Showing posts with label Super Simple. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Super Simple. Show all posts

Thursday, July 18, 2013

You Can’t Go Away To College!
You Don't Even Know How To Make A Grilled Cheese Sandwich!


Dear Son,

As I count the dwindling days until you depart for college, it has become apparent that I have failed you. Miserably so.

Yes, you hold a high school diploma. Your AP exam performance has earned you college credit. And your grades and scores paved the way to substantial college scholarships. You remain, however, ill-prepared to leave home. And sadly, as is so often the case Chez Wiles, the blame can be plunked squarely on my parental shoulders. I tried, but I plainly didn’t try hard enough. Here are just a few lessons I have yet to successfully impart:

How to replace toilet paper. In the few remaining days before freshmen year begins, we will begin with this most basic of tasks. When I have shared my knowledge with you, you’ll be able to replace a roll of toilet paper – without prompting – in fewer than 60 seconds. Moreover, if I have done my job properly, you’ll also install said toilet paper in the proper direction – with the paper rolling over the top, and not from underneath. With this under your belt, next summer’s class -- Replacing Paper Towels 201 -- should be a breeze.

How to turn off a light. This summer, I gave you 100% responsibility for purchasing and changing all light bulbs here at home, in hopes that you’d recognize the necessity and importance conserving energy and managing our electric bills. At the very least, I thought you’d weary of constantly climbing up and down the ladder. Silly me. Still, I will persevere. Indeed, once you’ve mastered this skill, you'll also learn how to determine – entirely on your own and without parental eye-rolling– when any given light should be turned off. Even those dastardly lights outside the house and in the pantry.

Load the dishwasher. Here, I must congratulate you, as you have nearly mastered the task of returning dirty dishes to the kitchen. Now, though, I’m going to push you further than you ever thought possible, beyond the limits you’ve self-imposed, so you can get to the point of opening the dishwasher door and then, accurately placing each dish so it can be properly cleaned during the wash cycle. If this goes as well -- and I believe it can -- you’ll have the opportunity to earn extra credit by operating the garbage disposal. Otherwise, we can address that particular task next summer.

How to close a door. What does it say about me as a parent that I’d assumed this lesson to be self-evident -- that he who “opens” would naturally – even gladly -- take on the responsibility to “close.” And while I’ll grant that the consequences of an open door are hardly on par with global warming, your inability to properly close a door does lead to “local cooling,” as the air conditioning (for which I pay handsomely) flows freely into the garage, the backyard and crawl space. Similarly, the refrigerator door, when left ajar, contributes unnecessarily to an already air-conditioned kitchen. Perhaps the difficulty of this seemingly basic task lies in not understanding the needed action: Is it a push or a pull? Confounding, I know, but as you’ve noted many times this summer, you are now 18 years old. As such, I have faith in your ability to conquer this. With college beginning in 19 days, however, you must begin now.

How to manage email. I understand the issue here. Managing one’s email involves a number of seemingly absurd steps, such as: 1) Checking your email, 2) Opening your email, 3) Reading your email, and on occasion, 4) Responding to your email. When you acquire this sadly outdated skill, it will work to my benefit, as I am your most frequent email correspondent; however, I must also note that your chosen university has announced its misguided, but firm, intentions to notify you, and only you, when tuition is due. Madness. Moreover, they insist upon notifying you (and only you) by email. What evil is at work here? Do they not know how to text? Only God, AT&T, and the Board of Regents know. Regardless, my darling Son, should your college tuition email remain unopened, unread, and unpaid, you will resume your less than promising life as yard boy living in the basement Chez Wiles. Surely, a person such as yourself, who can manage and sift through tens of thousands of digital downloads and can instantly (through means I do not wish to understand) procure virtually any television show or movie ever produced, can manage his email on a daily basis. You can do this, Son. I know you can.

