I Can't Name Names, But I Can Cook. Oh My.

Snarky Son wants to change his name.

More precisely, he no longer wants to be “Snarky.”

When I first started blogging, I deliberately chose not to use the kids' names in Feminine Wiles.  I can’t put my finger on the risk, but it seemed dicey.  And it didn’t seem fair to the kids – particularly considering that their dirty laundry is one of my favorite topics.  (I’m thinking now of when I was declared Worst.  Mom.  Ever.  WME.) 

Plus, I promised my “ex” I wouldn’t name names.  And while we didn’t exactly put it in the custody agreement, he is exactly a lawyer.  Know what I’m saying?  Exactly. 

Voilà the inception of “Darling Daughter” and “Snarky Son.”

But Son doesn’t want to be “Snarky.”  Alliteration-lover that I am, I’ve offered several alternatives, “Super Son.” “Sweet Son.” “Studly Son.”  (OK.  That last was a joke.  Exactly.)  Turns out, it’s not the adjective that SS finds irksome.  He just wants to go by his name.  He’s nearly 15 and doesn’t want to be regarded as cute or sly or clever.  SS just wants to be – himself. 

He's really growing up.  I can see that.  I respect that.  I admire that.  Tough noogies.  I can’t name names.  Not yet.

This protective mama bear isn’t quite ready to release her taller-and-quicker-than-me cub out into the real world.  ‘Cause there’s more than bears out there, you know.  There’s lions.  And tigers.  And Cougars.  Oh my.

Dangers abound.  Here’s another one:  The National Safety Council reported this week that 28% of car crashes can be attributed to drivers using their cell phones (calling or texting).  Twenty-eight percent.  Twenty-eight percent!

The kids and I have become experts at identifying texting drivers.  The conversation in our car usually goes something like this:  “No.  They can’t be drunk.  It’s 7:30 in the morning.  I bet they think they’re driving perfectly fine.  Isn’t that against the law?  Yep.  But there’s no policeman here right now.  Let’s just drop back and let them go on …”

This, just weeks before SS is eligible to earn his driver’s permit.  To use the word that springs to mind, I am a “wreck.”

Lions and tigers and texting drivers.  Oh my. 

Letting go is hard.  But cooking?  That’s easy.  That, I can do.  I can’t come up with an acceptable nickname for SS.  I can't ward off stupid, texting drivers.  I can’t even fend off potential Cougars.  (However, Cougars beware: I work out. I've got a lot of fight in me.)

What I can do is keep the lines of communication open.  I can keep looking for those “teachable” moments.  (“See the light from a cell phone lighting up that driver’s face?  Does he really think we don’t know he’s texting?)"  I can cook.  And maybe I can come up with an acceptable alternative to “Snarky Son.”  Ideas?

Tzatziki (Cucumber Yogurt) Sauce

I’m one of those people who always orders “extra” tzatziki, and occasionally, buys it at the store to eat it with a spoon.  It’s ”dee-lish” (as DD would say) on Lamb and Spinach Meatballs, or even on toasted pita, but it’s best if you make it yourself. Note that this recipe must be begun two hours in advance.

16 oz. plain Greek yogurt, strained

½ English cucumber, peeled, grated or chopped fine, all moisture pressed out

½ teaspoon kosher salt

1 clove garlic, minced fine

½ teaspoon Tabasco sauce

2 teaspoons fresh dill, minced

2 teaspoons fresh mint, minced

2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

Strain yogurt by spooning into a coffee filter set in a mesh strainer set over a bowl.  Allow two hours for extra liquid to drain out.  Discard extra liquid.  (I know it's a pain, but it makes your tzatziki nice and creamy instead of thin and runny.)  Stir together remaining ingredients in a medium bowl.  Chill and serve.

No Need To Apologize For A Southern Girl's 3-Ingredient Salsa.

Elton John once sang, “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word.”

Suffice to say, Elton’s not a woman. Or not, at least, a Southern woman.

For us, “I’m sorry” isn’t a phrase. And it’s not an apology. It’s a reflex.

There’s nothing difficult about saying “sorry.” The word escapes our lips at nearly every opportunity. You backed into my car? I’m sorry. Your kid shoved my kid down the slide and broke his arm? I’m sorry. I'm so achey I can't walk up the stairs and I have a fever of 104? I'm sorry. My car is wrecked, my kid’s in the hospital, I have H1N1, and I can’t bring cookies to the class party? I’m sorry.

