It Comes Down To This: I "Grease The Track."

This morning, unbeknownst to them, Son and Darling Daughter each greeted me with the same question.  Nope.  Despite the freezing rain and snow of the day before, and their plainly-stated hopes of the night before, neither one asked, “Do we have school today?”

Each asked, “Can I have an Advil?”  To which I, taken aback, responded, “For what?”

OK, what I really wanted to ask was, "What the aitch?"  I mean, plenty of folks scrounge for pain relievers within seconds of prying open their dehydrated, bloodshot eyes, but my guys are 12 and 14.   They may have had a rough night, but it had to do with books, not booze.

I probably should've been scrounging for my parenting cap, because if I’d been thinking clearly, I’d have remembered:  Son’s braces had been tightened the day before, and DD's braces had been put on the day before.  Of course they were sore.  I had braces as an adult, and based on my two solid years of whining, you’d have thought I’d undergone that excruciating Chinese leg lengthening surgery (if you don’t know, you don’t want to), rather than the privilege of a simple tooth-alignment procedure.

Still, the kids’ question reminds me that my most common parenting task is simply “greasing the track.”

I don’t mean, necessarily, making their lives easier.  I mean, recognizing what’s going on in their lives and making it easier for them to make good decisions – putting out cut-up veggies for snacks to help them steer clear of sugary treats, keeping them “busy” at times they could be getting into trouble, eliminating distractions at homework time, and in this instance, providing satisfying, easy to chew, or rather, ingest, food.

Sure, I’d rather spend time imparting my considerable (OK, biased, and likely inaccurate) knowledge.  It'd be great to have more hands-on time, teaching the kids the things I’m good at -- stuff like cooking, holding a fork correctly, and, um, sending e-mails.  Occasionally, my choice would be to just flat-out do things for them.  (Really, I’m quite good at sending e-mails, and could even do it in their “voice.”  Here, watch: “Yo, sup?”)

This past weekend, for example, the kids’ dad got married.  And as much as I’d love to have horror stories to share, there was nothing catastrophic about it.  Nothing even slightly diabolically blogworthy.  (Disappointing, right?)

Still, weddings are a big deal.  Particularly when your parent is getting married.  So I knew, when the kids returned home, I’d need to grease the track – making a meal sure to please (Waffles of Insane Greatness, natch), helping them unpack, giving them an opportunity to decompress, making it easy to get back on the “school” track.

So where was I this morning? The kids’ teeth hurt.  DD’s upper and lower teeth don’t even meet.  And, given their tender teeth, everyone’s bound to be a wee bit cranky.

So where were the smoothies, the yogurt, the noodles, the soup?  Where were the easy-to-eat treats I could pack in their lunches?  Where were the treats?  The Jello?  The tapioca?  The 17¢ ramen noodles?

Twelve hours later, they’re in my fridge and pantry.  My parenting cap is firmly in place.  I’m back to greasing the track.  Starting with this easy-to-eat, but slightly sophisticated and flavorful version of chicken and rice.

Saffron Rice With Chicken

Serves four.

Generous pinch of red pepper flakes

1 garlic clove, peeled, impaled on a toothpick

½ teaspoon saffron threads, crumbled

2 teaspoons lemon juice

½ teaspoon kosher salt

1 ½ cups basmati rice

3 cups chicken broth

2 ½ cups leftover cooked chicken, cut in bite-size pieces

Combine all ingredients, except chicken, in large saucepan with lid.  Bring to a boil, stir once, put lid in place, and reduce heat to low.  Cook for 10 minutes.  Remove lid and drop chicken into saucepan.  (Don’t stir.)  Cook on low an additional three minutes.  Remove from heat and fluff with a fork.  Let rest 2-3 minutes, unlidded before serving, hot.

It's Lent Chez Wiles. No Sodas, Sweets or Starbucks. Game On.

Life is a tad bit competitive Chez Wiles. 

Not when it comes to anything life-affirming or character-building, mind you.  We’re not into competing for good grades or good health or good deeds.  We’re more into racing for control over the car radio.   “Who would be a better driver” is another ongoing debate.  OK.  “Debate” is probably too civilized a word.  What I’m looking for is a word that describes a competition where the loudest and most persistent person wins.  “Argument” comes to mind.

“Name that artist” (musical artist, that is -- we’re not all that aesthetically informed) is another favorite and is in play 24/7.  To get the game rolling, all any one of us has to do – whether we’re in Starbucks, or the car, or a restaurant with a half dozen uninitiated friends – is blurt out “REO Speedwagon,” and we’re off to the races.

So you can imagine how we treat the holy season of Lent.  Last night, as we feasted on the traditional Shrove Tuesday dinner of pancakes and sausage and bacon and then, because it was so very good, more sausage, we boasted about what we intended to “give up” for Lent.  (Of course I’ve got a great pancake recipe.  Click here.)

Although I’m pretty sure the Church wouldn’t approve of our attitude, I ventured forth first, boldly vowing to set aside my beloved venti-nonfat-no-foam-chai-tea-latte for 40 days.  Which is all to say that if you hold any Starbucks stock, be forewarned that the next few weeks could be a little bleak as my considerable support is withheld.

As expected, Darling Daughter upped the ante.  Not only is she giving up a lifelong habit of nail-gnawing, she and a girlfriend have also decided to give up sweets.  Believe me, of the three of us Chez Wiles, she is taking the toughest route.  And is also most likely to succeed.

After some thought, and -- to be honest – after itemizing all of the habits he would never abandon, Son decided to forego soft drinks.  I don’t mean to be a doubter, but suffice to say I am considering purchasing a chain and padlock to assist in his efforts.  And, perhaps, a taser.

