One Of The Best Things I Ever Ate

I’m pathetically proud to admit that when one of my kids asks me to pass the salt, I inquire, “What kind? Sea? Kosher? Pink Himalayan, perhaps?”

When a vinaigrette calls for oil, I wonder, Is this an occasion for a lemon-infused olive oil? California walnut oil perhaps? Or should I stick with extra virgin? 

I use soft winter wheat flour for biscuits, baby spinach for salads, and unsalted butter for, well, everything, because as previously noted, I’ve got gracious plenty salt – in shakers, grinders, cellars, and cunning little salt pigs with cunning little porcelain spoons. Why in the world would I cook with pre-salted butter?

Yes. I’m particular about ingredients. So it puzzles me to realize that I’m unsure of the ingredients in one of my favorite dishes. I’m unsure of the technique. Come to think of it, I’m unsure of the name.

Mom always called it “Milk Pudding,” but her parents and older brothers referred to it by a far less appetizing name: Thickening Milk. Hardly the menu description that gets mouths watering. But wait – there’s more. “Milk Pudding” – or whatever you call it – isn’t a dessert. And no, it’s not some high-falutin’ English pudding. From what I recall, it was butter and flour – or maybe milk and flour – stirred together into a super thick paste in a large skillet. Then, you’d stir in some milk and some sugar and a splash of vanilla. Again, though, not what you think. Are those lumps? Yes they are. And that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. Creamy hot milky sweet goodness – with chewy lumps. Of flour. I think.

Despite the name, “Milk Pudding” was a dinner entrée. Sometimes served with a salty slice of ham.  And as I recall, Daddy never cared for it. It was a Mom specialty – passed down from her mom. I’ve never seen it in any cookbook or on any menu. Google searches – for “milk pudding” or “thickening milk” – turn up nothing. My best guess is it was one of the meals cooked in during the Depression – making due with cheap ingredients from the pantry.

Just milk, flour, sugar and vanilla. And maybe butter. The most basic of cooking ingredients. And one of the best things I ever ate.

What I Wish I’d Said, Part One

As much as I love to write, I hate to speak. Put another way, I hate speaking even more than I love writing. And that’s saying something.

Looking for someone to raise her hand in a business meeting? Look away from me. Words of wisdom? Well, there’s a book I can recommend. And anything close to my deepest feelings? Um. Can I get back to you on that?

I don’t have the gift. The moment passes. Hours later, though – usually between two and three in the morning – I have absolute clarity. In the quiet, in the dark, when it's far too late, and I should be sleeping – it comes to me: What I should have said.

A few weeks ago, I was with my mom and siblings to celebrate the life of Mom's husband, Bob, who died a year ago. It was a brilliant idea, really. After the angst and difficulty and mourning of the year, we gathered to share favorite memories of the man who’d made such a powerful imprint on our lives. I reveled in everyone else’s stories – in hearing the tried and the true and the ones I’d somehow forgotten. But then, my sister says, “Cheri, tell us your favorite memory.” 

So I said -- nothing.

I froze. Rock hard, sub-zero, re-route traffic, school’s closed, the water main's busted, Kelsius zero. While everyone else was thoughtful and emotional and generous with their memories, everything that came to my mind sounded trite and trivial and silly. I had nothing meaningful to contribute. Nothing at all. 

But then it came to me. About eight hours too late.

Somewhere between two and three in the morning, it came to me. My favorite memory of Bob – what I loved most about him – was the way he loved Mom.  He loved her inside and out. He loved her “because,” and he loved her “regardless.” When I think back over their nearly 30 year marriage, I have to admit that there were times when their relationship was maddening. They did everything together. Everything. They worked together. They shopped together. They thought together. They decided together. They cooked together. They ate together. They prayed together.Ask either one of them a question – even the simplest of questions – and the answer was predictable: Let’s talk with your Mama. Let me talk to Uncle Bob.

He doted on her and adored her. It was obvious that Bob saw my mom the way I did -- as the most brilliant, beautiful, capable person on the planet. His Christmas and birthday gifts to her were always over the top, but nothing was more extravagant than the love he demonstrated, day in and day out. He was mindful of the little things that often get brushed away and overlooked in longterm relationships. He really cared. He cared about Mom. He cared about her feelings. He cared about her kids.

Uncle Bob set the bar high. As we all watched, he demonstrated how to put someone else -- my mom -- first. He loved my mom – in an extraordinary, exceptional, life-altering kind of way. He showed me what it was to love -- and to be loved. He showed me what was possible in a relationship. He helped me figure out what I wanted in my own relationship.

I wish I’d said that.

Best Ever Pimento Cheese Spread
To celebrate Bob's life, we also indulged in some of his favorite foods: roasted oysters, egg salad sandwiches, shrimp, cream cheese and olive sandwiches, spanish peanuts, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, blue cheese dip, and pimento cheese. When I was 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.  In fact, Bob often said that if egg salad sandwiches and pimento cheese sandwiches hadn't been served at your reception, then you weren't actually married at 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.

Silent Morning, Holy Morning

It's 6:30 in the morning. And, as is usual during school vacation, not a creature is stirring Chez Wiles.

Except for me. I've already showered and dressed. Coffee is brewing. And Sausage Bread is warming in the oven. The kids love Sausage Bread any time of year, but particularly as part of our Christmas morning tradition.

That's right. It's Christmas morning, and I'm the only one awake Chez Wiles. Don't hate me.

Carter is 19, and Julia is 17. Long gone are the Christmases when I had to lay down two rules. One: Santa can't come if you don't get to sleep. And Two: No one is allowed downstairs before 6:00 tomorrow morning. 

Not, of course, that they ever had to wake me up. I was always as excited as a kid myself -- well awake before they were -- making coffee and making Sausage Bread and most of all, making them wait. They'd sit -- with sleep in their eyes and bedheads that would be memorialized in Christmas photos for years to come -- at the bottom of the stairs, on the last two steps, nearly vibrating from anticipation. From that vantage point, they could just peek around the corner into the living room -- without their sweet little feet touching the floor -- at the lit tree and abundant gifts and overstuffed stockings. 

Flash forward to Christmas Day 2014. My "kids" are nearly grown. There's no more waiting on the stairs. Instead, I'm the one waiting. At 7:15  a.m., they're both still dozing. I'll jostle them awake soon enough. We'll tear open gifts and dump out stockings. We'll stuff ourselves with hot, toasty Sausage Bread, and both kids will join me in a cup of coffee.

For just a few more minutes, though, I'll enjoy the silence. We'll have plenty of time for hustle and bustle later. For now, though, I'm grateful to have an awakening of my own -- and a few silent moments to reflect on the many blessings and joys in my life and on this Earth.

Merry Christmas, friends.