Freedom, Responsibility and Filling 'Er Up

The day before yesterday, I watched as a stranger drove away in my car. Had it been necessary, I’d have had no problem picking him out of a line-up; he was an exceptionally fit young man, tanned, blue eyes, sporting his brown hair in what appeared to be a fresh buzz cut.

It was Carter, of course, my 16-year-old son. And I’d even helped wield the razor on that buzz cut. Still, the sight rocked me back on my sensible mom heels. I blinked – more than once – as if I could “refresh” my vision the same way you “refresh” a website – but nope, there he was, backing cautiously out of the driveway before driving himself to school.

What a week.

In the space of a few days, Carter earned his driver’s license, interviewed for and was offered a summer job (lifeguard), and shaved his distinctive shaggy brown hair into a high and tight buzz. The transformation couldn’t have been more remarkable than if he’d morphed from a black-and-yellow-striped caterpillar into a Monarch butterfly.

In more ways than one, though, I guess he did get his wings – lots of freedom wrapped up in lots and lots of responsibility.

He’s not the only one. I got more freedom wrapped up in even more responsibility, too. On the one hand, having another driver in the household slashes my chauffeuring duties in half. On the other, I can hardly form a complete thought when I know he’s on the road. And I pity the innocent soul who calls when I know Carter is en route. Before I can eek out a frantic “hello,” I’ve already imagined countless “what if” scenarios – none of which bear repeating here.

I’m proud and terrified. Excited and devastated. Thrilled and saddened.

I love my boy. And I need him to know that he still needs me. But then, unexpectedly, I get a text message, “What side of the car is my gas tank on again?”

Sigh. Not exactly what I was looking for, but yep -- he still needs me.

Salmon With Curried Cauliflower Couscous

When Carter was little, his most-requested birthday meal was grilled salmon, sliced cucumbers and steamed broccoli.  This meal is somewhat more sophisticated -- appropriate, perhaps for someone earning his first paycheck.

Grilled Salmon

salmon filets

rice wine vinegar

hoisin sauce

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

Sprinkle fish liberally with rice wine vinegar (or, in a pinch, squeeze fresh lemon wedges over).  Baste with hoisin sauce, and season well with salt and pepper.  Grill skin side down, over indirect heat, about 10 minutes, or just until done.  Try not to overcook.

Curried Cauliflower Couscous

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

1 1/2 cup uncooked Israeli couscous

1 (14 ounce) can chicken or vegetable broth

2 cups raw cauliflower, broken into small bitesize pieces

1 teaspoon curry powder

1 pinch red pepper flakes

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

In a lidded saucepan, heat oil over medium high heat.  Stir in raw couscous and sauté 3-4 minutes.  Stir in broth, cauliflower, curry, salt and red pepper flakes.  Bring to a boil, reduce heat to low and cook 6-7 minutes.  Stir, remove from heat, and allow to stand an additional five minutes (or until all liquid is absorbed) before serving with salmon.

Fifteen Mothers' Days Later, I'm Another Mother -- Further.

I was 32 when I became a mom.

I’d been married for nearly 10 years, but we’d chosen to wait to start a family.  Wait so we could finish school.  So we could be settled.  So we could be successful.  So we could travel.  So we’d be ready when the “perfect” time finally arrived.

As if there’d ever be such a thing.

We were lucky.  When we finally felt the time was “right,” we didn’t have to wait.   I was pregnant right away and nine months later, give birth to Son – who had one of the most gigantic heads you’ve ever seen on a mammal and yet, was still an ounce shy of nine pounds.  Seriously, we wondered whether that cranium would hinder Son's ability to walk upright.

I wasn’t home from the hospital more than 24 hours, before I knew that all that waiting and considering and planning did nothing to ease the transition to momdom.  Parenting was hard.  Hard?  Cripes.  Talk about an understatement.  As much as I loved, adored and doted on Son, as much as his needs and future needs consumed my every waking hour – and many of my sleeping hours, too – I felt like I’d never get it right.

I remember blubbering to Son’s dad, “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I'M SORRY!  I know this was my idea, and I thought I was ready. But I never knew it would be so hard.”

Sure, I was sleep-deprived.  And clueless.  But damn.  That was hard?

I had no idea.

Soothing a bawling baby is one thing, but a tantrumming teenager?  Please.  And it may not be easy, but yes, I can scrounge up a decent meal while traveling with toddlers.  But I don’t know where to begin to comfort a heartbroken teen.  And I’m ill-prepared to exert my influence on people as articulate as Son and Darling Daughter have become.

I can only hope and pray that all the energy devoted to worrying about naptimes and pacifiers and potty-training, made me better equipped to address curfews and less-than-ideal-grades and hurt feelings and not making the team.  That somehow, when the skinny envelope arrives instead of the fat one, when “he/she” says “no” to the dance invitation, when everyone else’s mom says “yes,” but I stubbornly cling to “no,” that I’ll have some worthwhile guidance to provide.