Darling Daughter, however, had no qualms about voicing her doubts about me.  There was no way, she insisted, I could go without chai.

Oh really?  OH REALLY?  Well how about no chai AND no alcoholic beverages? 

Dang.  Did I say that out loud?  'Cause what I meant, of course, was no wine.  Um.  No red wine.  On weeknights.  Unless I’m out with friends.  Or at home.  With clean glasses.

Sigh.  Let’s give it a shot.  Last Lenten season, I used the dregs of a bottle of white wine to make a wonderfully savory pan roasted chicken with pancetta.  Tonight, I poured out the last of a bottle of Kim Crawford Sauvignon Blanc to create a new chicken dish.  And it was really tasty (two thumbs up from the kids) – with red bell peppers and mushrooms (which neither kid touched).

I think I’ll try it again soon – and next time, in the slow cooker. 

There’s only one other thing that might make it a little better – a lovely chilled glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.  I’ll have to let you know.

After Easter.

Drunken Chicken With Peppers, Potatoes and Mushrooms

8 chicken thighs, well-seasoned with kosher salt and pepper

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 red bell pepper, sliced in strips, strips then halved

4 large shallots, peeled and sliced thin

8 ounces mushrooms, sliced

2 lbs small red potatoes

1 1/2 cups (more or less) dry white wine

2 tablespoons whole grain mustard

2-3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

1 teaspoon dried thyme leaves

In a large, lidded, nonstick skillet, quickly brown chicken over high heat (3-4 minutes each side).  Remove chicken.  Reduce heat to medium high and stir in olive oil.  When heated through, sauté bell pepper, shallots and mushrooms until slightly soft and browned on the edges.  Stir in potatoes (cut in half, if too large).  Pour in wine, balsamic vinegar, mustard and thyme.  Heat to boiling.  Return chicken to pan.  Season with salt and pepper, place lid on, lower heat to low, and simmer until chicken is very tender – about one hour.

Exams Are Over, and All I Want For Christmas Is A Clean House. And Soup.

With so many stomach “bugs” going around, I’m wondering whether furniture can get sick, too.  Because here we are, Day Four of exams, and it appears that every desk, dresser, backpack and closet Chez Wiles has violently and uncontrollably spewed their contents. Hoo boy. This, my friend, would be a good day for a HazMat suit.

Mysteriously, it’s not only textbooks and quizzes, notecards and calculators, highlighters and writing utensils that now carpet every flat surface. It’s also laundry and blankets, soft drink bottles and bread wrappers, dust pans and tape dispensers, boots and bathing suits (bathing suits? really?), and an extensive collection of "lucky" wool socks. (I also understand that "studying" is lucky for exam-taking, but what do I know?)  

It's going to take more than a vacuum to reverse this wreckage.  More like a shovel.  Or a backhoe.  And of course, the aforementioned HazMat suit.

The kids aren’t solely to blame. In an effort to minimize distractions and maximize opportunities for exam prep, I let a lot of things slide. That ride, however, is over.  I am the Fat Lady, and I have sung.

So today, we’re back to the real world. Back to beds made before noon. Litter boxes cleaned before the cat relocates his potty to my down comforter.  Bedtime before sun up.  Shoes put away before the dog uses them as expensive – very expensive -- chew toys.

We’re also back to “mom” food.  Not that the kids have been complaining as we’ve enjoyed everyone’s favorite breakfast-for-dinner (Waffles of Insane Greatness), hard-to-argue-with Pan-Roasted-Chicken and many meals featuring the Wiles’ family favorite food group, sausage (Not So Dirty Rice, among other delights.)

A few weeks ago, when Little Sis (LS) was here (and the kids were not), she made a huge batch of avgolemono (Greek lemon egg soup) for me and some girlfriends. Tart and well-seasoned, it’s one of my favorite soups ever.  LS, of course, made it the “real” way, starting with a whole chicken and vat of water.  And that’s what I craved while the kids sat for exams and Project Exam Aftermath commenced here at home, but I didn’t have time for all that.  So, using some of the chicken stock I had stashed in the freezer, I came up with this “Greek-inspired” lemon soup.  Not authentic, to be sure, but making this quick, and somewhat more hearty, version gives me a little more time to get the house back in order.

Does this HazMat suit make me look fat?

Greek-Inspired Lemon Chicken Soup

Six cups chicken stock with chopped chicken

1 bay leaf

1 teaspoon oregano

1 teaspoon lemon zest
½ cup orzo (or rice)

2 eggs, separated

juice of one lemon

salt and pepper to taste

In a large pot, bring stock, bay leaf, oregano and lemon zest to a boil.  Stir in orzo.  As orzo cooks, whip eggs whites in a mixing bowl until soft peaks form.  Whisk in, individually, egg yolks.  Whisk in lemon juice.  When orzo is almost done, remove stock from heat, and remove and discard bay leaf.  Very gradually, stir in one cup of hot stock into egg mixture.  (This important step tempers the eggs, so they stay frothy and don’t curdle.)  Gently stir tempered egg mixture into stock.  Soup will be creamy-looking, and somewhat frothy.  If you want to be fancy, sprinkle fresh chopped parsley, or better still, fresh dill, on top and serve.

Being Prepared. Part Two. (Chicken Orzo Soup)

I shouldn't say this out loud, but -- knock on wood, knock on formica, toss salt over your shoulder, toss the used Kleenex in the trash -- everyone Chez Wiles is currently in good health.

