Chillin' -- And Saving -- Chez Wiles

On this beautiful autumn afternoon, it is 63 degrees in our house. Not in every room, of course. That would be crazy. We've had the fireplace crackling since 11 this morning; the family room is now a toasty 66, and my teens are draped in blankets. Adorbs!

My original intent was to wait until November to fire up the furnace Chez Wiles. But now that November is here, I wonder to what extremes the kids and I are willing to go. Down comforters? Of course. Four-legged, flea-bearing friends in bed? Perhaps. Seeing your breath in front of your face? Probably not. But then again ...

It's not, necessarily, that I'm trying to save money. I wouldn't deny the kids a warm home just to supplement my 401K. I would, however, stop spending $10 bills.

Yes, you read that correctly. I do not spend ten dollar bills. You won't find this advice splashed across the cover of Money magazine ("Single Mom Devises Retirement Strategy!") My plan is not supported by science or economics -- I'm a communications major, not an MBA. All I know is that when an Alexander Hamilton comes my way, I stash it in a pink leather envelope. When the envelope bulges, I deposit the contents at my neighborhood Bank of America.  And why not? Really. You don't see $10 bills all that often. Georges are everywhere. Andrew Jacksons abound. But if you're getting $10 in change, you're more likely to get a pair of Lincolns than an Alexander Hamilton.  So, when I see a $10, I hang on to it -- which has the side benefit of giving my kids one more reason to roll their eyes at me. (Nothing, though, gets their eyeballs spinning faster than my version of Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off.")

Think those eyes will be rolling when the thermostat drops to 60?

Cool.

Roasted Lemon Chicken and Asparagus
Although this dish is special enough to serve to company, it's also super cost-effective. Use any leftover chicken to make Chicken and Saffron Rice.

One, 4-5 pound fryer chicken
1 lemon, zested
4 cloves garlic, grated (or minced fine)
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon fresh ground pepper
1 teaspoon dried oregano
2 stems fresh oregano
1 pound asparagus

Preheat oven to 500, and remove all racks except bottom rack. Line a baking sheet with heavy duty aluminum foil. In a small bowl, combine lemon zest, garlic, oil, salt, pepper, and oregano. Use your hands to carefully loosen skin from chicken. Rub lemon garlic mixture under skin. Prop chicken on an upright roasting rack (I use a Roastup Rocket). Insert rosemary into chicken cavity. Tuck wings in back. Put chicken on the aluminum foil-lined baking sheet, put in oven, and immediately lower temperature to 400 degrees. Prepare asparagus by snapping off the woody ends. After chicken has roasted 45 minutes, add asparagus to baking sheet and toss with chicken juices. Roast an additional 15-20 minutes, or until chicken tests done. (Juices run clear when thigh is poked with a toothpick.)  Remove from oven and squeeze lemon juice over chicken and asparagus. Let chicken rest for 10 minutes before carving and serving with roasted asparagus.

Ten Tips For Cross Country Parents

I love cross country running. Whoa there, Speedy Gonzalez -- I love cross country running for my kids, not for me! Running is hard. Running hurts. It hurts when you practice doing it, it hurts when you're actually doing it, and then, it hurts for days after. Or, if you're 52 years old like me, it hurts for months after doing it, because you've torn a hamstring and can't recall where or how. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you'll feel when you try to explain that to a medical professional?

But I digress, because really, from a parent's perspective, cross country is a terrific sport. Trust me. Sure it's hard, and it hurts, but have you ever had a kid wrestle? I have. Every match, I had to choose: Shall I hyperventilate or asphyxiate today? Because there was no way I could draw a normal breath as some mini-Hulk Hogan put a move on my kid.

Ever had a kid play baseball? Not as physical as wrestling, of course, but baseball is a sport without a clock, folks, which sounds charming enough until you remember that you've got bills to pay, beds to change, meals to make, and oh yeah, other kids who know how to dial DSS if you don't at least occasionally check in on them.

Ever had a kid play soccer? Right -- that just makes you and every other American parent of the 21st century -- and all of you are sure that, among the swarm of shinguard-sporting magnet ball players, yours is the next Mia Hamm. Let me know how that goes for you.

