie. And then, she said the best possible thing, “Wow. They’ll remember that forever.”

Hmm. Not so sure about that. But I'm pretty sure I will. It was the last one. And it was magical.

Double-Chocolatey Rice Krispy Treats
The best recipes have a magical life of their own.  I adapted this one from my friend Janet in Charleston, who got it from her sister-in-law, Lisa, who got it from her mom, Sandra.  (Aren't moms always the source of great recipes?)  Although these unusual rice krispy treats don't include any marshmallows, they are plenty sweet.  Plenty easy.  And sure to, ahem, "disappear."  

4 cups crispy rice cereal

1, 12-ounce package white chocolate chips

1/2 cup smooth peanut butter

1, 12-ounce package milk chocolate chips
1/2 cup chopped roasted peanuts (optional)

Lightly spray a 9 x 13 glass pan with baking spray.  Set aside.  In a large glass bowl, microwave white chocolate chips for 30 seconds.  Stir, and continue microwaving and stirring, in 20-second bursts, until well melted.  Stir in peanut butter until thoroughly combined.  Gently fold in cereal.  Spread mixture evenly in prepared dish and allow to set -- about 3-4 hours.  When treats firm up, melt milk chocolate chips in a small glass bowl or measuring cup, using the same microwaving technique described above.  When well melted, spread over treats.  Sprinkle with peanuts, if using.  Allow to set another 3-4 hours.  Cut into small squares and serve.

Naming Kids. And Boats. And Strippers.

Nearly 17 years ago, as soon-to-be-parents, and before settling on "Carter," we considered a number of names for our son, including Cooper, Conner and Fisher.  (OK.  That last one was just me.)  Two years later, for Darling Daughter, we considered Cecelia, Eliza, Lila and Larissa.  (Again, that last one was all me.)

To make the cut, a name had to meet certain criteria.  Given our single-syllable last name, the first name had to be polysyllabic.  I wasn’t looking to raise a Jane Doe or Don Ho.  Furthermore, the name had to be easily spelled.  Think about it.  I’m “Cheri.”  With a “C.”  No, a “C.”  One “r.”  No “y.”  “I,” not “i-e.”  “S-H-E-R-R-I-E”?  Whatever.  Close enough.

So far as I can tell, though, when it comes to naming a boat, no rules apply.  According to FirstBoat.com, the top 10 most popular boat names in the United States are:

1. Serenity

2. Happy Ours

3. Feelin' Nauti

4. Family Time

5. Liberty

6. Black Pearl

7. Andiamo

8. Knot On Call

9. High Maintenance

10. Just Chillin'

For my own boat, which is now a year old, friends have also suggested, “Cheri’s Jubilee,” “MeanWhiles,” “Worth Wiles,” “Always Write,” “Cougar Bait,” and, more than once, “Wiles Ride.”

What to do?  Well, when I first began writing Feminine Wiles, it was to let friends and family know that I was all right.  When it comes to schoolwork, I always tell the kids that, if they are able to write, their grades in every class – with the possible exception of math – will go up.  And when I landed a job – after spending a decade as a stay-at-home mom – it was as a copywriter. 

Yep.  “All Write” it is.

But then, as I was in the midst of writing this post, I heard from Super Sis .  She’s an elementary school principal, and her work ethics and behavior are beyond compare.  So imagine my surprise when she texted the following message:

“This morning, a parent shared with me that, if she were a stripper, her name would be Tess Tickles.”

Tess Tickles?  Tess Tickles?  TESS TICKLES?

Nah.  Just kidding.  I'm still "All Write"!

Shrimp Tacos with Apple Slaw

This recipe has absolutely no bearing on kid names, boat names or stripper names.  It's just really, really good.  Really, really unexpected.   And really, really, easy.  Or should I say, it's "all right"?

Slaw

1 large granny smith apple, cored and cut in quarters, and then, cut in matchsticks

2 cups of shredded Napa cabbage

1/4 cup canola oil

Juice of one lime (1-2 tablespoons)

1 pinch cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon honey

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

In a medium sized mixing bowl, toss together apple and cabbage.  Whisk together remaining ingredients and toss with apple and cabbage.  Keeps, refrigerated, at least one day.

Shrimp Tacos

1 1/2 pounds raw shrimp, peeled, deveined and cut into bite-size pieces

1/4 cup canola oil

Juice of two limes (2-3 tablespoons)

1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon chili powder

flour tortillas

bottled salsa verde

Stir all ingredients (except tortillas and salsa) together, combining well.  Heat a large skillet over high heat.  In batches, stir fry shrimp just until done -- 4-5 minutes.  Serve hot, in tortillas warmed one-by-one in the microwave --about 15 seconds each.  Drizzle salsa verde over top  and serve with Apple Slaw.