Which is all to say that, 15 Mothers’ Days later, I still don’t know what I’m doing.  I’m not sure any Mom does.

The proof will be in the person.  Or, in my case, the people – the people Son and Darling Daughter become and the people whose lives they touch.

Until then, I keep trying and worrying and watching and guiding and planning.  And, of course, cooking.

Marinara/Pizza/Red Sauce

This marinara sauce is the perfect thing to cook when worrying and watching and planning.  I try to keep some in the freezer year ‘round, to serve with meatballs, to spread over pizza, to use in the ziti DD adores.  Even Son, who doesn’t usually care for red sauce will eat this one, because (thanks to an immersion blender), there are no telltale “chunks.”

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 large onion, chopped

2 ribs celery, chopped

20-24 baby carrots (or 2-3 large carrots), chopped

3-4 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped

3, 28-ounce cans crushed tomatoes

1 tablespoon dried oregano leaves

1 tablespoon dried basil leaves

1 teaspoon dried thyme leaves

¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes

1 teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon (or more, to taste) fresh ground pepper

1 cup dry red wine

In a large saucepan or Dutch oven with a lid, heat oil over medium high heat until rippling.  Stir in onion, sautéing until translucent.  Stir in celery and carrots.  Continue sautéing until vegetables are soft and slightly browned.  Stir in garlic and sauté another 2-3 minutes, or until fragrant.  Stir in remaining ingredients, bring to boil, and then, reduce to simmer.  Simmer, lidded, for 1 ½ - 2 hours, stirring occasionally.  When fully cooked, use an immersion blender (carefully) to smooth out the “chunks.”  (Optionally, give sauce a whirl – in batches – in a blender or food processor.)  Adjust seasoning and freeze in two cup containers.

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.

Remembering the Important Stuff -- 15 Years Later.

I can't remember what I had for dinner last night.

I can't remember to call the gutter guy.  I can't remember to return Reid It and Weep's* MacBook charger, which I've held hostage now for nearly a week.  And for the life of me, I can't remember to buy more soy sauce -- which is absurd, not only because, on average, I visit my local Harris Teeter, oh, every single day, but because, in a typical week I use so much soy sauce that I'm practically an honorary Asian.

What I can remember, however, is where I was exactly 15 years ago today.  Because today, March 5, 2010, is Son's 15th birthday.

Eight pounds, 15 ounces now tips the scale at 135 pounds.  Twenty inches has stretched to nearly 70.  Just like that, my "Little Man" has become a young man -- and in my not-at-all-humble opinion, a fine one at that.  He's babysitting and shaving and learning to drive.  He's dating and taking subjects I never dared to tackle in high school and becoming the kind of writer I'd like to be when I grow up.

Fifteen years ago, Son entered the world with a splash.  After a Big Dinner Out (a.k.a., "The Last Supper"), followed by a Big Heartburn In, and a late night watching most of The Godfather (back in the days of videotape), my then-husband crawled into bed, my water splattered all over the freshly tiled bathroom floor, and we were off to the hospital.  Wait. Rewind.  Actually, about a half mile into our trip, we turned around and went back home, briefly, to fetch some Pepto Bismol for the father-to-be, and then, off to the maternity ward.  For real.

Thirteen hours later, I had a son.

At the time, I remember thinking I could never love anyone so intensely as I loved Son.  I remember thinking that it was inconceivable that my own parents could have felt the same way about me.  I remember eventually realizing that Son could only comprehend the depth of my emotion when he, himself, becomes a parent.  (Which, given that he's only 15, should be many, many, many years from now.  M-A-N-Y. Many.)

When Son was tiny, I spent hours imagining the person he'd become.  A paleontologist?  Entirely possible, as he memorized the name of every dinosaur in every book ever written by time he was five.  (Did you know there's no such thing as a brontosaurus?)  An architect?  Surely there was a reason for the hours, days, weeks he spent with Legos.  A fireman?  Well, given that it was his preferred costume for three consecutive Halloweens, I reckon it was either a fireman or a founding member of his generation's Village People.

Now that Son's 15, I can see that all my ruminating got me nowhere.  I have no idea what he'll become.  What I do know, though, is that Son has already become more than I could have imagined.  And rather than guessing, I can hardly wait to see what the days and years to come will reveal.

I wish I could now give you a recipe for Son's favorite cake, which I'd bake for his birthday.  But it turns out, I've got a kid who doesn't really care about cake.  Who could've predicted?  What he does enjoy though, in addition to the perennially-requested Sausage Pasta with Broccoli, is Osso Buco.  It's comfort food Chez Wiles.

And if we'd had Osso Buco for dinner last night, I'm sure I would've remembered it.

*If you're an American Idol fan, you've got to check out Reid It and Weep's blog.  And if you could toss a spare MacBook charger her way, that'd get me out of a mess of trouble, too.

Osso Buco

Serves four.