How to cook. This may be my most appalling failure. As recently as last week, you declared that you didn’t know how to make a simple grilled cheese sandwich. Or a quesadilla. Or nachos. You even stated that bacon is “too hard to make.” It was a fork to my heart. So here, I share my "recipe" for grilled cheese. The key, you’ll see, is to use good bread and good cheese. Be sure to cut all the richness by serving with a pickle. And for bonus points, try cutting the sandwich on the diagonal. It’s more photogenic that way.

As you can see, Son, I’m here to help. Together, we can work through this, and you’ll be fine. And God willing, I will be, as well.

xxx ooo

Mom

Grilled Cheese Sandwich

Two slices of "good" bread (You know full well what I mean -- either whole wheat or a hearty French or Italian loaf. I do not want to find that over-processed mushy white bread in your kitchen. Ever.)

Yummy slices of cheese (You prefer sharp cheddar, pepperjack, edam, fontina or provolone. There is no such thing as American "cheese." Only American cheese "product" or cheese "food." Which doesn't sound appetizing because it is not.)

Softened butter

Heat a non-stick skillet or griddle over medium heat. Spread one side of each slice of bread with softened butter. Assemble the sandwich by laying one slice of bread, butter side down, in the skillet. Top with one layer of sliced cheese, and then, the remaining slice of bread, with the butter side facing out.  Cook slowly in the skillet until golden brown (may take 6-10 minutes). Flip carefully, and cook remaining side until golden brown. Slice diagonally, serve with a pickle, and thank Mom that you know how to cook.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

The Moon Is Shiny.
And Josie Is Josie.


I am dog tired, tuckered out, and doing the 12-second blink. I daydream about sleep.  I crave it, plan it, fantasize about it. But I’m not getting nearly enough of it.

It’s not just because this 50-year body is built for eight-hours a night. And it’s not because I lay awake thinking of my high school senior marching across a stage to the sounds of Pomp and Circumstance.

It's because of our four-legged family member, Josie. J-Dog. Simple Dog. Josie-The-Rescue-Dog. Or most often "Just Josie."

We “rescued” her some three years ago. Ours was the first home she'd ever been inside, and we suspect that we were the first humans who, in her memory, didn't starve or strike or otherwise abuse her. We give her food and water. We give her attention and love. We’ve even given her training. Not once, but twice. Not that it took, but still. Twice.

Josie has never had it so good. But from what we can tell, she doesn’t how to give back. So she repays us with what she has to offer: uncertainty, disregard, and barking. Barking, barking, barking. Bark, bark, bark.

Bark.

But only at night.

1:30 a.m. is her time of choice. And why does she bark? Well, if we had to guess, we'd say her thought process runs along these lines:

“Is that the moon?
I think it’s the moon.
It’s bright and shiny and, wait, is somebody calling me?
Hey, there’s the moon.
Where are the lizards?
There was a lizard here earlier today.
Maybe if I bark, the lizard will come back.
And bring his lizard friends.
I like lizards.
Wait. Is that the moon?  
Why does that person keeping hollering?
Who is Josie?
Ooh. A raccoon. Do I like raccoons?
Where is that lizard?
 Is that the moon?
I wish that person would stop calling and whistling.
It makes it hard for me to focus on the moon.
 And the lizards.
See that moon? It’s shiny.
Lizards are not.”

Pretty much sums it up. The moon is shiny, lizards are not, and Josie is just Josie. Repaying us with everything of which she is capable. And hopefully, much better for it.

Zucchini Crisps
For dinner tonight, it's just me and Josie, so I'm having zucchini, which I will share with Josie, and pinto noir, which I will not.

1/4 cup panko bread crumbs
1/4 cup freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano
1 medium zucchini, cut in thickish rounds
1 tablespoon olive oil (break out the good stuff)

kosher salt
fresh ground pepper
lemon wedges

Preheat over to 400 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper (which makes cleanup a snap). Combine bread crumbs and cheese on a large dinner plate. Toss zucchini slices with olive oil, coating well. Place zucchini slices on crumbs, and press extra crumbs on top of each slice. Place on parchment lined baking sheet. Season well with salt and pepper. Bake for 10 minutes or until golden brown. Remove from oven and serve, with lemon wedges.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Ready Or Not:
Pomp And Circumstance Is About To Play



Carter graduates in five weeks. OK. If you do the math, he graduates in five weeks, three days, 11 hours and 30 minutes.