Of course it's temporary.  But given our recent cases of H1N1 (or as my no-nonsense sister says, "It's the SWINE flu.  Just call it that."), the stomach bug (another pleasant euphemism, but this is one I prefer) and a Halloween weekend trip to the ER, I'm glad to report that both kids are at school, and both made it through a full day yesterday as well.

True, we have been through our share of Advil.  And Kleenex.  And hand sanitizer.  And bags of throat lozenges.  (We highly recommend Halls Defense Vitamin C.)  And anytime I walk near my 14-year-old son, he still reflexively lifts his bangs so I can check his forehead.

Plus, we've washed our hands.  And washed our hands.  And washed our hands.  To the point that it irritates me to have one television doctor after the other advise me to "sing The Happy Birthday song" to make sure I'm washing long enough.  Why The Birthday Song?  I'm a grown-up, for Pete's sake.  Why not something from my high school days?  Something by Earth Wind & Fire, perhaps.  Or maybe the chorus to Aerosmith's Dream On?  "Sing with me, sing for the year, sing for the laughter, sing for the tea-ahhh ..."

But I digress.  (OK.  Indulge me for one more second, "Dream on, dream on, dream on, aahhhhhhhh ...")

All the hand-washing is part of that prevention and preparation thing.  And heaven knows, I like to be prepared.

But I can't prepare for everything.  And as much of a planner as I am, also know that, sometimes, I've got to let go.

Since I'm with the kids so much, I can find them pretty predictable.  I can anticipate the instant shedding of moodiness when the right friend calls.  I can discern the difference between, "I don't know" and "I don't know (but if you keep talking maybe I'll come up with another answer)."  I can brace myself for the drama of seventh grade.  I can plan for the adjustment of moving up to high school.  I'm prepared for the unavoidable pouts and taunts of siblings.

But just as I get things down pat, I'm gobsmacked.

At dinner recently (and really, the best tidbits come out over a meal, don't you think?), Darling Daughter (DD) was expressing the occasional uncertainty you'd expect from a middle schooler.  Snarky Son (SS), as is routine for a high schooler, interrupted her.  I said nothing, but braced myself.  DD plainly had the floor.  She had the metaphorical microphone.  SS plainly snatched that microphone.  It was rude.  He deserved a smackdown.

I clinched my jaw for the inevitable eruption of bickering.  Before DD could spit our her comeback, though, SS got out what he needed to say, "You're not unattractive, you know."

Huh?  What was that?  A compliment between siblings?  And let's be truthful here -- that was about the highest praise an older brother can offer a younger sister.

So sure, I'll keep preparing and planning -- starting with this soup that's a cinch if you keep your own flavorful chicken stock on hand in the freezer.  (Recipe here.)  But every now and again, knock on wood, knock on formica, I'm happy to embrace the unexpected.  It's not all bad, you know.

Chicken Orzo Soup

4 cups homemade chicken stock with chicken pieces

(optionally, use two cans of chicken broth with 1 cup, cut-up cooked chicken)

1/4 teaspoon dried thyme or 1 sprig of fresh thyme

Two handfuls uncooked orzo (about 2/3 cup)

16-20 baby carrots, sliced thinly

1 cup broccoli flowerettes (cut in small, spoon-size bits)
1/2 cup frozen peas (optional)

1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

kosher salt

In a medium-sized saucepan, bring stock to a boil.  Stir in thyme and orzo and cook until pasta is almost done (still firm in the middle), about 7-8 minutes.  Stir in carrots, cook another 2 minutes.  Stir in broccoli (and peas, if using) and cook additional minute.  Stir in lemon juice and salt to taste.  Serve hot.

Be Prepared. Or At Least Keep The Freezer "Stocked."

I like to be prepared.

By that, I mean I like to be really prepared.  How else to explain that I currently have 10, 28-ounce cans of crushed tomatoes in the pantry?  (One day soon, but probably not tomorrow, I’ll buy an equally ridiculous amount of Italian sausage and make red sauce.)  I also have nearly 20 dozen regular tampons in my bathroom cabinet.  (Never mind that I’m practically perimenopausal -- it was triple coupon week!)  And what about the 21 black Sharpie Markers in the desk drawer?  (Hmm -- can’t really explain that one.)

A person might reasonably assume that my need to “stock up” is a reflection of my recent divorce, but I’ve got to confess that emergency preparedness is part of my very nature.

Remember New Year’s Eve 1999?  I do.  I was able to enjoy myself very much, because I’d heeded warnings of a catastrophic, cataclysmic computer and banking industry meltdown.  Included in my Y2K “kit” were a stack of twenties, a bunch of ones, several jugs of drinking water, a few coolers of ice and a stash of D batteries that, nine years later, has yet to be depleted.  Just to be sure, I also prepared New Year’s Day dinner the day before.  No way was I stepping into the 21st century without my share of luck and fortune.  I made enough Hoppin’ John and collards to feed the entire neighborhood. With leftovers.

Still, nothing could’ve prepared me for last weekend.  Snarky Son (SS) came down with the flu – complete with a 103 fever, a rib-clutching cough and an unusual appetite for horror movies.  (True, it was Halloween, but I also attribute the scream cinema marathon to the fact that SS was too weary to change the channel.)

Darling Daughter (DD) then got a walnut lodged in her throat.  She could still breathe and speak, but after the doctor's office warned us of the possibility of "aspirating in her sleep," we spent three-and-a-half hours in the emergency room, which was overrun with all the flu-afflicted kids in Charlotte who weren’t at home scaring themselves silly in front of the TV.  Which explains why DD and I both availed ourselves of the complimentary ER hand sanitizer every 20 minutes until her release.