Seriously. Cross country is perfect. Not too physical. Pretty darn quick. And when you get down to it, your kid is really racing against herself, so if she beats her previous time, she's a winner -- and you get to scoot along home.

There are pitfalls, though. I've been a cross country mom for eight seasons now, so believe me when I say that there are a few rules you'll need to follow.

1)  Race courses are pretty wide open, so when you arrive at the event, you'll be able to walk right up to your child. DO NOT DO THIS. If you must acknowledge your runner, do so from a distance. Behave as if you may have met before but are not quite sure. Only after making eye contact should you try to determine whether she wants you to approach. That's it. So now you think she wants you to approach? You are wrong.

2) Observe your runner from a safe distance. Did he warm up sufficiently? Are his laces tied? Should he be doing something to hydrate? Should he look that relaxed? Should he look that tense? Why is he acting exactly like everyone else? Why isn't he acting exactly like everyone else? Stop. Here's a rule of thumb: For every question you ask before a race, your runner will blame you for adding 10 seconds to his finishing time. Don't do it.

3) Cross country races tend to begin right on time. Give yourself time to get to the starting line, and set your watch. Do NOT attempt eye contact with your runner. Do NOT call your runner by name.

4) At the gun (the start of the race), start your watch. Again, do NOT call out your runner's name. Although she wouldn't actually hear you, another parent might, which would ruin your runner's entire life.  Do not cheer other runners by name, either. You may, however, cheer the team because, as noted, your runner will not hear you.

5) After the runners pass, you will see parents "in the know" walk hurriedly in another direction. Follow them. They know the course and know where you'll be able to spot your runner mid-course. One thousand, two hundred and twenty-three runners will pass before you finally see your runner. Just when you worry that you must have missed him and that he has already crossed the finish line, you will see him. At this point, remember the rule of NO engagement The only POSSIBLE exception to the rule of NO engagement is photography. For most parents, this is ill-advised. Proceed at your own risk.

6) Find the finish line. Other parents may know additional spots where you can spot your runner along the course; however, they also then know how to sprint over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house before catching the final seconds of the race. Don't risk it. Get thee to the finish line.

7) Note the time as your runner crosses. Do NOT note as she grimaces, hobbles, and limps through the final chute.

8) Find your runner. Have water. Have a towel. He will not accept either, but that's not the point. These are merely good-parenting props. Your runner may, in a lapse of exhaustion-induced insanity, deign to speak to you. He may ask, "How did I do?" Even though you will know the precise time of his finish, there is only one possible response: "That was a strong finish!"

9) Post race, your runner will be required to do warm downs and hydrate. She may even have to endure speeches from the coach. She will be hungry and thirsty. She will be hot and sticky. Offer to help with her bags. Remember, she will not appreciate your thoughtfulness. You make this offer only to know that you did the right thing in front of other parents.

10) As your runner hobbles to the car, he may finally speak to you -- to remind you of how awful cross country is. In this case, revert to number one -- acknowledge him from as much distance as you can wrangle inside of a car. Do not attempt to engage. If you think he wants you to engage, you will be wrong.

On the upside, though, the whole thing took something like 30 minutes -- giving you plenty of time to get home and and throw together something super simple like this "Green Pasta."

"Green" Pasta

I've prepared a number of "Green Pasta" versions this cross country season, but this one is our favorite, especially when served with grilled chicken tenders.

2 cups of uncooked ditalini pasta

2 cups of small broccoli f1orets
3-4 cups of baby spinach leaves, chopped

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 zucchini, cut in a small dice
1 garlic clove, minced
red pepper flakes

juice from half a lemon
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 can chicken broth

Bring a large pot of well-salted water (it should taste like the ocean) to a boil. Stir in pasta, cooking until almost done. In the meantime, heat olive oil in a heavy skillet over high heat. When rippling, stir in zucchini, garlic and a light sprinkling of red pepper flakes. Sauté until zucchini is lightly browned.

Just before the pasta is done cooking, stir in broccoli. Cook two minutes, drain, and return to pan. Toss spinach with hot pasta until wilted. Stir in zucchini mixture. Stir in lemon juice, oregano and about half the can of chicken broth. Adjust seasoning. Add more chicken broth, according to your preference. Serve hot or at room temperature.

The Beginning Of The End.