“I’m sorry” isn’t the only verbal reflex in a Southern girl’s arsenal. Far from it. We’ve also got “I’m OK” (although this paring knife cut may require stitches, but only after I’m done with the dishes), “I can do that” (even though I don’t have the time, energy or inclination to manage that school festival requiring 250 volunteers) and, my personal favorite, “bless his heart” – the well-intentioned, and dimly-concealed attempt to soften any criticism, even the most-deserved. Well he just said he was tired of being married, and up and left her and their six kids, and then, before you knew it, he moved to Mississippi with that little blonde girl who is half his age. Bless his heart.

And let’s not forget the ever-popular “What can I bring?” which is a far cry from, “Can I bring anything?” which actually would indicate a girl’s unwillingness to make a contribution. Bless her heart.

Nope. When another woman says, “Why don’t y’all come over for supper later?” the only proper verbal reflex is “What can I bring?” As if, at the drop of a cupcake tin, we all have the time and ingredients to whip up an appetizer, dessert or main dish. As if we always have a liter or two of spiced and fruited rum in the fridge, waiting to be mixed into a tasty sangria. (OK. I may be an exception on that one. Click here for my recipe. It's worth it for the space the rum takes up in the fridge.) And trust me, “what can I bring” never means how about I bring some storebought cupcakes.

That’s why I love this next recipe. You can make it in a jiffy and present it proudly anytime “What can I bring?” slips your lips.

I’m a fan of salsa. And while I enjoy the vast array of chunky “gourmet” styles with ingredients like black beans and corn and Vidalia onions, I prefer the simple, thin, zesty style served in Mexican restaurants. That’s exactly what I had a recent tailgate party in Tennessee. When I begged for the recipe, the cook was somewhat embarrassed. “It’s pretty simple,” she said. Because “it’s simple” can be another one of those verbal reflexes, I braced myself for a lengthy description of roasted tomatoes, fire-smoked peppers, etc. No need. “It’s just two ingredients,” she continued. And holy cow, she was right.

But you know, when I made it again here at home, I thought it needed a little something more – just to brighten the flavor – so I added the juice of a lime. That makes it three ingredients, but I really think it makes it better.

I’m sorry.

Restaurant Style Salsa in a Flash
1 14-ounce can Ro-Tel tomatoes
1 14-ounce can diced tomatoes (not in sauce), drained but liquid reserved
1 lime, juiced

Dump all ingredients (except reserved juice) in a medium sized mixing bowl. Use an immersion blender to quickly combine all ingredients, stopping well before the salsa becomes the consistency of sauce. Taste for thickness and seasoning, adding reserved liquid and salt as needed. Chill for an hour or two, and serve with tortilla chips. Proudly. With a lime garnish.

The Day Before The Night Before Thanksgiving, And We’re All A Little Bit Nuts

For our family, no holiday is as draped in tradition as Thanksgiving.

Most obvious, there’s the food – eagerly anticipated and unfailingly abundant.  Then, there are the activities:  truly, there’s an unsettling sense that the earth might violently split open and gulp us down whole if we didn’t shuck oysters at Dad's on Wednesday, or whine about driving through the Festival of Lights after the Thursday feast, or slip out way before dawn to shop with Super Sis on Black Friday. 

There’s the music, too.  From this moment through December 25, only holiday music (and variations thereof, including, but not limited to, anything that’s ever been heard on a Peanuts television show) will blare in my car.  And should Darling Daughter and Snarky Son complain, (as they will even before their seatbelts are buckled), I’ll also sing.  Loudly.  Enthusiastically.  Off-key.  With no respect for actual lyrics.

We are also proud defenders of the “I forgot my toothbrush” tradition – which usually isn’t even acknowledged until a good 48 hours after we hit I-77.  There’s a variation of this at Thanksgiving dinner as well.  Just after we’ve said the blessing and everyone has been served, Mom will announce, “I forgot the rolls/salad/cranberry sauce.”  And we'll all be thinking the same thing: “For the love of Pete.  I don’t want any rolls/salad/cranberry sauce.  But lookey there, I can make extra space if I just shove this marshmallowed sweet potato casserole on top of that molded lime gelatin salad.”

All of this, of course, follows the decades-old tradition of pulling the turkey from the fridge and remarking, with great surprise, “Hmmph.  This turkey is still frozen!”  Come on.  I don’t care what it says on the label --  no self-respecting turkey can thaw after two nights in a refrigerator.  Sadly for our family, we can only remember that fact once a year -- Thanksgiving Day -- and no sooner.