I know.  There’s an app for that. But I’m doing my level best not to keep track. What possible good could come from remembering that he leaves for college in precisely three months, three weeks, and one day?

I don’t want to know. Despite my role as family planner, overbearing maestro and queen bossy-pants, I’m doing my level best to avoid “knowing.” Let the court consider this the prime piece of evidence: Did I not manufacture the ultimate distraction by packing up and moving to the Lake smack in the middle of Carter’s senior year?

As I deal with the aftermath of moving – the lost and misplaced items, the never-ending stream of household repairs, my struggle to understand the inner-workings of new appliances and systems, and the boxes, the endless stacks of still-packed boxes -- these past six weeks have bubbled over with even more distractions.

In March, we hosted a French exchange student, celebrated Carter’s 18th and Julia’s 16th birthdays, and traveled with 26 other families to spend Spring Break in the Dominican Republic. So far in April, we’ve celebrated Carter’s Eagle award and hosted 30-some kids for an after prom party. Today alone, my car broke down, the septic system alarm sounded, the icemaker broke again, and the garage door refused to close. Still, I know I’ll wake up tonight, just like nearly every other night, with the same mournful thought: He’s almost gone.

I didn’t see this coming. In fact, I’ve always claimed I’d celebrate as my kids scoot the coop. For me, parenting teenagers isn’t merely challenging and thought-provoking, it’s flat-out wearying and exhausting. I, for one, am tired of staying awake ‘til my chickadees get home from the game on Friday nights. I’m worn out from riding herd on hormones and keeping up with social media. I’m tired of talking about colleges and testing and AP exams. And talking about which classmates have the most fabulous clothes, cars, houses and trust funds? Don’t get me started.

But as we hurtle toward graduation and college, I don't want this time to end.

I’m going to miss Carter. Julia and I both will. For all his hard-headed habits and maddening methodology (did he really think that putting his shoes in the freezer would make them smell better?), Carter brings levity and mirth (now there’s an SAT word!) to our home. Carter is, in fact, an entire test-full of SAT words: obstinate, persistent, petulant, disdainful, belligerent, mercurial, contrary, truculent, vociferous, ingenious, assiduous, sublime.  He makes me think, and he challenges me. He harasses Julia, and he supports her. He teases us when we watch “Crazy Stupid Love” nearly every weekend, and then, he watches it with us. He takes out the trash. He makes playlists for me to listen to at work. And this week, for the first time ever, he included a photo of me on his Facebook page.

Out of nowhere. Which made me cry.

Whatever will I do without him?

Rosemary White Bean Dip
One thing Julia and I agree on is that, when Carter leaves for college, we'll eat a lot more "chick" food, including this super-easy, super-tasty, and super-cheap dip!

1 can of white beans (cannellini) drained
1 teaspoon fresh rosemary, minced
3 tablespoons (good) exra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon hot sauce (or more to taste)

Pulse all ingredients in a food processor, or, even easier, blend with an immersion blender until mostly smooth. Serve with chips.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

An Adventure At Age 50.
An Adventure At Any Age.


I choose to refer to it as an "adventure."

True, I turned 50 two weeks ago.  I turned 50, sold my house and put a contract on a house on the Lake.  And yes, it is Carter's senior year of high school, which means we're pretty busy here with the whole college and graduating "business" (and it is a "business," but that's a topic for another post), and yes, it will be just me and Julia at home next year, and yes, I fully intend to make DB live up to his promise to marry me when Julia graduates.  Which means, yes, I'll  be moving to Charleston in three years.