4 large, meaty veal shanks, at least 2 1/2 inches thick
Approximately 1/2 cup flour
1/4 cup olive oil

1 carrot, peeled and finely diced
1 rib of celery, finely diced
1 small onion, finely diced
zest of one lemon
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup dry white wine (I use sauvignon blanc)
1 cup chicken stock
1 sprig rosemary
1 bay leaf
1 clove garlic

Season veal shanks well with salt and pepper.  Wrap each shank tightly with twine.  Dredge each tied shank in flour, shake off excess, and then, in a large skillet (with a lid for later) heat olive oil until rippling, over medium high heat.  Lightly brown each shank and set aside.  In same skillet, lightly brown carrot, celery and onion until onion is translucent.  Stir in lemon zest, salt, wine, stock, rosemary, bay leaf and garlic clove.  Bring to a boil.  Return shanks to skillet, reduce heat to low, and put lid in place.  Allow to simmer for 1 1/2 - 2 hours or until so tender that meat is nearly falling off the bone.   Remove twive, serve with hot noodles or rice, as well as gremolata, made by combining 1 clove garlic (finely minced with 1 teaspoon kosher salt), 1/2 cup minced parsley, and zest of two lemons.

After 12 Months Of Feminine Wiles, Life Is Good.

When I woke up this morning, I knew exactly what this blog would be about. Today marks one year since I began writing Feminine Wiles.

I'd been waiting for this milestone. Waiting to reminisce. Waiting to explain why I began writing. Waiting to express my profound appreciation and gratitude to my friends - -including those I haven't yet met -- who read and comment on Feminine Wiles.

Well, you know what they say about "best laid plans."  That original blog idea was blown to bits.  Because at noon today, my 14-year-old son up and got into the drivers' seat of a total stranger's car and drove away.

OK.  "Total" may not be the fairest way to describe that "stranger," whose name was Caleb.  Caleb had been paid to come here. He's an instructor. But the fact remains that all I know about him is that he has an earring, there's a sign on the top of his car, and his first child (a son) is due next month.  (Crap.  His name was Caleb, right?  Is it possible I don't even have that part right? Who was in the car with my kid?)

And Son? Well, he's not exactly 14.  He's all-but-15. And What's-His-Name is teaching him to drive a car.

In less than 60 seconds, I watched Son drive away.  For the life of me, I can't figure out why What's-His-Name let him drive so quickly.  Does WHN not understand that Son does not know how to drive?   Shouldn't there be about a few minutes -- or a few weeks -- of instruction first? Maybe some time with a toy steering wheel?  Does WHN not realize that lurking in our neighborhood are massive, unyielding trees and careless, fleet-footed kids and sneaky, expensive-to-replace fire hydrants?

Blissfully unaware, they drive off.  Acutely aware, I come into the house. For me, the step is too big.  I want to cry. Instead, I cook.

In my very first Feminine Wiles post, titled, appropriately enough, "I Cook," I wrote:

I cook. When I'm happy, I cook. When I'm worried, I cook. When I'm celebrating, when I'm mourning, when I'm hurt, when I'm invigorated, I cook.

Exactly one year later, I'm happy, I'm worried, I'm celebrating, I'm mourning. 

I'm cooking.

Beef Short Ribs with Mustard are on the stove. Old-Fashioned Lemon Pound Cake is in the oven. And I'm about to pull out the peeler and get to work on Always Perfect Mashed Potatoes.

One year ago, I was in the midst of divorce.  I hardly knew which end was up.  I wrote that first Feminine Wiles one weekend when all the laundry was done, the groceries put away, the toilets scrubbed and the closets organized.  Yep.  Son and Darling Daughter were with their dad.

One year later, Son is driving, 12-year-old Darling Daughter is having giggle fits to the point of hiccups (seriously, will she never stop?), and Feminine Wiles is opening doors, windows, conversations and friendships I never could have imagined 12 months ago.

Life is good.  And so is this Lemon Pound Cake.

And the blog I originally intended for today?  Here's the bottom line:  Thanks.  I couldn't have gotten here without you.

Old-Fashioned Lemon Pound Cake

3 cups flour
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
3 cups sugar
zest from two large lemons
6 eggs, room temperature
1 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

juice of one lemon (reserve juice from second lemon, using as needed)
2 cups confectioners sugar

Preheat oven to 325. Grease and flour a 10 –inch bundt pan. Sift together flour, salt and baking soda. Set aside.

In mixer, cream butter and add sugar slowly, beating constantly to cream well. Blend in lemon zest, adding eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Stir in sour cream. Add flour mixture, 1/2 cup at a time, beating well and constantly. Stir in vanilla and turn batter into pan, rapping the pan sharply on the counter once or twice to release air bubbles.

Bake about 1 1/2 hours or until cake tests done. Place on a rack to cool for about 5 minutes. Loosen cake around edge of pan as needed and turn onto rack to cool completely.

Make glaze, stirring lemon juice and confectioners sugar together, and then, drizzling over top of cake. Serve as is, or with whipped cream and raspberries.

The Four Most Powerful Words In My Arsenal.

Hi.  I’m Cheri, and I have two cell phones.

