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.

Kids At Camp. Mom Not. All Is Well.

Day 18 of the Kids-At-Camp-Mom-Not program. At this point, though, I suppose the program could be renamed the Eight-Days-Remain program. As in, Eight Days Remain until I drive five and half hours to retrieve two exhausted, over-sunned, iPod- and mobile-phone-deprived campers for what will surely be some top quality car time with me. Hoo boy. Yep. Best to strap on those seat belts. That re-entry could be a little rocky.

Unexpectedly, I’ve been rather enjoying myself in their absence. I’d anticipated, after dropping them at camp 18 days ago, that I’d make the lonely return trip awash in tears, wracked by sobs so debilitating that I'd have to pull over to the shoulder and get myself together.

Um. Didn’t happen. I did get to listen to whatever I wanted on the car CD player, though, all the way home. And I got to sing. My songs. Loudly. Repeatedly. And off-key.

Originally, I’d thought it possible that I’d get a call from Kleenex manufacturer Kimberly Clark, thanking me for my singular increased tissue usage, which had prompted spiking stock prices. Hmm. Well. Looks like there are still plenty of tissues here, so I’m not worried about missing that call.

I had even boldly predicted that, for the four weeks they were at camp, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from getting up in the night to check on the kids, only to be reminded, sadly, that they’re not here. Right. Turns out, I got re-trained pretty darn quickly. I don't have to check. They’re not here. I'm OK with that.

I know I should feel guilty about how easy this has been for me. ‘Cause I really do love my kids and bask in their company. And they both know that. But it's only four weeks, and I've been making the most of it. And the fact is, the kids are doing everything they can to make sure I don't miss them.

Just look at an excerpt from the letter Mike The Mailman delivered today from Snarky Son (SS) – Not much to say, um, they’re forcing me to write. I’m having loads of fun … send candy!

Um, I love you, too?

And this, from Darling Daughter (DD), There are 10 days left of camp. I can’t believe it’s almost over. I don’t want to leave!

That's all right. Anyone could read between the lines on that one. She's desperate for me, right?

Let’s just say that I'm not counting on a Disney-type moment when I retrieve them next weekend. I well remember last summer, when SS made his return trip from camp to reality – and chores, rules, veggies, required-footwear and poop-scooping. He wasn't home 24 hours before he asked, in all seriousness, whether he could return to camp for another four weeks. What a lovable kid.

Lucky for me, I’ve still got another eight days to relish ... um, mourn ... their absence. And there's no better way to do it than with one of my favorite – and their least favorite – dishes. Potato salad.

I really do believe that this recipe (based on my mom’s) is the best ever. It's very old-fashioned and very simple – no boiled eggs, no bell peppers, no ornamental paprika and none of that yellow food coloring my grandmother occasionally called upon to give her salad just the right appearance.

And the way I eat it -- starting the day with breakfast and ending the day as bedtime snack -- it’ll be long gone before the kids return to reality. Lucky for them -- and me.

Old Fashioned Potato Salad

2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes (about 5)

3 ribs celery, sliced

1 large kosher dill pickle, cubed

1/2 large sweet onion (Vidalia or Maui), diced

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 cup mayonnaise

1 1/2 tablespoons yellow mustard (or slightly more, to taste)

generous grind of black pepper

Put whole, unpeeled potatoes in a large pot of salted water. Bring water to a boil, reduce heat somewhat and simmer until fork tender. Drain, let cool slightly, peel and cut in rough 1/2 inch dice. Stir in celery, pickle and onions. Stir in about half of the mayonnaise and all of the mustard. Continue stirring in remaining mayonnaise as needed until moistened. Stir in pepper and additional salt if needed. Chill well and serve!