Still, moving to the Lake in the interim doesn't necessarily signal a mid-life crisis.  Nor is it "insanity," or "impetuous" or "rash."

"Adventure," remember?  "Adventure" is the word I'm looking for.  Or, in a pinch, "carpe diem."

Julia and I are keenly aware of the gaping hole we'll face when Carter heads to college next fall, so listmakers that we are, we maintain a "When Carter's Gone" list.  For example, "When Carter's gone, we'll eat more salad."  "When Carter's gone, we'll take yoga."  "When Carter's gone, we'll get an exchange student," which sounds just like getting a kitten, in that we'll be dealing with language neither of us speaks, but better, because there's no litter box.

A few months back, Julia tacked something new on the list, "When Carter's gone, we'll live at the Lake."

To which, Carter, who was entirely in favoring of dodging salad and yoga and exchange students, responded, in essence, "What the aitch? I wanna live at the Lake."

The way I see it, I only have a couple more years -- or in the case of Carter, months -- of full-time, hands-on parenting.  I'll always be their mom, of course, but God willing, they won't always be under my roof.  They won't always be my funny, thoughtful, insightful dinner companions.  They're already slipping away, moving on, spending less and less time with me.  It's not that I want to cling to this time.   I want to cherish it.

So yes, we're moving to the Lake.  Yes, I understand the transaction costs.  Yes, I understand the longer commute.  Yes, I understand that I'll no longer be able to walk to Starbucks.  And yes, moving is a colossal, miserable, unremitting pain.

But it's also an adventure.  I'm 50 years old, and I'm heading out on an adventure.  With my kids.

Carpe diem.

Three-Way Caesar Dinner
I don't have any regrets about relocating to the Lake, but I do need to watch my budget to make everything work.  Using a single ingredient as a marinade/sauce/dressing is tasty and budget-friendly, to boot!

Caesar Dressing/Marinade/Sauce
1 clove garlic
2 teaspoons anchovy paste
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup olive oil
1/2 teaspoon hot sauce
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon fresh ground pepper

3 boneless chicken breasts

12 oz medium chicken noodles

1 bag romaine "salad"

Make dressing/marinade/sauce but combining garlic, anchovy paste, oil, lemon juice, hot sauce salt and pepper in a blender.  (Or, even easier, combine using an immersion blender until smooth.)

Place raw chicken breasts in a zippered plastic bag with one third of the caesar dressing.  Allow to marinate at room temperature for about 30 minutes.

Grill chicken until done.

As chicken grills, boil noodles in a large pot of very well salted water until done.  Drain and toss with one third of the caesar dressing.

When chicken is done, allow to rest for 10 minutes, before slicing on the diagonal and tossing with hot noodles.  Toss salad with remaining dressing, and serve alongside chicken and noodles.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Into Each Life, Some Poop Must Fall.

As I write this, some 1,000 birds are twittering and fluttering around our driveway. OK. Maybe not literally 1,000. But it does resemble a scene from Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." Literally, there are a couple hundred robins out there. Usually, I spy robins in onesies and twosies, so an entire flock might have been a breathtaking sight – except that a couple hundred winged red breasts brings a couple thousand plum-colored splatters. My little white 5-speed looks as if it’s been in a food fight with a case of Smucker’s finest. And the driveway could double as the set where Lucille Ball went foot first into the winemaking business.

Even the sides of our detached garage are spattered with droppings, which makes me wonder what’s going on in those little bird brains. Have our feathered friends found some diabolical way to fling -- or even fire -- their droppings? Or are a stalwart few taking one for the team – kamikaze style – flying directly into the wooden planks, just to deposit their distinctive purple stain for posterity?

It’s temporary, I know, but until the robins move on to juicier grounds, we've been forced to adapt. Son and Darling Daughter have taken to using the infamous “duck and cover” maneuver when making the treacherous 10-step trip from the car to the house. The driveway is no longer a makeshift basketball court. And I only cart groceries into the house under the cover of darkness -- when the winged purple bombers have retired for the night.

