Settling Into Summer Routines -- Or A Lack Thereof. With Ribs.

School's out.

Not, as Alice Cooper eventually proclaimed, "forever," but at least "for summer."

I know this, first, because there are two additional, oversized bodies bumping around the house, each dividing his or her time equally between foraging for food; dwindling the charge on my MacBook; carpeting the floors with soggy towels and P.E. clothes which haven't seen the inside of a washing machine since before Christmas; misplacing my MacBook after the draining the battery; planning, scrapping, then re-planning social outings; and finally, in the ongoing quest for sustenance, begging to be taken off-premises -- to Harris Teeter, Smoothie King or Chick-Fil-A -- for still more food.

Second, I know school's out because both of my beloved and believed-to-be-bright children has already had the audacity to whine, "I'm bored." Silly them. As if there isn't always dog poop to be scooped and kitty litter boxes to be sifted.

Even more audacious, each of them, separately, has protested indignantly, "What difference does it make if I leave my wet towels (dirty laundry, Jolly Rancher wrappers, backpack contents, fill-in-the-blank) on the floor? It's summer! Why do you care so much?"

Well. I've got gracious plenty responses for that, but before I make a list, did you really think that tone of voice would change my mind?

Honestly, though, I see their point. Wouldn't it be delightful if life actually worked that way? If school let out for summer, the temp soared to 90, and no one had to do laundry or take out trash or clean toilets? If the pantry were endlessly stocked with Krispy Kreme doughnuts, the fridge with Minute Maid Limeade and the freezer with filet mignon? (No kidding about that last one. It would be difficult to overstate the number of times, in this week alone, that my 14-year-old-son has asked, "Do we have any steak?" -- as if we routinely snack on $20-a-pound, medium rare, grilled meat.)

Some things do slack up, of course. Dress codes are abandoned. Bedtimes slide. Breakfast becomes every-man-for-himself. I even have a friend who, for years, got away with telling her young children that, "Yes, church is closed during the summer. Just like school."

In truth, when I was a kid, it felt as if all routines did come to a halt during the summer. Every morning, we'd get on our bikes and go -- ride trails, build forts, catch fiddler crabs and dine on Lowcountry delicacies like blackberries, wild plums, honeysuckle and sourgrass (that last, despite our parents telling us it was only sour because dogs peed on it).

We could go shoeless for days. To break any monotony that might creep in about mid-July, we'd shove someone off a boat -- in three feet of water or 30. Life jacket, life schmacket.

What a life.

So OK. No more pencils, no more books. School is out for my kids. I can't abolish all routines, but provided they can keep my MacBook on the charger, I reckon I can let a few other things slide. It's summer. We may as well enjoy it -- starting with these savory ribs inspired by a recipe I found in Bon Appetit magazine.

Babyback Ribs With Asian Flavors

Note that preparation for these ribs must begin hours in advance, or even better, the day before.

1, 3-3 1/2 lb. rack babyback ribs

1 tablespoon ginger paste (or 1 tablespoon fresh grated ginger)

1 tablespoon honey

1 tablespoon soy sauce

1 tablespoon asian fish sauce

3 cloves garlic, minced to a paste with 1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon fresh ground pepper

Prepare ribs. Rinse in cold water. Using a small thin knife, peel white membrane from underside of ribs. (Tough to do, but worth it.) Pat dry with paper towels.

Combine remaining ingredients in a small bowl (or better, a small food processor or blender). Rub both sides of rack with mixture, wrap tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate at least four hours, or overnight.

Preheat oven to 250. After refrigerating ribs, cut into several (single-serving) sections. Put in a large baking dish, cover tightly with foil, and bake for two hours at 250 degrees.

Remove ribs from oven, check for tenderness. Ribs should be fully cooked and tender. Baste with pan juices and grill over indirect medium heat, until browned and crusty on both sides -- 10-15 minutes per side.

Life Is Good. Do I Need To Know Why?

(For Jamey.)

Suspicious happenings are afoot Chez Wiles.

Earlier today, Darling Daughter sought permission to embark on yet another all-important, can't-miss, everyone's-going social event. To which I responded, as I have the past 851 times such occasions have arisen (this week alone), "I'm not even considering it until your room's picked up and the cat litter boxes are cleaned out."

To which she replied, without a dram of facetiousness, "You're right. I'll take care of it."

You bet you will, I thought, satisfied. Having won the battle, I gave a smug nod, saying, "OK. Well, be sure to let me know when it's done." I turned crisply on my heel to get back to sorting laundry. But then, thought, What was that all about?

Come to think of it, Darling Daughter has been exceptionally accommodating these past few days. Beyond accommodating, in fact -- she's been pleasant, easygoing, and dare I say it, delightful.

My parental radar could not possibly be at a higher level of alert.

Think about it another way. Earlier today, regarding North Korea's ongoing and persistent nuclear tests and missile launches, President Barack Obama issued a warning, saying, "We are not intending to continue a policy of rewarding provocation."

That's all well and good. But what if, in response, sickly, scrawny, teeny, tiny, pompadoured and platformed Kim Jon-il, dictator-beyond-Conan-O'Brian's-wildest-dreams, had stretched up to his full five-foot-three-inches and had the mendacity to say -- "Okey dokey"?