No need for eye rolling.  I’m a stay-at-home mom, and being employer-free, I need only one phone. The other is – you guessed it – not mine.

I do pay for it, though.  It belongs to my teenaged son.  And I pay and I pay and I pay.

Sigh.  The days of enforced timeouts and early bedtimes and withheld cinnamon Teddy Grahams have long passed.  The most punitive words I can utter nowadays are “Hand me your phone.”

Hence, the overburdened electrical outlet in my room.  Son’s not been on top of his work – either at school or at home – so I’m charging for two.

Now, everyone who knows me, knows that I'm not afraid of being named, The Worst Mom Ever.  But this time, as deprived as Son feels, I may feel even more so.  I’ve become accustomed to being able to track him down at any time.  I’ll call when he’s visiting friends.  When random thoughts hit, I'll drop him a text, “Don’t forget you’ve got Scouts tonight!  Love, Mom.”  (More than once, the response has been, “U don’t have 2 sign ur name.  I no who u r.”)

I’ve even texted (although not necessarily proudly), “Dinner’s ready.  Come downstairs.”  Truth be known, that’s probably what I text the most.

But what else to do?  Although I’m enamored of the word, I’m not about to start flogging him.  Caning's out of the question, too.  Son's bigger than me.  And funnier.  The best leverage I’ve got is the phone.  So for now, it’s mine.  Unless, of course, I change my mind.

This past weekend, for example, Son needed a phone while babysitting.  Like so many households, the folks he was sitting for don't have a landline.  Son needed a phone, so I handed his over.

That night, after he returned home and had dutifully returned the phone to me, I received a surprising text on my phone, from the folks for whom Son had been babysitting.

“You have a wonderful son.  I hope my son grows up to be like him.”

I know.  My Son?  The kid whose phone I'm holding captive?  It would be like me to say something snarky.  But the truth is, that unexpected and touching text was almost powerful enough for me to forget Son's homework transgressions and return the beloved phone.  Almost.  'Cause he really is a good kid.  So.  No.  I think I'll keep cluttering my electrical outlet for a while -- at least until the school's progress reports come out.

In the meantime, though, maybe I can cut Son some slack.  Some.  And make one of his favorite meals.

Waffles of Insane Greatness are always a favorite.  Who doesn't adore breakfast for dinner?  Or perhaps, Pork Fried Rice.

Hands down, the favored food group Chez Wiles is pork.  (I shudder to think of the number of pork roast, sausage, bacon, prosciutto, pancetta recipes already included in Feminine Wiles!)  This crowd-pleaser comes together very quickly when you’ve got leftover pork.  Which we often do.  Along with a spare cell phone.  Or sometimes, two.

Pork Fried Brown Rice With Broccoli
Note that this recipe requires the rice to be cooked in advance and cooled.  I usually do it the night before.

1 cup raw brown rice, cooked in 2 ¼ cups chicken broth, and cooled

3 tablespoons vegetable oil, divided
2 eggs, beaten

2 cloves garlic, minced
¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes
2 cups (approximately) broccoli flowerettes
2 tablespoons water

2 cups (about) leftover pork, cut in bitesize pieces
½ teaspoon toasted sesame oil
1-2 tablespoons soy sauce (or more to taste)
kosher salt
fresh ground pepper

In a large skillet (with a fitted lid) over medium-high heat, heat 1 tablespoon oil until hot and rippling.  Pour beaten eggs into skillet, and cook (without stirring) until firm.  Remove cooked eggs to a plate or cutting board, and cut into bitesize strips.  Set aside.  Heat one tablespoon of oil in skillet and quickly sauté broccoli, garlic and red pepper flakes, stir frying  3-4 minutes, or until very fragrant.  Stir in water and cook (lidded), until broccoli is tender-crisp and bright green.  Remove vegetables, which will be stirred in later.  Now sauté pork with remaining vegetable oil and sesame oil in same skillet over medium high heat, until slightly browned on the edges.  Stir in rice and continue sautéing another 3-5 minutes.  Gently toss in soy sauce and return vegetables and egg to pan, stirring carefully.  Season to taste with salt and pepper, or additional soy sauce.  Serve hot.

I Can't Name Names, But I Can Cook. Oh My.

Snarky Son wants to change his name.

More precisely, he no longer wants to be “Snarky.”

When I first started blogging, I deliberately chose not to use the kids' names in Feminine Wiles.  I can’t put my finger on the risk, but it seemed dicey.  And it didn’t seem fair to the kids – particularly considering that their dirty laundry is one of my favorite topics.  (I’m thinking now of when I was declared Worst.  Mom.  Ever.  WME.) 

Plus, I promised my “ex” I wouldn’t name names.  And while we didn’t exactly put it in the custody agreement, he is exactly a lawyer.  Know what I’m saying?  Exactly. 

Voilà the inception of “Darling Daughter” and “Snarky Son.”