Throughout the weekend, our family will also remain entrenched in the fine tradition of picking up other people’s full drinks and claiming them as our own.  Until, of course, that drink is sucked down below the ice line (or, if a beer, below the coozie line), at which time it’s necessary to subtly abandon that drink and claim someone else’s.  I actually tried to “remedy” this tradition one year, by handpainting our names on a set of glasses.  Didn’t work.  The glasses were pretty, though.

The best Thanksgiving tradition of all, though, is the stories.

I'm not certain, but in the TV shows I’ve seen, other families don’t engage in the full-on, get-down-and-dirty tattletaling we revel in.

There’s nothing like those “remember the time?” dinner stories that leave your face streaked with tears, your hands clutching your freshly fattened sides, and your eyes darting wildly about to make sure the kids didn’t catch the details and innuendoes.  Most of the stories are about us growing up, but there are gracious plenty about the adults we knew back in the 70s, too.  The way we see it is, “Hey, if you don’t want us to talk about you, then you ought to drag yourself to Thanksgiving.”

Nah.  That’s a lie.  Everyone is fair game whether they're here or not.  But if you were here, at least you could defend yourself.  Or distract everyone with a story about someone else.  (And no, I’d rather not hear yet another re-telling of the night the bridge was stuck and the parents couldn't get home after work and we teenagers were left to our own devices.  I was young, OK?  And stupid.)

I guess we’re all kind of nuts.  But it’s not just the time of year.  It’s just us.  And oddly enough, we all look forward to it.  Just like these Sugar and Spiced Pecans.

Here’s to family.  And traditions -- even those that are a little bit nuts.

Sugar and Spiced Pecans

2 egg whites

1 tablespoon water

1 teaspoon salt

2 cups sugar

4 teaspoons cinnamon

2 teaspoons nutmeg

1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon ground cayenne

2 pounds pecan halves

Beat egg whites, water and salt until frothy, but not stiff.  Stir in sugar and spices.  Add pecans and mix until all nuts are coated.

Spread on cookie sheets sprayed with nonstick spray. Bake in a 225 degree oven for one hour or until dry, stirring every 15 minutes.  Separate nuts and let cool.  Store in resealable freezer bags.  Can be made 3-4 days in advance.

Stormy Weather. Just Couldn't Get My Poor Self Together.

Twenty years ago today, I called a client in Richmond, Virginia to explain that I might miss a deadline.

“The electricity's out, but I’m sure it will be back up in a couple of hours.  No problem.”

Oops.  That was my first mistake.  That was no simple storm that had blown through the night before.  It was full-forced Hurricane Hugo, downing trees, snapping power lines and severely debilitating Charlotte for days and weeks to come.

I’d known Hugo was making landfall, of course.  Just not here.  Indeed, I’d been urging my Charleston family to come to my new home in Charlotte -- which we'd owned for less than a month -- and “be safe.”  Not one of them would consider it. So I spent the entire night worrying.  It never occurred to any of us that Hugo could come so far inland.  As the storm raged and transformers blew and oaks the size of bridge pilings tumbled like blocks, crushing homes and cars, I peered out the windows, thinking, “Wouldn’t you know it.  We bought one of those houses where you hear every single drop of rain.  Damn.”

I was still in denial as the sun came up.  Alongside our neighbors, we lurched like zombies, still in robes and pajamas, surveying the aftermath, climbing over fallen trees and mystified by the thick green confetti (leaf shreds) and swarming yellow jackets (apparently, they nest in the roots of trees -- who knew?)   "Well," I thought, “it can’t be like this everywhere.”

That was my second mistake.  Of course ours wasn't the only neighborhood hit.  We weren't the only ones who couldn't get their cars out of their driveways.  Even if we could, there was nowhere to go.  All – and I mean all – the streets were blocked.  (Miraculously though, as we stood outside, dazed, the delivery guy from The Charlotte Observer swashed a path through the neighborhood, tossing the day's paper in our driveways.

Just the day before, I'd stood in line at The Fresh Market.  I'm a Charlestonian, so with a storm abrewing I knew it was time to stock up on the basics -- milk, bread, beer.  Duh.

The woman ahead of me bought 10 pounds of shrimp (on sale!), and I remember thinking:  She's not in her right mind.  Southern storms often bring power outages.  What would she do if her freezer thawed?