Sigh. 

A few days ago, Julia ran her last high school cross country meet here in Charlotte. And hoo boy, she sure wrapped things up in style. Far and away her best race of the season, Julia's time cemented her spot on the team going to States. In fact, it put her on the school's all-time top 25. As a team captain, she's worked hard -- insanely disciplined with her training, nutrition, sleep, and leadership. The results speak for themselves. I stand in awe.

Friday, she'll run her last race in Hendersonville, NC. And as she crosses that finish line, I'll check one more thing off my "last ever" list.

For better or worse, it's habit. I don't think of myself as particularly sentimental or sappy, but for 17 years, I've mentally noted and lamented the "last" time she rode in an infant car seat, her last day in preschool, the last time she let me to read to her before bed, the last I held her hiked up on my hip, the last time I drove her home from a meet, because she wasn't yet old enough to drive herself.

Now, though, during her senior year, the "lasts" are relentless. I've snapped my last "first day of school" picture. She's pinned on her last homecoming boutonniere. I've attended my last "meet the teachers" evening. She's about to submit her last college application.

I should be happy, but as one "last" after the other slaps me upside the head, I often find myself blinking back tears.

She's my "last" baby. The last one I felt kicking and hiccuping inside of me. The last one I potty-trained (she made it easy). The last one I taught to ride a bike, and then, in a blink, the last one to get a driver's license.

Together, we'll mark a lot of "lasts" as she navigates her final year of high school, not the least of which will be 212 days, 23 hours, and 52 minutes from now, when she'll don a cap and gown, and walk confidently across a stage and into her future.

I want to make it last.

Quinoa Kale Salad

One delightful consequence of cross country training is that we're eating healthier than ever Chez Wiles. This salad is a current favorite.

1 cup quinoa

2 cups chicken or vegetable broth

3-4 cups raw kale, chopped fine

1/2 red bell pepper, chopped

1/2 yellow bell pepper, chopped

1 cup pinenuts

1 clove garlic, grated

1 teaspoon grated ginger

2 tablespoons soy sauce

2 tablespoons light-tasting vinegar (rice or champagne, for example)

1 teaspoon dark sesame oil

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

In a small lidded saucepan, bring quinoa and broth to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer, covered, until done. (About 15 minutes.) Toss quinoa with kale, and allow to cool to room temperature. Stir in chopped bell pepper and pine nuts. In a separate small bowl, whisk together remaining ingredients to make a dressing, and stir into quinoa mixture. Serve at room temperature or chilled.

Darling Daughter Takes "Some Time To Do The Things We Never Have."

There's been a world between me and my 16-year-old daughter this summer. Literally. Not figuratively. Not metaphorically. Literally.*

She’s been an exchange student in Pietermartizburg, South Africa. 8,472 miles away. It took a full 24 hours for her to travel there. The time difference is six hours. When I wake up in the morning, she’s enjoying lunch. When I sit down for dinner, she’s deep in slumber. She’s seen lions and elephants and cheetahs and rhinos. She’s been welcomed as an ad hoc member of a loving South African family, who in turn, introduced her to loving South African friends. She’s been doing and trying things that I never will. To quote a line from the Toto song, Africa, she took "some time to do the things we never have." 

I have missed her like crazy.

I miss her wit and her insights. I miss her fashion advice and her compassion. I miss the way she adores and understands and makes fun of her brother. I miss the way we can communicate in knowing phrases, abbreviations, and even emojis. I miss her countless bottles of nail polish, cluttering kitchen counters, coffee tables and sofa cushions. And I miss her more when she sends texts like these:

“BTW, I like cabbage now. I really like it.”

“Raw beets are so good.”

“Well now, I’m a fan of eggplant.”

Plainly, the girl knows the way to my heart. I mean really, what greater passions do I have than cooking, grocery shopping, eating, writing recipes, and then, cooking some more?

I’ve got to admit, I was worried in the beginning. It must have been hard to get used to new things, new people, new classes, and new accents. It must have been hard to be away from familiar surroundings and familiar food and beloved things and beloved people. And beloved pets. Particularly beloved pets. But a few days ago, I get this:

“The best graduation gift in the world would be a trip back here.”

Sigh. She's not even home, but she's already planning a visit back.