But Son doesn’t want to be “Snarky.”  Alliteration-lover that I am, I’ve offered several alternatives, “Super Son.” “Sweet Son.” “Studly Son.”  (OK.  That last was a joke.  Exactly.)  Turns out, it’s not the adjective that SS finds irksome.  He just wants to go by his name.  He’s nearly 15 and doesn’t want to be regarded as cute or sly or clever.  SS just wants to be – himself. 

He's really growing up.  I can see that.  I respect that.  I admire that.  Tough noogies.  I can’t name names.  Not yet.

This protective mama bear isn’t quite ready to release her taller-and-quicker-than-me cub out into the real world.  ‘Cause there’s more than bears out there, you know.  There’s lions.  And tigers.  And Cougars.  Oh my.

Dangers abound.  Here’s another one:  The National Safety Council reported this week that 28% of car crashes can be attributed to drivers using their cell phones (calling or texting).  Twenty-eight percent.  Twenty-eight percent!

The kids and I have become experts at identifying texting drivers.  The conversation in our car usually goes something like this:  “No.  They can’t be drunk.  It’s 7:30 in the morning.  I bet they think they’re driving perfectly fine.  Isn’t that against the law?  Yep.  But there’s no policeman here right now.  Let’s just drop back and let them go on …”

This, just weeks before SS is eligible to earn his driver’s permit.  To use the word that springs to mind, I am a “wreck.”

Lions and tigers and texting drivers.  Oh my. 

Letting go is hard.  But cooking?  That’s easy.  That, I can do.  I can’t come up with an acceptable nickname for SS.  I can't ward off stupid, texting drivers.  I can’t even fend off potential Cougars.  (However, Cougars beware: I work out. I've got a lot of fight in me.)

What I can do is keep the lines of communication open.  I can keep looking for those “teachable” moments.  (“See the light from a cell phone lighting up that driver’s face?  Does he really think we don’t know he’s texting?)"  I can cook.  And maybe I can come up with an acceptable alternative to “Snarky Son.”  Ideas?

Tzatziki (Cucumber Yogurt) Sauce

I’m one of those people who always orders “extra” tzatziki, and occasionally, buys it at the store to eat it with a spoon.  It’s ”dee-lish” (as DD would say) on Lamb and Spinach Meatballs, or even on toasted pita, but it’s best if you make it yourself. Note that this recipe must be begun two hours in advance.

16 oz. plain Greek yogurt, strained

½ English cucumber, peeled, grated or chopped fine, all moisture pressed out

½ teaspoon kosher salt

1 clove garlic, minced fine

½ teaspoon Tabasco sauce

2 teaspoons fresh dill, minced

2 teaspoons fresh mint, minced

2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

Strain yogurt by spooning into a coffee filter set in a mesh strainer set over a bowl.  Allow two hours for extra liquid to drain out.  Discard extra liquid.  (I know it's a pain, but it makes your tzatziki nice and creamy instead of thin and runny.)  Stir together remaining ingredients in a medium bowl.  Chill and serve.

How To Study For Exams In 20 Easy Steps: A Mom's Perspective

This week, Snarky Son faces his first full round of high school exams.

Fortunately, his school recognizes how overwhelming the coming days will be and has gone to great lengths to help the new freshmen class prepare. The dean of students and department heads met with parents to help us understand the gravity of the situation. Individual teachers handed out exam packets weeks ago, impressing upon their classes the need to prepare in advance. Some teachers have held review sessions outside of class, giving students additional opportunities to study and ask questions. Advisors have met with students, to help them manage the inevitable stress of exams.

We moms, of course, have also swapped notes, and have come to the consensus that the recommended study techniques aren't necessarily the utilized study techniques. Here are the exam preparation steps observed Chez Wiles:

1. Clean your room. Make sure your desk is clutter-free, so you’ll have room to spread out. A clean room may also minimize distractions. 
2. Organize your study materials. Make sure you have old tests and quizzes, class notes and books. 
3. Check for text messages.
4. When Mom hollers upstairs, stop playing electric guitar. 
5. Start playing acoustic guitar. 
6. Glance over French notes. Wonder why everyone is so worried about this exam.
7. Check for text messages. Probably ought to check Facebook, too, to see if you’re missing anything. Quit Facebook when Mom catches you on Farmville.
8. See whether Lionel, the 12-pound cat, wants to be worn as a hat. Nope. Maybe he wants to go in dryer. Nope. Make note to self to try again later.
9. The bedroom is starting to feel stuffy. Time for a change of scenery. Lay on hallway rug to review vocab.
10. When Mom hollers again, tell her that you’re not just playing the guitar – you’re putting your vocab words to music. Everyone has their own study technique and this is yours. You might be a genius. Everyone should study this way. Can you think of a rhyme for “complacent”? How about “obstinate”?* 
11. Go downstairs for a snack. Notice that Mom has put out an assortment of cut fruit and vegetables. Eat one baby carrot, pour a liter-sized cup of Cheerwine, fill a mixing bowl with Tostitos Scoops and take them upstairs with you. 
12. Wait. Did the dog want to come in? Go back downstairs and check.
13. Go back upstairs, spread Physics notes and tests across the bed. This will be the Physics work area. There. That looks good. Good organization. Check text messages. Check Facebook.
14. Wow. That was tiring. A shower will re-energize you. Time to take a shower.
15. Now that you’re re-energized, your brain works better, and you remember that comfortable clothing is important to successful studying. Sadly, your favorite sweatpants aren’t clean. Time to do laundry.
16. Walk through kitchen. Someone’s hidden the Cheerwine. Consider asking Mom to go to the store for more. Look at her and notice the creases in her forehead. Reconsider. Open a two-liter bottle of 7-Up instead.
17. While the sweatpants wash, pull out your World History notes. Realize you can’t read your own writing. Wonder if Mom had a point when she said you have poor handwriting. Oh wait. If you squint your eyes just right, you can read it. See? Mom was wrong.
18. Check text messages.
19. Whew. Time to take a break. Breaks are important. You’ll know breaktime is over when Mom yells again.
20. Finally. It's time to get down to studying. Go back to step 2. Repeat steps 3 – 18. Again.