I thought about that woman for days.  Maybe she just wanted to cook to settle her nerves.  Lord knows I did.  But post-Hugo, without a stove or oven or refrigerator, there was little I could do.  Yes, we grilled.  And grilled and grilled.  (Grilled coffee became a specialty of the house, as were scrambled eggs with almost anything tossed in, and grilled meat four or five times a day.)  In all, we were without power for about 10 days.  Faced with rapidly defrosting freezers we gorged on steak and shrimp (and one neighbor's venison).  We sipped warm beer.  Yuck.  We piled clothes in and around the hamper, in anticipation of an eventual laundry day.  Once some of the streets were cleared, one neighbor ventured out of town and returned with a bag of ice for us.  Upon receiving it, I kid you not:  I cried.  But most of my time was spent scheming about what I would cook when electricity once again graced our home.

Truly.  When power finally returned (and the Harris Teeter re-stocked and re-opened), I had all four burners going -- with chili, my favorite pasta sauce (the way I like it -- with peppers and mushrooms -- because I didn't have any kids to please), soup, you name it.  I was filling my stomach, filling the freezer and filling the house with comforting aromas.  I was like Scarlett O'Hara -- I would never go hungry again.

And that was my third mistake.  It wasn't bread or milk or even beer that I should've stocked up on before the storm.  Non-perishable, savory food would've been wiser.  Next time I'll know better.  As the next storm takes a turn, I'll be taking my first batch of Super Savory Cereal Mix out of the oven.  And stocking up on ice.  Warm beer is the pits.

Super Savory Cereal Mix

This is your basic "chex mix," but amped up.  I like mine much more flavor-filled than most recipes allow.  This is a particularly zesty version -- with lots of nuts, but no peanuts.  And it keeps for weeks.

3 cloves garlic, peeled and each impaled on a toothpick

1 stick of butter (not margarine)

1/3 cup worcestershire sauce

1/3 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice

1/2 teaspoon Tabasco sauce

1, 12-ounce box of Crispix cereal

1, 6.6 ounce bag of Goldfish snack crackers

1, 2-pound jar of deluxe mixed nuts (no peanuts)

1-2 teaspoons kosher salt

Preheat oven to 250.  In a very large roasting dish with high sides, stir in first five ingredients.  Put pan in oven until butter melts -- about five minutes.

Once butter has melted, gently stir in Crispix, Goldfish and nuts.  Bake for one hour, stirring (gently) at 15 minute intervals.

Remove from oven, and while still hot, sprinkle with kosher salt to taste.

Allow to cool and serve.

Simply Wonderful Wings

I am not daunted by lengthy ingredient lists.

On the contrary, I pride myself on quickly scanning a list and categorizing the ingredients – spices, fridge items, pantry items, special-purchase items, etc. Oftentimes, what seems to be an overwhelming list is merely clogged with spices (even the most basic pumpkin pie has four – cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and cloves) or “starter” ingredients (olive oil, onions, garlic, bell pepper and garlic are the foundation of many a soup or sauce), or the occasional “show-off” items. (Really, are shallots necessary in a boullabaise that already includes onions, garlic, and leeks? And I'm still trying to figure out what yuzu -- a Japanese citrus fruit that managed to pop up on nearly every Top Chef episode this past season -- looks like.)

So this past weekend, when Darling Daughter begged me to make her aunt’s and uncle’s “Greek Wings,” I didn’t flinch.

Actually, Greek Wings (I know -- it sounds like something excavated from an ancient Athenian archaeological site) is just one recipe in my sister and brother-in-law’s wing repertoire, which includes Buffalo Wings, BBQ Wings and Teriyaki Wings. DD insisted, though, that the “Greeks” were the best. (Already I know that my Greek brother-in-law, G-BIL, will relish repeating that phrase out of context.) The Greek Wings are grilled, DD revealed and they have the best sauce ever.

That, my friends, was the sound of the gauntlet being thrown.

Being 12, however, DD had no idea what the sauce included. I was horrified to realize that she didn’t even care! I pressed on, though. Was it creamy? I asked, envisioning a tangy cucumber-yogurt tzatziki. Was it chunky -- maybe with Kalamata olives, feta and preserved lemon? Was it zesty – maybe riffing on traditional Greek salad dressing with olive oil, wine vinegar and oregano?

Her answer remained firm. And to make sure her pushy 46-year-old mom got the point, DD cranked the volume: I DON’T KNOW.

Okkkaaaaaayyy. Plan B.