Tomorrow, however, she’ll board the first of thee planes, and the next day -- 8,472 miles later -- she’ll be back in Charlotte. Different. Wiser. Dazzling. And with an appetite for raw beets.

I can hardly wait. Literally.

* Beloved Son, as an aside, note my use of the word “literally.” Note that I do not write that I “literally” cry myself to sleep while your sister is gone. Because I do not. My pillow is perfectly dry. Nor did I “literally” die when she went away. Were that the case, I would now be either six feet under or a zombie. I am neither. I am alive. Literally.  Julia, however, is still half a world away. Literally.

Roasted Brussel Sprouts

I am unreasonably fond of brussels sprouts, although the kids have always shunned them. Is it possible that my 16yo, "cabbage-loving" intrepid traveler might now give them a try? Fingers crossed!

1 pound fresh, cleaned brussels sprouts, trimmed and halved

1/4 cup olive oil

4-6 cloves garlic, peeled

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil. Toss brussels sprouts and garlic in olive oil. Spread evenly on the baking sheet and season well with salt and pepper. Roast in oven for 25-30 minutes, tossing occasionally, until browned and tender. Serve hot -- and eat as a side dish, or cool to room temperature and eat with your fingers!

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.

“Close The Door.” Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

“Close the door.”

I’ve been a mom for some 16 years now, which means, without exaggeration, I’ve uttered those three little words some 5,840 times.* In fairness, like most newborns, my firstborn couldn't actually close a door -- much less tee-tee in the potty -- for his first 18 months, but when you consider all the variations of "close the door"  -- “Why's the car door still open?” “Stop standing in front of the open refrigerator,” “Am I the only one who knows how to close the pantry door?” and “I’m not paying to air-condition the backyard,”** -- I’m pretty sure 5,840 represents only a sliver of the actual figure.

Sigh.  Those were the days.  As a parent of two teenagers, I’ve gone from “Close the door,” to “Open the door,” to “What are you doing in there?” to “Well, if you're not wrapping a present for me, then open the door,” and ultimately to, “Open the door.  Dammit.”

Of course I don’t really say that last bit. Not out loud. I hope.

Still, I don't understand how this happened.  I'm struggling.  " Close the door" was my mantra.  "Open the door" doesn't roll off the tongue nearly so eloquently.  Besides, what is this need for privacy? What’s the secret? What are they doing in their bedrooms?  Believe you me, my kids are not wrapping gifts.  Presents to me are far and few between.  Besides, between the two of them, I believe only one knows where to find the scissors and scotchtape.

It's comforting, then, to know that after all my rapping and tapping, and pounding and nagging, I still have a predictable way to pry those doors open -- if only temporarily.  I pour myself a glass of wine, and send the following text message, "Dinner's ready."

Hear those sounds?  Those are doors.  Opening.

*  Once a day, 16 times 365 days a year.

**  An homage to my dad.  Re-worded to omit profanity.


Lemon Spaghetti (Spaghetti Al Limone) with Pan Seared Shrimp

After pork, pasta is my kids' favorite food group. The shrimp is optional.

1 pound spaghetti

1 palmful of salt, plus additional for seasoning

1/4 cup olive oil
1 pound shrimp, peeled and deveined (optional)

2 cloves garlic, minced

One pinch of red pepper flakes

2 lemons, zested and juiced

1/2 cup heavy cream

1/2 cup minced parsley

1 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil with the palmful of salt.  Stir in spaghetti and cook just until done.  


As pasta cooks, in a large non-stick skillet, heat oil over high heat, tossing in shrimp, seasoning well with salt and pepper, and cooking until barely done -- about 3 minutes per side.  Remove cooked shrimp and set aside, reduce heat to low, and stir in garlic, red pepper flakes and lemon zest.  Saute until garlic is very fragrant and very lightly browned.  Before draining cooked pasta, stir two ladlefuls of pasta water into skillet with fragrant oil.  Drain pasta.  Stir cream, lemon juice and parsley into garlicky oil sauce in skillet.  Cook down -- about a minute or two.  Quickly stir in cooked pasta and herbs.  Season with salt and pepper as needed.  Toss with cheese, and serve hot!

It Is -- Shudder -- Time To Tug One On.

