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

I’m counting my blessings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, you can count on.

Double Artichoke Salad

1 box frozen artichoke hearts, thawed

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

1 tablespoon capers, drained

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

2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley

Boston lettuce leaves, well-cleaned and dried

For dressing

1 ½ tablespoons white balsamic vinegar

1 ½ tablespoons fresh lemon juice

½ teaspoon kosher salt (or more to taste)

generous grinding of black pepper

¼ cup extra virgin olive oil

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artichoke, Olive, Fennel and Spinach Salad

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

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

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.