Luckily, G-BIL was happy to oblige. He even sent pictures (which makes it even more embarrassing that it took me a week to post this blog). Turns out, those Greek Wings are the best. And here’s a shocker: Not including the wings themselves, the ingredient list numbered three – and with the wings, just four!

Yep. Keep your shallots and preserved lemon and arcane fruits (I still want to know what yuzu tastes like, though). These three-ingredient wings are going to become regulars on our backyard grill.

G-BIL’s Greek Wings

½ cup lemon juice

½ cup olive oil

1-2 teaspoons Cavender’s Greek Seasoning, plus extra for sprinkling

chicken wings (a couple of pounds), cut into pieces, tips discarded (or frozen for broth)

Mix lemon juice, olive oil and seasoning in a large bowl. Stir in wings (can allow to marinate for an hour, if you like). Then, grill wings slowly over low heat. When wings are nearly done, baste liberally with remaining Greek sauce. Continue grilling and basting until wings are done. (Don’t baste wings the final two minutes or so.) DD likes hers extra “saucy,” so remaining marinade can be zapped in the microwave to be served at the table.

On Gardening, Baseball and Dancing -- Hopefully, With Dilled Dip.

I did it. Again.

I visited my neighborhood gardening center today to get a couple of "filler" plants for the yard. I had a list. The actual plan was for three filler plants. All right -- if you insisted on counting each individual plant, it would have totaled five, but I'd planned to consider the three silver coral bells as a single item. (I know. That kind of thinking does not win me any friends in the 10-item-only checkout lane.)

It was a fine plan. But 30 minutes later, after perambulating the aisles and at one point, exhorting another shopper to "buy more!" (she plainly didn't have enough -- she didn't even have a cart), I ended up with a trunkload of plants. Deja vu all over again. Shoving even one more verbena, salvia or butterfly bush into the back of the Pilot would have required a crowbar. Or a good-sized sumo wrestler.

What was I thinking? Not thinking, actually, but hoping?

In a way, it's been a weekend packed with hope Chez Wiles. After enduring a fairly, or let's be honest, wholly miserable school baseball season, my son began a new rec league baseball season. Being 14, he tried to keep his hopes in check for this weekend's season-opener, but still, a victory would've been a thrilling start to the new season. Some time on the mound would've been even better. And a monster hit, a bona fide ego-distender.

And what could be more hopeful -- or hope-filled -- than my daughter's weekend? Friday was her first middle school dance -- and she spent most of the preceding 634 waking hours hoping that her outfit would be cute enough, that her hair would be smooth enough, that she wouldn't embarrass herself, and that someone, anyone, that one, would ask her to dance.

Like some kind of Disney channel movie, it was all good. On the baseball front, despite a second-inning injury, my son helped his team pick up a win -- both with his pitching and his hitting. More surprising, despite expectations of Kilimanjaro-esque proportions, that first dance was everything my daughter had hoped. She and her girlfriends had a sleepover later that night, and their breathless giggling and gushing descriptions made my own heart skip a beat.

That hopefulness was bound to spill over, and so it did -- into the aisles of the Lowe's gardening center today. I really had no business buying more plants. When I began spring planting, my very first trunkload of purchases included a dill plant. (To see that post, click here.) In my mind, though, the dill was a kind of disposable purchase. I'm inordinately fond of the herb, but never had any success growing it. Six weeks later though, either through my own dumb luck or its own sheer tenacity, the dill is still here. Now what?

I minced some over our baked potatoes tonight. I know I can fold it into scrambled eggs, or stir it with melted butter and lemon to drizzle over salmon, but I think I want to try something new: An herbed dip. I'll admit right now that the following recipe is one that I'm making up as I type, but the proportions look right, and really, how can you go wrong with dill and cream cheese? Here's hoping ...

Dilled Dip

1 8-ounce package cream cheese, at room temp

1/2 cup sour cream

1/4 cup mayonnaise

1 small bunch (thickness of your index finger) of chives

2 tablespoons fresh dill, minced

1/4 cup fresh parsley, minced

2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

1 teaspoons kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

You could drop all the ingredients in a food processor and give it a whirl, but to make the dip by hand, start by mashing the cream cheese with a fork, until it's smooth. Incorporate sour cream, one spoonful at a time, and then, mayonnaise. Stir in herbs, lemon juice and seasoning, adjusting seasoning as needed. Serve with chips or crudites.

There's Only One Place They Call Me One Of Their Own

It startles -- and probably concerns -- my children on those rare occasions when someone asks me where I'm from, and I name my hometown -- Charleston.