All of that came on the heels of four sleepovers, a rainy Halloween block party and a miserable evening of trick-or-treating with umbrellas.  Astonishingly, no one called DSS.  Or if they did, they must’ve given the wrong number.

And here's the capper:  I had no chicken stock in the freezer.

How could that be?  I had one kid with the flu and another with a bruised throat.  Without chicken stock, there'd be no vegetable soup, no gingered spinach mushroom soup and certainly no homemade chicken noodle soup.

You can be sure the stock shortage was temporary.  I couldn't control disease or destiny, but I surely could brew up a batch of broth.  Before long, the aroma wafted through the house, warming both the kitchen and, after a compliment from DD, my heart.  Not only was there orzo vegetable soup on the stove, but the freezer shelves are stocked.  I can now sleep easy.  As soon as I figure out what to do with those Sharpie markers.

Chicken Stock (with Chicken)

10 chicken thighs (along with any other parts you might want to toss in)

3 whole carrots, peeled

3 stalks of celery (with leaves)

1 large onion, cut in quarters

2 cloves garlic, peeled

1 bay leaf

1 teaspoon whole peppercorns

4 whole cloves

5-6 sprigs parsley

1 half lemon

1 teaspoon kosher salt

Put all ingredients in a large stock pot, cover with 4-5 quarts of water, bring to boil and reduce to simmer.  Skim foam from top as needed.  After one hour, remove chicken from pot, and allow thighs to cool to touch.  Separate meat from skin from bones, discarding skin, setting aside meat and returning bones to pot.  Allow stock to simmer an additional hour, skimming as needed and adding water if needed.  Allow to cool somewhat, then strain stock, first through a colander, and then, through cheesecloth.  Skim fat, taste, and add additional seasoning, if needed.  Chop thigh meat into small bite-size pieces and return to stock.  Freeze in quart-size plastic containers, dividing meat equally among containers.  You now have the makings for homemade chicken noodle soup any day of the week!  Or, try one of these Feminine Wiles recipes, Greek-Inspired Lemon Chicken Soup, Gingered Spinach and Mushroom Soup, or Chicken Orzo Vegetable Soup.

The Name Game -- Fun For Kids And Adults Alike!

They call me “Mrs. Wiles.” 

Or “Ms. Wiles.”  Or “Cheri.”  And sometimes, “Miss Cheri.”

Turns out, the name game is pretty complicated -- and as I get older, increasingly so.

Expectant parents can spend three entire trimesters debating the merits of family names versus uncommon names, versus distinctive names versus flat-out convoluted, how-do-you-pronounce-that, how-did-you-come-up-with-that names.  Even after you narrow it down, you still have to take into account the “playground factor.”  Sorry, mommies- and daddies-to-be, but you should be aware that there are unflattering words that rhyme with “Bart.”  And “Rick.”  And “Belle.”  And “Cam.”  And although those words may not leap to the mind of a 36-year-old, they certainly do to a six-year-old.  Trust me.

Even pet names are controversial.  Local radio personality Sheri Lynch last week told the story of a dog with the unfortunate moniker, “Mommy.”  Really, I’ve got nowhere to go with that.  But I think my kids would agree that one “Mommy” per household ought to be the legal limit.  And there are days when even that seems excessive. 

Currently, the pet names Chez Wiles have musical roots.  Our rescue dog, Josie, is named for a blink-182 song.  Our cat Lionel, with the Mike Tyson personality, is actually the namesake of Lionel Richie, formerly of the Commodores.  Funny, too, that we’d choose tuneful names, when not one of us could carry a tune if it were handed to us in a gift-wrapped box.  In a shopping bag.  With a handle.

Post-divorce, the name game has only grown trickier.  Previously, the rules were pretty straightforward.  My children know to address adults by the appropriate title and the appropriate last name, e.g., Mr. and Mrs. Pitt.  The only exception would be for close family friends, whom the kids could call by their first name, as long as it was preceded by the appropriate title, e.g., Mr. Brad and Miss Angelina.

Problems crop up, though, as a single parent considers dating.  You’ve got to think short-term and long-term.  Several years after her divorce, my own mom was lucky enough to marry a wonderful man whom we’d known for years and I’d called “Uncle.”  But as my stepfather, could I call him “Uncle”?  Ewww.

And how should my own kids refer to someone I date?  "Mr. Damon"?  (Ahem.  It's my blog isn't it?)  If we married, they’d be stuck calling their stepfather by a needlessly formal name.  But "Mr. Matt" seems silly, too, right?  On the other, other hand, saying, “Hey Matt, where are y’all going tonight?” the first time they meet a Hollywood movie star seems presumptuous.  (Again, don’t judge me.  I’m just saying...)

And what about me?  Am I Cheri?  Am I Ms. Wiles?  I’ve been told I should be offended when someone calls me Mrs. Wiles, but I was Mrs. Wiles for so long that I don’t even notice it.  But to be called that by the kids of someone I’m dating?  Umm.  Awkward.

Maybe it would be best to go with the “call me whatever you want, but don’t call me late for dinner” approach.  As long as dinner is something as satisfying as this Chicken Chili.  Or is it White Chili?  Well, you can’t really call it “White,” because there are tomatoes in it.  Maybe “White Bean Chili" ...

Whatever.  Just call it dinner.