Grimly, we’re avoiding the driveway. Most of us, that is.

We spend a good part of dinnertime Chez Wiles fending off Josie-the-rescue-dog and Lionel-the-fourteen-pound-feline. Josie sniffs and prances, endlessly hopeful that a tidbit will fall – accidentally or otherwise -- from someone’s plate. Lionel sits in an unoccupied chair, squinting at the water bottle pointed squarely at his nose, knowing that he'll be spritzed the instant he lays a delicate paw on the counter.

As Josie bustled from one diner to another, I realized a bit of food had fallen on her back. Um.  Ick.  Smuckers-colored “food.” After registering the initial shock, I thought the kids would bust a gut.

Yep. Josie had been “hit.”

Better her than me, I suppose. Still, the story left me struggling to come up with a recipe for today. But then, it came to me. Grilled PBJs.

When I was a kid, I used to make them all the time for my younger brother and sister.  I got the recipe from my very first cookbook, aptly titled, "The Kids Cookbook."  We loved these sandwiches with their crispy outsides, warm melty peanut butter and the inevitable jelly splatter. Those PB&Js were, pardon the pun, the “bomb.”

Not literally of course. But close enough.

Grilled Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches

wheat bread (growing up, we used "Roman Meal" brand)
peanut butter
jam
softened butter 


Heat a nonstick skillet to medium high heat.  Make your PB&J, spreading softened butter on the outsides of the sandwich.  Place in skillet and "grill" on each side, until lightly toasted.  Serve warm.  With napkins.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Know It Or Not -- We've Got It Good.

A few days ago, in a pique of disbelief and irritation and disappointment, I admonished one of my teens, “You’re behaving like one of those over-indulged, over-privileged kids you claim to disdain!”

My child paused. For a single delusional nanosecond, I felt I’d scored a point. Far less than a delusional nanosecond later, though, I crash-landed back to reality. Far from affected, my child was regarding me curiously, as if I were speaking a foreign language, and badly at that. Hardly a proud parenting moment.

Although disappointed, I get it. My kids are no different from most of their peers. They have no idea how “good” they have it. And why would they? I certainly didn’t at that age.

I suppose we can’t help but compare our lives to others’. Maybe it’s a function of being a kid, though, that teens don’t compare their lives to those of the less fortunate. Perhaps our carefully protected and “blindered” children can't help but keep a comparative eye on the more fortunate – the ones not only with vacation homes, but second vacation homes and home theaters and home gyms and passports stamped full long before they expire.

As adults though, we have a better sense of those on the other end of the spectrum: The ones struggling to pay their mortgages; the parents laid-off months ago who flat-out can’t find another job; the hard-working folks who can’t send their kids to college; the families who jeopardize their own health because they don't have access to the basic medical and preventative care so many Americans take for granted.

A few days ago, I wrote about Charlotte Radiology’s current PR campaign. They’ve placed about 30 pink (and hoo boy, they are some kind of pink) tires in front of local businesses. For every picture taken and posted on Facebook, Charlotte Radiology will make a donation to Ann’s Fund, whose mission is to provide mammograms to underprivileged women.

Then, though, Charlotte Radiology upped the ante, rolling out their new mobile breast care center.  You've got to see this thing.  It’s also pink, and hoo boy, it is some kind of pink. More important, it provides a more convenient option for breast cancer screening, serving women who might not otherwise have easy access to mammograms.

The mobile unit is the only one of its kind in our area, and not only will it make mammograms more accessible, it may remind others of us – like me – to continue getting our routine screening – not only for our own sakes, but for the many people – grateful and not – who rely on us.

Mammograms, of course, aren’t the only way we can take care of ourselves. Study after study indicates that, with changes in our diets, we can help affect our future.