Their confusion is understandable.  Charlotte, not Charleston, is the only home they've ever known.  Besides, I haven't lived in Charleston for nearly 30 years.  In a way, it's just one more item tacked on the ever-lengthening list of "Ways Mom Is Losing Her Mind."  (This list, which includes things as mundane as "Can't Remember Where The Car Is Parked" and "Called My Friend 'Sugar'" and "Asked How Many Vegetables I've Eaten Today" is not as long as the list of "Ways Mom Embarrasses Us," but there are some redundancies between the two.)

A friend claims that Charleston is a balm to my soul.  He's right (a nasty habit which I overlook, because, well, he's often right).  When I roll over the bridge on the way to James Island, I eagerly roll down the windows, hoping for that funky, decaying, salty smell that signals low tide, and which, to the unfamiliar, smells like something that maybe needs to be flushed.

Sure, given its balmy breezes, overwhelming history and unceasing charm, Charleston is popular with lots of people.  But it's not home to lots of people.  Home is home, whether it's Aiken or Atlanta or Summerton or San Francisco.  There's an odd comfort in returning to the place where we're as well known for our flaws as for our achievements.

When I'm home, my mom knows I can cook, but she also knows full well about my need to be right, my inability to be patient in the face of stupidity, and my intolerance for bad table manners (with the exception of mine, in which case, I'm just being funny, not rude).

My dad knows that although I've got plenty of good intentions (with which I'm undoubtedly paving a highway to hell), when it comes to certain situations (and relatives), I am downright harsh.  He also is aware that I've gotten away with plenty of things by insisting that I'm not a good liar (except on rare occasions when I am).

My sister.  Well, what doesn't my sister know?

Still, when I go home, they welcome me, they feed me, they take care of me.  Sure, they may buy me drinks, too, but that's not why I go.

It's home -- H-O-M-E.  One day, my kids will feel that same way about their own hometown -- with its incredible canopy of trees, clean streets and street names that suddenly change without rhyme or reason.

Until then, they'll have to tolerate my affection for my own hometown, and my understandable craving for the seafood of my childhood.  This dip is actually named for McClellanville,  a small coastal town just above Charleston, known for its fishing and shrimping.  I never actually even ate it growing up, but the tastes are so familiar, it always reminds me of home.

McClellanville Caviar
This is the dip the folks always crowd around at a party.  Serve it with big, hearty chips -- Fritos Scoopers, for example.  The next day, you can also scoop any leftovers onto a bed of lettuce for a quick salad or fold it into an omelet.

1 1/2 pounds cooked shrimp

1 16-ounce can black beans, rinsed and drained

1/4 cup finely chopped bell pepper

1/2 cup finely chopped Vidalia onion

1 1/2 cups prepared salsa

1/4 cup fresh lime juice

2 tablespoons honey

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

Finely chop shrimp (or even quicker, carefully pulse about 20-30 seconds in food processor).  Toss shrimp with remaining ingredients.  Taste for seasoning (particularly salt and lime juice).  Cover and refrigerate for 8 hours, stirring occasionally.  Serve with chips.  (Keeps for 2-3 days.)

Isn't There Something You'd Like To Say?

Yesterday was one of those days where I had to do what every good parent has to do from time to time -- absolutely nothing.  I simply sat on my hands and bit my tongue.  Suffice to say, my tongue is perforated.

It's a hard thing to watch your kid make a mistake.  It's miserable to sit on the sidelines while they learn "the hard way."

Nevertheless, there are lessons we all have to learn.  One of them is how to say, "I'm sorry."

A good "I'm sorry" resolves a myriad of issues. I'm not talking about one of those through-the-teeth and half-unspoken, "I'm sorry" (and silently, that you ran full force into my clenched fist.)  Or, "I'm sorry that your feelings were hurt" because you're such a wimp.  Or, "I'm sorry" that I got caught.  Or worst of all, "I'm sorry" that my mom is making me apologize.

I'm talking about a selfless, "I made a mistake, please forgive me, what can I do to make this better?" that eases the pain of the recipient and the provider.

Empathy can be a tough thing to teach.  But as my own kids hear over and over again, in addition to being the "right" thing to do, apologizing and admitting your error can make you feel better.

It's our job as parents to help them learn this, and the sooner the better.

So I've got a question for the various CEOs and bonus-hoarders and investment bankers and Ponzi-schemers currently making headlines and devastating American families and institutions alike:  Does your mother know what you're up to?