*Two of SS's actual vocabulary words.

Sigh. I can't do his studying for him. One, because I won't. Two, because he's got to learn sometime. And three, let's be honest. Advanced Conceptual Physics? Me? Shut the front door!

What I can do, as always, is make sure he's gets ample sleep and plenty to eat. And not every snack has to be a "healthy" snack. This afternoon, I made up a batch of rich, chewy Chocolate Toffee Cookies. They'll be perfect with a cold glass of milk. And may -- almost -- compensate for the fact that I'm about to confiscate his cell phone.

Chocolate Toffee Cookies
I adapted this recipe from one for Salted Chocolate Covered Caramel Cookies on the blog A Good Appetite. Note that the dough must be refrigerated for at least two hours before baking.

1 bag of good semi-sweet chocolate chips (I use Ghirardelli)
1/2 stick unsalted butter, room temperature
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
3/4 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup Heath English Toffee Bits (found on baking aisle)
kosher salt

Melt 1 1/3 cup of chocolate chips in microwave. Stir in butter until melted.

In a medium mixing bowl, whisk together eggs and vanilla. Whisk in a spoon or two of chocolate, to temper the eggs. Gradually stir in remainder of chocolate and brown sugar. In measuring cup, stir together flour and baking powder. Then, stir flour mixture into chocolate mixture. Fold in caramel bits and remaining chocolate chips. Refrigerate at least two hours or overnight.

Preheat oven to 350. Line baking sheets with parchment paper. Scoop dough, by tablespoonfuls onto parchment, allowing ample space for spreading. Flatten cookies slightly. Sprinkle each cookie -- lightly -- with a few grains of kosher salt. Bake for 10 minutes. Let cool on cookie sheet for 5 minutes and then, move to baking racks to allow to cool completely. Makes 3 dozen cookies.

Breaking Rules and Making Memories. With blink-182. And My Son.

Yes.  Today is Wednesday, which means last night was a school night. 

And yes, my 14-year-old (Snarky Son) does indeed currently hold a somewhat lower GPA than he -- or rather, we -- would like.  And yes, I knew that when I took him to the blink-182 concert last night.  Which was 40 minutes away.  On a school night.

Don’t judge me. 

blink-182 is SS’s very favorite band.  (Yes, it's a struggle for me to type blink-182 all lowercase.  But with a name like Cheri, who am I to cast stones?)  He knows all their songs.  Half of them he can play on his guitar.  Plus, blink hasn’t toured in years.  This was a reunion tour, so there’s no telling whether they’ll ever tour again.  Plus, a bunch of other kids he knows were going to the concert, too.

Whoa.  Now I sound like the 14-year-old.  But am I wrong to see his point?

Rules are rules, and there are plenty of ‘em Chez Wiles. We’ve got rules for saving money, for donating money and for spending money.  We’ve got rules for putting away laundry (gratefully), for loading your own dishes (immediately) and for playing the guitar after 10 p.m. (quietly).  There are homework rules, dinner table rules and no-girls-in-the-bedroom rules.  (Except, of course, for Darling Daughter, who, when the occasion arises, will have to abide by the no-boys-in-the-bedroom rule.)

But c’mon.  It was blink-182, dude.  And it was SS’s first concert.

Who doesn’t remember his or her own first concert?  OK.  A few staggering teenagers who were escorted out by loyal friends last night -- before blink even took the stage -- may not have total recall.  I only hope their churning liquid demons were liberated before – not during – the car ride home. 

I remember my own first concert -- The Commodores, 1978.  (Of course I blogged about it.  Click here.)  On Facebook, I recently mentioned that I’d been to an Earth, Wind & Fire concert in Columbia, SC in 1979.  Sure enough, a Facebook friend, who I didn't know then was at the same concert.  And it turns out that Cougar Bait (one of the knights-in-shining-armor when my car was broken into last week, click here for the whole unsettling story) and I were at the same Doobie Brothers concert in 1980.  I know, right?  Serendipitous.