Chicken Chili With White Beans

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 onions, chopped

4 large cloves of garlic, minced

4-6 cups chicken broth (hold aside 2 cups to be used as needed)

1 14-oz. can diced tomatoes (I prefer the “petite” dice)

1 12-ounce bottle beer (optional)

2 tablespoons chili powder (or more to taste)

1 tablespoon ground cumin

½ teaspoon ground cloves

1 tablespoon kosher salt

¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes

¼ cup chopped fresh basil

6 grilled chicken breasts, chopped (could also use thighs)

3 14-oz. cans cannellini beans

In a large pot (with lid) sauté onions over medium heat with olive oil.  When onions are translucent, stir in garlic and continue sautéing for about five minutes.

Stir in liquids, spices and chicken.  Don't taste it at this point.  It will taste like an culinary experiment gone bad.  You've got to be patient.  Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer (with lid) for 1-2 hours, stirring occasionally.  (It takes this long for flavors to meld.)  Stir in undrained cans of beans, and simmer another 30-40 minutes.  Add additional broth if needed.  Before serving, check seasoning.  Depending on the freshness of your spices and how “hot” you like it, you may need more of everything – including salt.  Serve hot.

I'm OK, But Could Someone Tell Me What To Do About This Bathroom Paint?

Crap.  (Sorry, Mom.)

When I pulled into the driveway a few days ago, a 20-foot tree limb blocked my usual parking spot.  Again.  Only a few weeks ago another sizable branch had plunged to the lawn, just a few feet from this one, leaving a significant divot.

Even though an arborist trimmed the deadwood last fall, these things happen -– particularly with the recent blustery, wet weather we’ve had here in Charlotte.  It doesn’t take a seventh grader to know that a spongy, dry, dead branch soaks up a LOT more weighty water than a healthy, impervious, well-attached branch.

Big whoop.  I know where the pruning saw is.  I’ll hack the thing into somewhat more manageable pieces, drag them to the street and pray to God no one witnesses my ineptitude.  That sawing business, I learned last time, is a lot easier, not too mention a lot more fun, when done by other people.  Try though I may, I’ll never achieve that hopped-up, blurry sawing technique demonstrated so effortlessly by the likes of Wile E. Coyote, Foghorn Leghorn, Jerry the Cat and other Saturday morning friends.

The downed branch is a reminder though, that since I’m no longer married, I'm the one in charge.  Of everything.

When the gutters overflow, when the cat mounts a successful escape, when the basement freezer holding 10 meals worth of Folly Beach shrimp defrosts while we’re out of town, when a baby possum dies (disintegrates and practically dissolves) under the house in 90 degree heat, when the master bathroom paint puckers and peels off in name-that-state-shaped latex sheets, it’s all on me. 

I’m "da man."

When you’re married, there’s a certain division of labor.  There’s also a division of knowledge (you know when the car needs new tires, I know when to schedule teacher conferences) and even a division of worry (you worry about saving for college, I’ll worry about our 14-year-old staying out until midnight).   But for nearly two years now, there's been no division.  More like multiplication.

True, I’ve always been fairly independent.  OK, when I was little, I don't think my teachers used the word "independent."  But "bossy" rings a bell.   And perhaps, "doesn't play well with others."  But what I can’t get used to is that I no longer have someone to run my ideas and decisions by.  (“Does this make me look fat?”  “What do you think of this paint color?”)  

On the upside, I guess, I don’t have anyone to run my ideas and decisions by.  ("Hmm.  I want a cat.  Oh looky there.  I got a cat.")

Like dinner tonight.  I like chicken.  But we had chicken last night.  (Panko-Crusted Chicken With Lemon and Dill, recipe to come).  Still, as I said, I like chicken.  And it's my decision.  So guess what’s cooking Chez Wiles tonight?

Yep.  I'm just fine.  But could someone else take a look at this bathroom paint?

Chicken Roll-Ups with Proscuitto & Sage 

My kids love this dish.  It looks special and fun, but is very easy to make, using very few ingredients.  Feel free to substitute herbs (maybe basil or rosemary) or try Virginia ham or pepperoni in place of the proscuitto.  I often serve it with Thyme-Scented Lemon Rice.)

Three boneless chicken breasts, pounded to 1/2 thickness

three fresh sage leaves

three very thin slices proscuitto

zest of one lemon

1/4 cup olive oil

1-2 tablespoons butter

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

1/4 cup chicken stock

1/4 dry white wine (or 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice)

1 tablespoon capers

Sprinkle each flattened chicken breast with salt, pepper and lemon zest.  Center one sage leaf on each chicken breast (smooth side down).  Lay proscuitto on top. Roll up, fairly tightly from narrow end up.  Secure with toothpicks.

Heat oil and butter in a large skillet (with a lid) over medium high heat.  Brown chicken roll-ups, until browned fairly evenly on all sides.  Reduce heat to low, place lid on skillet, and cook until juices run clear when pricked with a toothpick (about 10 minutes).  

Remove chicken from skillet and deglaze pan with stock and wine.  Stir in capers.  

Slice roll-ups in 1/2 inch slices and pour sauce over.

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.

Paving My (Well-Traveled) Road To Hell

The kids are away this weekend.  My daughter snagged an invite to birthday beach party in Charleston.  My son is testing his freshly healed and reconditioned rotator cuff by sea kayaking at a another Charleston beach.  And no, neither has any concept how lucky they are.  (Truly, what did you do with your weekends growing up?  Getaways to the most beautiful beaches in America -- where we visited just last weekend?  Or chores?  Me, too.)

Naturally, when friends hear that I'm kid-free for 48 hours, they can't prevent themselves from asking, "Whatever will you do with all that free time?"