I know, right? Plainly, something unusually nefarious would be afoot.

Same thing Chez Wiles. Somebody's up to no good.

But who?

Is is possible that Darling Daughter has achieved a new level of brain maturation, allowing her to be reasonable, respectful and rational? Nah. She's plenty clever, but her frontal lobe isn't scheduled to mature for another 10 years. Indeed, based on how things are progressing for her 14-year-old brother, maybe longer.

Is it possible that, despite 12-year-old brain development, my personal responsibility mantra has been sufficiently drummed into her head, and she's prepared to embrace my carefully-considered and all-knowing lessons? Nah. I won't kid myself -- I'm not that good.

Is it possible that I'm being played?

Ding, ding, ding! Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a winner!

Darling Daughter had said, "You're right. I'll take care of it"? What, exactly, did she mean by that? Did she think I wouldn't call her on that? Did she think she could just soothe me into complacency? Did she think ... ?

Wait a minute. Is is possible that I'm the one up to no good?

Maybe I'm too suspicious. She is, after all, Darling. Why wouldn't she be agreeable? Why wouldn't she be accommodating?

And really, who needs a reason? Regardless of how cunning and conniving either of us might be, maybe it's best just to embrace the situation. Whatever the circumstances, I'll take "accommodating" and "delightful" over "snarky" and "eye-spinning" any day of the week.

In fact, to promote such behavior, contrived or not, I may have to start her day tomorrow with a little something special -- like these always good, always light, always better-than-from-any-mix pancakes.

If only they worked on her 14-year-old brother.

Buttermilk Pancakes

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

3 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 large egg, beaten

1 1/3 cup buttermilk

1/2 stick (real) butter, melted

Using a fork or whisk, mix together dry ingredients in a bowl. When well combined, quickly stir in remaining ingredients with a few strokes of wooden spoon. Do not over-stir. Cook on a hot, prepared griddle, turning only once. Serve with syrup, or, at our house, powdered sugar and strawberries.

A Time To Celebrate -- And A Time To Cry

Tomorrow marks my son's last day as a middle school student.  He'll cross an auditorium stage clutching a certificate, and just like that, he'll be a high school student.  I'll be seated, in one of those uncomfortable auditorium seats that flips up noisily if you shift too suddenly, clutching a Kleenex.  And just like that, I'll be the parent of a high school student.

Although my parents would report, accurately, that I cried nearly every day -- about something, everything, nothing -- from the age of 11 until about 14, I don't cry readily nowadays.  Nevertheless, I'm forecasting a 100% chance of waterworks tomorrow.

On his first day of kindergarten nine years ago, my sweet son clambered confidently onto the bus (and when you're only five years old, that first step is a doozy) for the 10-mile ride to school.

He never looked back.  Good thing, too -- because I lost it.  I don't mean I cried.  I bawled.  I heaved.  I blubbered.  


I could scarcely breathe between sobs.

Quite the spectacle.  My then-husband, never entirely comfortable with tears, was at a loss.  He glanced quickly at his watch and offered the only solace he could summon.  "I've got to get to work," he said, "but why don't you call the realtor and go find a house closer to school?  Maybe a house where you can actually see the school.   If you find something you like, call me.  We'll move."

What?  Just like that?  Move?  Buy a house?  Now, if he'd told me to buy some fabulous bejeweled earrings -- with a killer necklace to match -- I might've done that.  But buy a house?  His over-reaction put me and my over-reaction back on kilter.  We didn't move, of course.  I'm far too entrenched in my neighborhood.  But thus began the cycle of my tears as the kids make their way through these entirely foreseeable milestones.  I see the changes coming.  I know they're for the better.  But the tears still leak out.

At the end of that kindergarten year, my son was at odds.  Well-meaning adults kept asking if he was excited to be completing his kindergarten year.  Asking whether he was ready to be a "big first-grader."  Asking if he was looking forward to summer.  

No one asked if he'd be sad to leave his darling kindergarten teacher.  No one asked if he was nervous about moving to the first-grade "hall."  No one asked if he was sad to be leaving his friends for the summer.

As the final days of the year dwindled down, he wasn't sleeping well.  He had nightmares.  He was moody.  I had a glimmer of how he was feeling, but was losing patience.  One afternoon, after a particularly unexpected outburst (on his part), I blurted, "I don't understand what's going on here!" 

To which, my sweet six-year-old, eyes brimming with tears, exclaimed, "I have mixed feelings!"

Mixed feelings.  Eight years later, that's me.

I'm proud of his accomplishments since that kindergarten year, and I look forward to the ones to come, but I'm sad to end this chapter.  I've enjoyed it.  I'll miss it.

Still, it's time to move on.  My now-14-year-old and his friends are so grown that they scarcely seem to fit in the middle school hallways.  Their hormones are fully ramped.  They tower, sometimes menacingly, over the sixth graders.  My own son has been taller than me for quite some time now.

I've already warned him that I anticipate springing a leak tomorrow.  At first, he was incredulous.  Then, he urged me not to wear makeup.  The streaked mascara look, he reasoned, would be too embarrassing.  But then he consented that if I was just dabbing at my eyes, makeup would probably be OK.  Little does he realize that it's far better for both of us if I cry with makeup than without.

He'll get his certificate.  I'll get my Kleenex.  And we'll both move on.