I love knowing that SS and DD are, at this very minute, constructing their own music history.  As she does her required reading, DD is listening to The Killers, Are We Human.  SS, natch, has blink-182 on a non-stop loop.  I love knowing that DD associates Journey’s, Don’t Stop Believing, with her first middle school dance.  (I think I do, too.)


And I love knowing that SS’s first concert was with me.

It occurs to me that, if I were still married, I may not have been the parent of choice at last night’s concert.  I might have been designated to stay home with DD.  I might have chosen warmth and a good night’s sleep over crowds and ringing eardrums.  I might not have ended up being one of so few 47-year-old moms in attendance that we all could’ve fit in the bathroom at one time.  In a single stall.

Instead, I got to be with SS, ridiculing the warm-up band, singing All The Small Things with 15,000 other blink-182 fans, teasing SS about the existence – and his eventual purchase – of blink underwear.  (Honestly, the boy wears boxers.  What made him think those "emo" – his word, not mine – underpants were a good idea?  And why did he choose the T-shirt with the cartoon character, instead of the one with the tour info?)

OK.  I didn’t actually get to sit with SS.  He hooked up with his buddies before we were even patted down at the gate.  But he checked in with me throughout the concert, advising me not to listen to the warm-up act.  (Quote:  He's terribad.  Don’t listen to him.  I’m not listening to a stupid white guy pretending to be black.)  And best of all, I got to be with him on the ride home, hoarse from singing, exhausted from dancing and buzzing from adrenaline.

So we broke a few rules.  I was there.  Lucky me.  And since I’ve been to a concert or two in my day, I’d planned ahead, nutrition-wise.  Early in the day, I’d made a good-sized batch of granola.  That way, I could break a few cholesterol-, carbohydrate- and calorie-rules at the concert.  And make a memory with my son.

Blueberry Pecan Granola

I’ve pored over a lot of granola recipes recently, before coming up with this one, which incorporates my favorite nuts (pecans) and dried fruit (blueberries).  I like it right out of the bag, but it’s also good with yogurt or in a bowl with milk.  Note that it's essential that the various ingredients be toasted, carefully and separately, before combining.

5 cups rolled oats, toasted in a 350 degree oven

2 cups coarsely chopped pecans, lightly toasted in a 350 degree oven

1/2 cup sesame seeds, lightly toasted

1 cup sweetened coconut shreds, toasted (carefully)

1 cup dried blueberries

1/3 cup canola oil

1/2 cup honey

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

Preheat oven to 350.  Mix oats, pecans, sesame seeds, coconut and blueberries in a large bowl.  Combine oil, honey and cinnamon in a glass measuring cup, and microwave 45 seconds.  Pour over oat mixture and stir gently.  Spread in a large roasting pan and sprinkle with kosher salt.  Bake about 20 minutes, stirring every 5 minutes, or until golden brown.  Remove from oven and cool completely.  Store in airtight containers or zipper bags.

I'm A Mom. I Can't "Just Chill."

This post ran as a guest column in the Moxie section of The Post & Courier (Charleston, SC), Friday, September 11, 2009.  (Click here for the column.)

When we were growing up on James Island, one of our great summertime thrills was when somebody's exhausted and pestered parent would cave in and drive us across the old Cooper River bridge (an adventure in itself) to the Super Slide in Mount Pleasant.

The Super Slide was, in fact, just that: A "souped-up" old-fashioned metal slide -- on steroids.

To my 9-year-old eyes, it looked to be about 10 stories tall, but more likely came in at two or three, with what seemed like about 20 lanes, but again, was more likely five or six. After paying the attendant, we'd traipse up the stairs, each clutching a square of carpet to sit on, Aladdin-style, for the all-too-quick ride down.

The carpet square served several purposes. One, it maximized the glide. Two, keeping our feet and hands on the carpet helped us avoid friction burns with the slide, which even the littlest kids knew would be far more painful than the "Indian burns" we inflicted on each other's arms at home. And three, well, for the love of St. Philip's, we were in Charleston. In the summer. With no shade. And the slide wasn't that high-tech, stay-cool, molded plastic that's used today. It was metal. You know. Like the bottom of an electric iron.

The metal slides in our own backyards were blistering hot and unusable.  What made anyone, particularly an adult, think an even higher, longer slide would be preferable?  With a little bit of Pam, every single egg at the Piggly Wiggly could've been fried on that scorching piece of sheet metal. Bacon, too.

I sometimes think of that slide when my kids demand explanations for my parenting decisions. Plainly, it would be safer, and usually smarter, not to even begin the descent. The rule is the rule. Make your bed. Put away your clothes. Walk the dog. Because I said so. Now.

But the kids are 12 and 14 now, so I can't always get away with that.

Older Child (OC) recently laid into me: What can't you just relax? Why can't you let things slide? What difference does it make if I put away my clothes? Why can't I eat in my room? Why do you care how late I'm on the phone? Why do you get to tell me when to go to bed?