Umm.  Hmm.  Well.  I suppose I could clean out that coat closet.  It'd be nice to be able to close it without a strength training class.  My daughter's jewelry-making beads seem to have spilled across the tile floor in the sunroom.  Someone should definitely take care of that.  And given that the coming week holds, at a minimum, three baseball games, two baseball practices, two music lessons, a school concert, a Scout meeting, a parent meeting and a doctor's appointment, a smart single mom would use this time to stash a few meals in the fridge and freezer.

My high school English teacher used to admonish, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."  Given that my relationship with project due dates and term paper deadlines at that time could best described as an open relationship, I was a frequent recipient of this cautionary tale.  I'd cringe as she delivered the message.  And I was conflicted:  Did I feel guilty?  Or worried that she might be fired for using such language?  She was a good teacher.  I would've missed her.

But now, it's already Sunday afternoon.  My son's about to return, and his sister will be on his heels.  The closet's still choked, the beads sprawled, the meals unmade.  What did I do this weekend?

Nothing, I guess.  But wait.  I did laugh for nearly four solid hours Friday night.  I got together with some work friends from 15 years ago, who are among the wittiest, quickest, most self-deprecating storytellers I know.   As one friend pointed out, the punchline to nearly every story was, "Needless to say, we didn't get that account."  I guess you had to be there.  I wasn't quite to the point of tears streaming down my cheeks.  However, I may have identified a new marketing angle for Depends.

I was still smiling -- and occasionally laughing out loud -- Saturday morning.  I guess that's when the rest of the weekend went to hell.  (I'm not a high school English teacher, so I can use that language.)  I got my hair cut.  I Facebooked.  I drank wine.  I watched an indulgent chick flick.  OK.  Actually, I watched two, but fell asleep during the second.  I already knew that Meg Ryan figures out, in the end, that it was Tom Hanks all along.

Sunday morning, I was still smiling.  I planted more herbs to supplement the ones that didn't succumb to the freezing temps and hail of a week ago.  I shopped.  Sure, I did a couple of household maintenance things, but nothing I want to brag about.

And I'm still smiling.  More important, I don't feel guilty.  Scientists insist that laughter is good medicine.  If so, I'm pretty darn healthy this weekend.  To welcome the kids home, I'm going to make something that always makes them smile, "Beer Butt Chicken."

The name alone does it, right?

Plus, it's always good, always juicy, and is guaranteed to start our meal off with a smile.

I'll get to the closet, the beads and the meals.  It's not as if I'm still in high school.  But for tonight, we're going to smile and laugh and enjoy being back together.

Beer Butt Chicken

Truly, the name is a bit of a misnomer, as you can replace the beer with Coke, for that matter, and it's still really good.  And I think most people refer to it as "Beer Can Chicken" anyhow.  But right now, I'm going with what makes me smile!

1 whole chicken (about 4 lbs.)

1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon (about) fresh ground pepper

1 teaspoon (about) fresh rosemary

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Zest of one lemon

1 clove garlic, minced

2 additional cloves of garlic, peeled

1 sprig of rosemary

1 can of cold beer

Preheat the grill.  You'll be cooking the chicken on "indirect" heat.

On a cutting board, using a chef's knife, "cut" together the spices, the lemon zest and minced clove of garlic.  You'll end up with a "rub" which you'll use on the chicken.  Make sure to rub it in well, over the entire chicken, including under the skin.  As you're rubbing the seasoning under the skin, try to loosen the skin as much as possible from the bird, which will improve the browning and crisping of the skin.

Drink the top off the beer.  The can should now be about 2/3 full.  Drop in the additional garlic and rosemary.

Taking care not to spill it, put the beer can in the chicken's, ahem, cavity.  Position the chicken, standing up on the beer can, over indirect heat, on the grill.  Tuck the wings behind the bird, so they don't splay out.  Use the chicken legs to make sure everything balances.

Close lid and cook for about one hour or until done (when juices run clear).

Let rest 10-15 minutes before carving.

Hope Springs. With Greek Orzo Salad.

Provided you could overlook the pollen-induced chartreuse film, yesterday was absurdly gorgeous here in Charlotte. (Big shout-out to the manufacturers of Nasonex and Allegra!)

Sunny, slightly breezy, high in the 70s -- it promised to be an ideal outdoor day.

However, our local meteorologist was quick to caution us gardening types against plunging into the potting soil. The weather is expected to dip below freezing again later this week, and tender new plants risk being reduced to nothing more than 8-inch deep cylinders of good dirt, if set out too early.

Now, I'm not a risk taker. First, I'm a mom. Caution's part of the package they send home with us from the hospital. Second, I'm a divorced mom. Adventure's not part of the package they send home with us from the lawyers' offices. Finally, well, I've always preferred certainty, to um, not.

Whatever. I ventured forth to our local Home Depot. Just to see what they had. OK, fine. Let's skip to the last chapter, where I ended up buying a ridiculous number of plants. The hydrangeas, with their woody stems and the parsley, with its cool weather tolerance, shouldn't have any problem. The daisies? Iffy. The 18 coleus plants, six New Guinea impatiens and two basil plants? Well, I should know better.

When I was a kid, my bus stop was in a neighbor's front yard, and on the very coldest days of the year, the dozen or so of us would huddle against the side of the house. There was one particular spot where warmth just seemed to leak out between the bricks.

Now that I'm a homeowner, I can't say that I've ever longed for similar insulation-failings, but just in case, I did set the most tender plants close to the house. Maybe it will help. Or maybe I'm just kidding myself.