Actually, I've got quite a few questions.  Were you raised in a barn?  Do I have to call your father?  Where are your parents?  Isn't there something you'd like to say?

Yes!  Lawyers be damned, there is something you need to say.  Two words.  1) I'm.  2) Sorry.

Groveling isn't required, but surely would work in your favor.  Belly-crawling would be fine by me, as well.  I'd even accept tears, but since I suspect you'd only be able to muster the alligator variety, I won't insist.

To be sure, this mess is so deep and so smelly that an apology wouldn't actually fix anything, but it might ease the pain of some of your many victims.  And, if, down the road, leniency is ever an option, a heartfelt and well-rendered apology may work to your benefit.  OK.  Probably not in this life, but maybe in the next.

My son's seventh grade science teacher had a phrase that comes to mind --  "Man up."  When any of the boys in class shirked their responsibilities or complained about the workload, she'd summon a sharp, "Man up!" to remind them to behave accordingly.  I love how much meaning is packed into that one phrase.  Man up:  Stop thinking only of yourself, you are better than this, do the right thing, we expect more of you, take responsibility.  Man up.

That's my advice to Wall Street:  "Man up."  Apologize.  And start setting this right.

If your mom is Southern, she'd probably point out that proffering a plate of cheese wafers wouldn't hurt, either.  Some of the best apologies are catered.  This recipe makes about 300, which isn't nearly enough for the mess you've made.  But combined with a good, old-fashioned "I'm sorry," it's a start.

Cheese Wafers

These crackers are the perfect nibble at cocktail parties.  The recipe is easily halved, but I prefer to make a larger batch and then, freeze half of the dough "logs," to be thawed and baked as needed.

1 lb. extra sharp NY cheddar cheese (alternatively, use 1/2 lb. cheddar and 1/2 lb. blue cheese, crumbled), grated

1 lb. unsalted butter, room temperature

2 teaspoons kosher salt

4 cups flour

1/2 - 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

2-3 tablespoons poppy seeds

2 cups pecans, chopped (optional)

Beat butter until light and fluffy.  Stir in cheese, salt, cayenne pepper and poppy seeds.  Gradually stir and mash in flour.  Eventually, you'll have to use your hands to incorporate all of the flour, because dough will be very crumbly, and then, stiff.  Using your hands, incorporate the pecans.  (Be patient, this takes a while.)  When all ingredients are incorporated, break off a chunk of dough about the size of your fist and roll it out into a log.  I prefer my wafers small, so my "log" is usually slightly larger than the diameter of a quarter.  If you're feeling fancy, you can then roll the log in any extra poppy seeds or nuts (or even kosher salt -- lightly!).  Wrap the log in plastic wrap, and repeat with remaining dough.  Refrigerate logs for at least four hours (or as long as four days).  To bake, preheat oven to 400.  Remove plastic wrap from log, and, using a serrated knife, slice into 1/4" thick wafers.  (Note:  dough will not rise or spread.  What you cut is what you get.)  Place wafers on parchment paper on a baking sheet and bake approximately 10 minutes, or until lightly golden.

A Failed Foodie

I want to know what yuzu tastes like.  Actually, I'd be happy to know what yuzu looks like.  Is it a fruit, found in the produce section?  Can it be a powder, like wasabi or mustard?  Does it come in a jar -- like some sort of exotic jelly?

I honestly don't know, but after taking in countless cooking shows, including this season's Top Chef, I'm beginning to feel like that one girl in 6th grade who didn't get an invitation to the slumber party.  Has yuzu become some sort of double top-secret ingredient for chefs?

Since I don't know what yuzu is, I'm not sure where to find it.  Can I even get it on the shelves (racks, bins, freezer) of my friendly neighborhood Harris Teeter?

Is it near the truffle oil?  That was last year's foodie favorite and it also blew right past me.  But at least I can imagine what it looks like.  (Oil, right?)  I also understand how to cook with it.  (Sparingly, duh.)

One food trend I wish I had missed is cilantro.  It rolled into Charlotte about 15 years ago and just won't go away.  The first time I cooked with cilantro, I dumped the entire dish in the trash.  I figured it was the recipe, but nope, it was the cilantro.  Everyone else seems to love cilantro (a.k.a. fresh coriander).  I even hear folks order, for crying out loud, extra cilantro on their burritos and tacos.  To me, it tastes like parsley-shaped pieces of Dial soap.  But not as tasty.