Of all things, lowly, humble kale – with its beta-carotenes and luteins and phytochemicals -- is one of the foods highly recommended.  And although I adore greens of all sorts, not everybody does.  This recipe, though, may change their minds.  Just as Charlotte Radiology is changing lives.


Crispy Kale Chips
Super easy and super tasty, this recipe will convert many avowed greens-haters.  You could serve these as a side dish, or even with fried or poached eggs at breakfast, but I'm crazy about them just as they are.  They shatter crisply and satisfyingly on first bite.  All on my own, I can devour an entire bunch of kale -- and feel great at the same time!

One bunch of kale, well washed and spun dry
2 tablespoons olive oil
3 cloves garlic, very finely minced
2-3 shakes of red pepper flakes
kosher or sea salt

Preheat oven to 500 degrees.  Cut out ribs of kale.  Stack leaves and cut, crosswise, into 1 1/2 inch strips.  Set aside.  Combine olive oil, garlic and red pepper flakes.  Toss well with kale.  Spread evenly on a very large baking sheet.  Sprinkle well with salt.  Roast in oven for 6-7 minutes, tossing and fluffing every few minutes.  When kale is crispy (like fine potato chips), it's done.  Serve warm or at room temperature.  Yum!

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

A Snow Day By Any Other Name -- A Very Good Day.

Today was a good day.

I’m not normally a fan of “snow days.” Yes, I get the whole "winter wonderland" thing.  And as a born and bred South Carolinian, I know full well how uncommon snow days are in the South.  Here in Charlotte, we only get snow once or twice a year.  I'll concede that it is pretty, and even "magical."  And the kids have a blast.


They know all kinds of tricks to “make” it snow. Wear your pajamas backwards. Wear your pajamas inside out. Sleep with a (silver) spoon under your pillow. Flush ice cubes down the toilet. However, through the years, even as they’ve plotted, schemed and followed the intricacies of these “rules,” I’ve tried to summon counter-curses, because, as a mom, I know the mess that Old Man Winter brings.

I cringe as the first few flakes flutter down.  Yes, they're charming, but I know what's really coming. Piles of laundry. Slushy, muddy floors. Gloves, scarves, hats and boots hung and strung around the kitchen to “dry out.” A clammy pile of “et cetera,” meaning, “I didn’t know what else to do with it, Mom, so I just left it there on the floor for you to clean up.” Cold, wet dog. And the inevitable cold, wet dog smell.

Still, as we racked up an impressive 4-5 inches here in Charlotte today, I’ve got to admit: This was a good day.

I cooked and cooked and cooked. Potato Soup. Lentil Soup with Spinach. Ginger Spice Cookies. And the piecè de resistance? “Brinner.” Breakfast for dinner. Which included “Waffles of Insane Greatness,” the very first recipe I ever posted on Feminine Wiles.

The best part, though, was that the kids were involved. No. Not in the soup-making. That, indeed, would be “insane.” Nope. They had their own culinary adventures. Son made tiny grilled cheese sandwiches using sliced bagettes and slivers of Gruyere cheese. Darling Daughter and friend made Snow Cream. And then they made Snow Cream. And -- wait for it -- more Snow Cream. Et cetera.

The first version followed a Paula Deene recipe calling for sweetened condensed milk. Not a winner, according to the palates of discerning 8th graders. The second version went over better – a more traditional “vanilla” version. Then the gloves came off. Peppermint. Grape jelly. (Shudder.)  And Son made Snow Coke, with two secret ingredients that you probably could guess.

Yep.  Today was a good day.  A very good day.  Now back to laundry.  And snow shoveling.  And wearing our pajamas the right way.

Peppermint Snow Cream
1 large bowl of clean snow
1 cup of sugar
1/2 teaspoon peppermint extract
About two cups of milk

Stir sugar and peppermint extract into snow.  Splash in about a cup of milk.  Continue stirring.  Add more milk as needed, to make a spoonable consistency.  Add a drop or two of red food coloring, if desired.  Devour.  Complain about how cold you are.  Do it all over again.