And finally: Why can't you just chill?

Are you kidding? I can chill! I'm the chillest mom around! I'm so cool ...

Um. Did I say that out loud? 'Cause there's no way I can win the "cool" point.

In fact, I am decidedly not cool -- in any sense of the word. But I am an adult. I pause. I take what feels like a lung-bursting breath. I know that once I get on this slide, there's no stopping -- at least not without incurring serious injury, either to our relationship or my own ego.

It'd be so easy to get burned.

I consider walking away, giving both of us a chance to cool down and avoid the possibility of medical intervention. But oddly, OC seems to be expecting a response.

I dig deep, trying to think of an answer I can give that's honest, worth giving, worth hearing and, most importantly, won't sear the skin off of either of us.

"Because," I offer hesitantly, "you're in training.

"I don't expect perfection. You're a kid. But you're a work in progress. The point isn't for you to get everything right. The point is for you to eventually emerge from training as a thoughtful, contributing, informed, decent human being.

"But that won't happen automatically. That's why I can't just chill."

I stop talking. I wait. I try to read OC's face, but I can't tell. Did one of us just get burned?

"OK, Mom. Whatever. Can I finish watching this show now?"

Phew. I deflate my lungs. That wasn't so scary. Looks like we both made it to the bottom of the slide with hands, feet and egos intact.

I suspect I'll be traipsing back up those steps again in no time, though. He's 14, and his training's only begun.

What a ride.

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.

I Know My Place. So I'm Making Brownies.

Parenting is a humbling gig. 

No matter how much prenatal prep you force on yourself, no matter how much you pore over What To Expect When You’re Expecting, no matter how much advice is offered by more experienced friends, nothing truly prepares you for that first night home from the hospital.

Is that a “tired” cry or a “hungry” cry? Or is it a “saturated Pampers” cry? Even if you’re blessed with a few hours of blissful silence, you think, “Something's wrong! The baby isn't crying!”

Right. All that studying was for naught. Get used to on-the-job-training, baby. You may flaunt advanced degrees and successfully manage more than 35 people at work, but you’re a parent now, which is an exercise in simple humility – if not downright humiliation.

Even after those baby and toddler years, kids continue to keep a parent’s ego in check. Just look at recent letters from my happy campers. When it comes to Darling Daughter and Snarky Son, humility “r” me.

DD’s letter, I’ll grant you, does pass the “well-written” test (as defined by me, click here). Among other things, she enthusiastically thanks me for a ring I sent, she praises my decision to send candy, and declares her intention to live life to the fullest while I’m spending my last days at camp. Huzzah!

But in the opening sentence, she keeps me in my place: I can’t wait to see you and kitty!

There it is. I send letters. I send e-mails. I send gifts. But I’m still on par with the cat, Lionel, who will likely draw blood from DD within minutes of her return home. (He didn’t mean to! He was just playing!)

SS, at 14, the more experienced of my two kids, isn’t nearly so subtle. In the past week or so, Mike the Mailman has now delivered three – count ‘em, three – notes from my son. (You can’t call a lone sentence of correspondence a “letter.” You can scarcely call it a “note.” And you certainly can’t say it passes the “well-written” test.)

Three, of course, wouldn’t be so bad, except that in each one he manages to incorporate the same phrase: Um, they’re forcing me to write home …

Smackdown. Back in my place.

And happily so.

Because the truth is, I’m thrilled their experience at camp this summer has been so “awesome” (a word used in nearly every letter or note). And I’ll be thrilled to have them back home at the end of this week.

To celebrate their return, I’ll serve – what else? – the beloved sausage pasta (click here for the recipe) and these sweet brownies for dessert.

I got the recipe from a friend in Charleston a few weeks back. The recipe is actually her mom’s, and she says people often tell her that they are the best brownies ever. I’d have to agree. And on their homecoming this Friday, I bet DD and SS will, as well.

Blanche’s Brownies

This recipe makes a very moist, thin, frosted brownie. My friend said to use a “big” pan, but since I didn’t have one large enough, I used a 9x12 and an 8x8.

For brownies

2 cups sugar

2 sticks butter

3 (1oz.) squares semi-sweet chocolate

4 eggs

1 1/2 cups plain flour

1/4 teaspoon baking powder

1 cup chopped walnuts

Preheat oven to 350, and prepare both pans well with Pam. Melt butter and chocolate in saucepan (or in microwave). Pour over sugar in a mixing bowl and combine well. With a fork, combine flour and baking powder in a measuring cup. Add flour and eggs alternately to chocolate mixture. Beat well, stir in walnuts and divide into prepared pans. Now, here’s the best line I’ve ever seen in a recipe: Brownies are done when you smell them cooking. In my oven, it was less than 20 minutes.

For icing

1/2 box confectioners’ sugar

5 tablespoons butter

1 1/2 squares semi-sweet chocolate

1 tsp vanilla

milk

Melt butter and chocolate together. Stir in sugar and vanilla. Add enough milk to make spread evenly. Use to frost brownies once cooled.