I'm very comfortable cooking with balsamic vinegar, goat cheese, frozen puff pastry and proscuitto, which is a clear indication of how far off the food trend cliff these ingredients have fallen.  They had their day in the sun and now they're having their day in my fridge.  I regularly use a couple of these foodie fashion outcasts in one of my favorite go-to hors d'oeuvres -- Proscuitto Palmiers.

These savory bites are scarfed up every time I make them.  Flaky puff pastry may be passé, but this is a case where, I don't care who you are -- good is just good.  And I know exactly where to find the ingredients in my grocery store.

Proscuitto Palmiers

1 pkg. frozen puff pastry (two 18 x 11 sheets), thawed

dijon mustard

fresh thyme, finely minced

2 cups freshly grated parmesan or gruyere cheese

8 oz. thinly sliced proscuitto

2 egg whites

2 tablespoons water

sea salt

Roll out one sheet of puff pastry on a lightly floured board.  Brush scantily with mustard and sprinkle with thyme and half of the cheese.  Arrange half of proscuitto evenly over the cheese.  Starting at one long edge, roll up the puff pastry (snugly) like a jelly roll just up to the middle of the dough.  Then, roll up the other side in the same fashion, making the two rolls meet in the center.  Repeat with second puff pastry sheet and remaining ingredients.  Chill rolls for about 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Using a serrated knife, slice the rolls crosswise into 1/2" slices.  (At this point, slices can be frozen, well-packaged -- for baking later.)  Place slice on cookie sheets lined with parchment paper and press lightly with your hands to flatten.

Beat the egg whites and water together and brush tops of palmiers.  Sprinkle lightly with sea salt.  Bake until puffed and lightly golden, about 10 minutes.  Remove to rack to cool.  Can be prepared a day in advance.

Friday-Night-Pizza-Night (Blue Cheese Dip)

It's Friday-night-pizza-night at the Wiles house.  What started as an end-of-the-week, someone-else-needs-to-cook treat is now a fully established tradition.  Initially, as I saw the custom settling in, I was uncomfortable.  Really, pizza again?  Shouldn't the kids be exposed to more variety?  What if they only eat cheese pizza for the rest of their lives?

Turns out though, we weren't the only ones.  Friday-night-pizza-night is rampant in homes with school-age children.  No matter whose house they're at, kids count on it.  But I am so over it.

When they were little, it was kind of cute.  We'd jump into our jammies, pop in a special movie, munch on some raw vegetables and blue cheese dip (not that the kids would ever actually eat the dip -- gross!), snuggle down and await the man-of-the-day to arrive -- the pizza delivery guy.  Even the dog recognized him.

But sometime after my 332nd slice, I just got over it.  True, we did move on from cheese to one-topping pepperoni (large, hand-tossed), but I'm done.  Would it kill us to add something approximating a vegetable (even olives!) to our order?  Probably.  According to my calculations, it took eight years to add the pepperoni.  In another eight years, it'll just be me, the cat and the dog here.  I'm not ordering pizza for them.  Not even with olives.

The one thing I don't tire of is the blue cheese dip.   It's easy to make and requested by everyone I know but didn't birth.  I suppose I should be proud though, because although the kids won't get close to any dip (not even ranch), they do accept that other people are different.  Darling Daughter will even ask, as we leave to have dinner at someone else's house, "Aren't you supposed to bring dip?"

Good with nearly any raw vegetable, and particularly tasty paired with steamed asparagus or sugar snap peas, blue cheese dip has gotten me through many a pizza night.  Of course, I also like it spooned into baked potatoes.  Or scooped up with Fritos.  Or a spoon.  But I suspect that's just me.

Killer Blue Cheese Dip

(All amounts are approximate.  For the first four ingredients, I use an amount that's about the size of my fist.)

4 oz. blue cheese (and better blue cheese, such as Maytag or sigh, Clemson, really is better), crumbled

About 3/4 cup (or more) of sour cream

About 3/4 cup (or less) of decent mayonnaise

About 3/4 cup (no kidding) of minced fresh Italian parsley

About 1/4 cup of finely minced celery (optional)

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Generous shake of Tabasco

3/4 teaspoon kosher or sea salt

Generous grinding of pepper

Stir everything together.  Taste.  If it still needs "something," try a bit more lemon juice or salt.  Then, if you can stand it, stash it in the fridge for an hour or two, to let the flavors mellow.  Serve with fresh celery, carrots, lightly steamed asparagus, radishes, etc.  And a spoon.