Inexplicably, I also put out some dill this year. I've never had luck with dill. I plant it every year, and every year, within two months, the potting soil it arrived in is all that remains. What the hell. That'll be another $3.48 (plus tax)

If you don't allow for the time I spent planting, I'll be out a grand total of, well, let's not do that math, OK?

Look at it this way. If the dill survives, it'll be an unexpected gift. The coleus plants and impatiens? To be honest, they make me happy. I'm just crossing my fingers that the happiness lasts more than three days. The basil? I adore fresh basil and it was worth a shot to have an earlier crop. If I'm very lucky (and the meteorologist very wrong), in three or four weeks, I'll be cutting it for fresh arrangements and working it into one of my very favorite pasta dishes.

The temperature's already dropped to 53 degrees. Maybe I'm a greater risk-taker than I realized. Hope springs ...

Greek Orzo Salad

Dressing

3/4 cup olive oil

1/2 cup red wine vinegar

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

2 cloves garlic, minced fine

1 teaspoon oregano (rubbed fine between palms of hands)

salt and pepper to taste.

Salad
1 lb. orzo pasta, cooked, drained and rinsed in cool water

1 cup chopped fresh basil

8 ounces feta cheese, crumbled

2 roma tomatoes, diced

1 medium can black olives, sliced

4 cooked boneless chicken breasts, diced (or optionally, 1 1/2 pounds cooked, shelled shrimp)

Mix dressing ingredients. Pour over remaining salad ingredients in a large bowl and mix well. Chill and serve. (Keeps for several days.)

I "Heart" Embarrassing My Kids

It's not hard to embarrass my kids.  Indeed, it's embarrassingly easy.

Among my daughter's concerns are my laugh (too loud), my stomach (too white), my singing (true, I don't always know all the lyrics and sometimes, none), my existence (usually in the school hallways, but sometimes on the very planet), and my choice of workout music (Justin Timberlake, Soulja Boy, the Commodores, The Pussycat Dolls and the cast of High School Musical).

Among my son's complaints are my singing (what's this obsession with lyrics -- am I raising Simon Cowell?), my texting him (on which I won't relent because it's useful and sometimes I'm too lazy to go upstairs and tell him it's dinnertime), and finally, my use of 21st century vernacular.

"'Sup?" (as in, "yo -- whatssup?"), "true dat" and  "chillin'" are all off-limits.  Sparks recently flew when I said to him, innocently, "Feel free to dance."   By which, I meant, your sister is having a Zumba class for her birthday, and if you'd like to come and dance, we'd love to have you.  What did it mean to him?  I have no idea, but clearly, I overstepped.  I am allowed to say, "Rock on with your bad self," which sounds better than it reads, but that's plainly from the 20th century (Rock the Boat, The Hues Corporation, 1974), so I'm in the clear.  Given my age, he also suggested that "groovy" and "far out" would pass muster.

My most recent transgression involves clothing.  It's a T-shirt -- not too tight, not too short, and not too flambouyant.  The embarrassingly white stomach is well-concealed.  There's no mention of sex, drugs, rock and roll, or even rock and roll lyrics.  I ordered it from Bravo.com (home of Top Chef) and it says, "I Heart Fabio."  OK, it doesn't exactly say that.  It says "I," then there's a cardinal red heart, and then, a photo of Fabio, my favorite Top Chef contestant.  Got the picture?

Now picture this.  My son insisted I not wear the shirt anywhere that anyone could see it.  Grudgingly, he agreed it would be OK under a sweatshirt.  Given that the sweatshirt sports the logo of my perennially-losing alma mater, the South Carolina Gamecocks, I guess it was a concession.

My daughter begged -- begged - me not to wear the T-shirt to school.   She pleaded her case for a full 10 minutes, despite knowing full well that I rarely wear T-shirts and certainly don't wear them to her school.  The next day, though, I had to rush to school, unexpectedly, to pick up her sick brother.  Yep.  I arrived at school in said T-shirt.  Busted.  Oops.

Oh well.  Their own dresser drawers and shelves spew T-shirts.  Soccer, baseball, cross country, and others of that ilk, as well as such gems as "Gossip Curls," "No, Really, This Is My Halloween Costume," and "The National Sarcasm Society.  Like We Need Your Support."  In this week's laundry stacks are "Green Monsta," "Green Eggs and Ham," "Led Zeppelin," and "Carolina Girls."

I'm over it.  I'm wearing Fabio even as I write this.

Lo and behold, certain ingredients are also embarrassing.  I can't fit it in my head how a kid who will eat octopus sushi and another kid who names calamari as her favorite appetizer could ever pass judgment on someone else's dining choices.   And I can't imagine how even the pickiest eater could ever deride artichoke hearts.  They're not actual hearts, OK?  These hearts are no more real than the heart on my Fabio T-shirt.

Then again, there are times when I don't mind embarrassing the kids.  So guess what we're having for dinner?  And then, guess what I'll be wearing.

Chicken with Artichokes and Olives

After you brown the chicken, this is a ridiculously easy "dump" dish.  Just dump everything into a slow cooker and let it go!  Amazingly good and fragrant!

2 tablespoons olive oil

3 lbs cut-up chicken (I prefer dark meat, but a mix is fine)

1 onion, halved and sliced thinly

1 10-ounce package frozen artichoke hearts

1 6-ounce jar pitted kalamata olives, drained

5 cloves garlic, peeled

1 lemon, thickly sliced, plus additional 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1 teaspoon kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

In batches, brown chicken (well!) in olive oil in a large skillet.  Put browned chicken in a slow cooker and add remaining ingredients.  Toss to coat.  Cover and cook on low for 8-10 hours in slow cooker.  Serve with hot rice or buttered noodles.

Put The Lime In The Coconut

We're in a funk here at the Wiles house, but it doesn't take a medical degree -- or even WebMD -- to diagnose the problem.  We've got a wicked case of vacation hangover.

Any mom would recognize the symptoms.  After a carefree vacation, the doldrums set in.  People who should know better start saying silly things like, "I'm bored."  Sorted laundry clutters the floor, awaiting a spin with Cheer.  Emptied suitcases cluster at the top of the stairs, because no one has the energy (or motivation) to haul them to the attic.  Odds and ends are strewn across the kitchen counter -- baggage claim tags, receipts, amusement park maps.

Lionel, our indoor cat who was left to his own devices and evil plans while we were gone, is both unusually affectionate and frantically plotting an escape to the backyard.  Josie, our rescue dog, who spent the better part of the week at "puppy camp," is again somewhat unsure of us and mysteriously, is shunning her usual food.  It's pretty good stuff, too.   I can't imagine what they were feeding her at the kennel -- some type of Top Chef kibble, perhaps?

Just as we begin to get a grip on reality, other symptoms pop up.  I'd hoped to watch last week's missed episode of American Idol while the kids were at their dad's last night.  The Simpsons, The Office and Scrubs were all recorded in our absence, but American Idol (the much-anticipated "country" episode, no less!) was not.  True, it could have been an operator-error, but it smells suspiciously of operator's-son-error.  What?  You think I watch The Simpsons?  (I've got to admit, The Simpsons ride at Universal Studios was hysterically fun -- if you're a 46-year-old mom, that is, not a jaded 14-year-old son.)

The fridge is oddly understocked.  We've got milk, but no eggs, grapes, but no lettuce, hamburger buns, but no bread.  All three of us are within a few days of scurvy, and we're somehow managing to perpetuate the situation.  I served up the beloved "sausage pasta" (see February 23, "Comfort Food") as a remedy, but the broccoli dodged their forks.  The kids, I guess, are determined to have a spring break completely devoid of nutrition.

I'll try again tonight -- with my version of grilled chicken, but if that doesn't work, I have one surefire cure.  The school bus arrives tomorrow at 7:20 a.m., and I know two kids who won't miss it.  And they'll both be packing lunch bags with fresh fruit, peanut butter and whole wheat bread.

Chicken Banzai Marinade

1/2 cup soy sauce

1/2 cup pineapple juice

1/4 vegetable oil

juice of 1-2 limes

1 scallion, finely sliced

1 "knob" ginger, grated or finely minced

2 cloves garlic, minced (optional)

freshly ground pepper

Mix marinade ingredients and pour over cut-up chicken (I use all thighs, but even boneless, skinless breasts are good) in plastic zipper bag.  Allow to marinate at least one hour, then grill over indirect heat until done.  (Poke with a skewer.  When juices run mostly clear, chicken is done.)  Delicious served with grilled slices of pineapple, and garnished with pineapple bits and fresh scallions.

Lenten Dilemma, Pt. 2 (Pan Roasted Chicken)

Day Two on the Lenten wine abstinence plan, and a partial bottle of sauvignon blanc in the fridge has made its presence known.

There's no way it'll be drinkable after the 38 remaining days of Lent.  Too bad, because it's the good stuff, not that roll-the-dice stuff I sometimes buy from the half-price, markdown cart at the grocery store, with the questionable labels and even more questionable taste.  Yes.  I get it.  Lent is all about temptation -- resisting it, that is -- but come on!  Am I really supposed to dump it down the drain?

What to do, what to do?  Well today, when life gives you wine, you make pan roasted chicken.  At least I do.

I love a good roast chicken.  Although a simple dish, it can be hard to get right and easy to mess up.  (Fabio, of Top Chef fame, won a cooking challenge by preparing the perfect roast chicken, which the judges declared five-star-restaurant-worthy.  Sadly, he was eliminated the next week.  I'm still grieving.)

Dried-out white meat is a culinary sin, and the only thing to be done with limp, colorless skin is feed it to the cat.  If he hasn't had anything else to eat for a few days, he may deign to nibble at it.

Usually, I roast a whole chicken on the grill, with fresh herbs and lemon slices stuffed under the skin, and a can of beer stuffed in, ahem, its cavity.  Not only is the resulting chicken tasty and moist, but clean-up is minimal.  Cooking outdoors means the mess stays outdoors.

Last month, though, I found this recipe in Food and Wine.  I modified it slightly, but it's still yummy -- simple, with big flavors.  Well worth the time spent cleaning up the pan.  And the perfect way to finish off that bottle of sauvignon blanc.

Pan Roasted Chicken with Pancetta & Olives

1 chicken, cut into pieces, breasts cut in halves

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme

1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary

1 teaspoon sea salt (or kosher salt)

fresh ground pepper

pinch of red pepper flakes

5-7 (depending on size) garlic cloves, peeled

4 oz. pancetta, diced fine

1/2 cup (depending on what's left in the bottle) dry white wine

12 oil-cured or Kalamata olives, pitted

Preheat oven to 450.  Toss chicken with oil, herbs and salt and pepper.  Arrange, skin side up, in one layer in a 17 x 11 pan.  Scatter garlic and pancetta on top, and roast until chicken begins to brown -- about 20 minutes.  Drizzle wine over chicken and scatter olives on top, and roast until chicken is done and skin is golden brown -- 20-25 more minutes.  Let stand 10 minutes and serve with noodles and drippings.