I have met the enemy, and the enemy is me – or really, my body, stuffed into and sadly overflowing a seasonal Lycra tourniquet.

Yes, bathing suit season is upon us.  Nine months of the year, I alternate between camouflaging, concealing, and then, refusing to even acknowledge my 48-year-old form in the bathroom mirror, much less behold it in the blinding light of a summer day.

But as May approaches, the rising mercury and my own unpredictable internal thermostat force me to peel back the layers.  I’m obligated to behold – and then, lift and separate and compress and flatten.  Still, I’m reminded of a tube of Crest.  Those parts of me that have worked their way out and spilled over the top of my jeans and back of my bra, can’t possibly be stuffed back in.  And smoothing out that aging, sun-damaged skin?  Better to try and return a wadded up ball of tissue paper to its original sleekness.  No iron in the world could make things right.

I’m not the only one cringing.  According to a recent survey in The Daily Mail, we women would rather that women of a certain age keep it covered up.  Indeed, my own Darling Daughter agrees.  Here are a few of the survey results, plus DD’s 14-year-old perspective.

The Age Women Believe You Should Stop Wearing …

• A bikini?  47.  According to DD, however, the two-piece should be tossed once a woman graduates from college.
• A mini-skirt?  35.  Or, in DD’s opinion, if you’ve graduated from anything, the mini-skirt is out.
• Stilettos?  Age 51.  If I recall, DD’s exact words were, “Mom, take those off.  Now.”
• A see-through chiffon blouse?  Age 40.  DD’s comment?  “That’s not really a question, is it?”
• Swimsuit?  Age 61.  But as DD sees it, at age 48, I’m long past my swimsuit years and should stick to wearing shorts.  But not too short.
• Leggings?  Age 45.  Or, to quote DD, “That’s stupid.  No grown woman should ever wear them.”  Sigh.  Even under a really, really, cute dress.  That I love.  Even when the leggings look like tights.  No fair.
• Leather trousers?  Age 45.  Or, finally, a reprieve from DD, “Um.  300?”

Whatever.  Call me old-fashioned, but I’m appalled by “see-through blouses” at any age.  However, I’ll be tugging on a bathing suit – and complaining about it – for the rest of my life.  Sometimes you’ve got to go against the flow.  Like in this unexpected flavorful, savory rice dish.  Rice?  With lime?  And cinnamon?  You’ve got to, got to, got to try this.  Even DD agrees.  (But only a small serving for me.  Did I not mention that it’s bathing suit season?)

Cinnamon Lime Rice

1, 14-ounce can chicken broth + ¼ cup water

1 cup raw rice

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon olive oil

½ teaspoon kosher salt

1 pinch cayenne pepper

zest of one lime

Combine all ingredients in a medium saucepan.  Bring to a boil over high heat, stir once and reduce heat to low.  Put lid in place, and cook for 13 minutes.  Remove lid, fluff gently with a fork and serve.

Freedom, Responsibility and Filling 'Er Up

The day before yesterday, I watched as a stranger drove away in my car. Had it been necessary, I’d have had no problem picking him out of a line-up; he was an exceptionally fit young man, tanned, blue eyes, sporting his brown hair in what appeared to be a fresh buzz cut.

It was Carter, of course, my 16-year-old son. And I’d even helped wield the razor on that buzz cut. Still, the sight rocked me back on my sensible mom heels. I blinked – more than once – as if I could “refresh” my vision the same way you “refresh” a website – but nope, there he was, backing cautiously out of the driveway before driving himself to school.

What a week.

In the space of a few days, Carter earned his driver’s license, interviewed for and was offered a summer job (lifeguard), and shaved his distinctive shaggy brown hair into a high and tight buzz. The transformation couldn’t have been more remarkable than if he’d morphed from a black-and-yellow-striped caterpillar into a Monarch butterfly.

In more ways than one, though, I guess he did get his wings – lots of freedom wrapped up in lots and lots of responsibility.

He’s not the only one. I got more freedom wrapped up in even more responsibility, too. On the one hand, having another driver in the household slashes my chauffeuring duties in half. On the other, I can hardly form a complete thought when I know he’s on the road. And I pity the innocent soul who calls when I know Carter is en route. Before I can eek out a frantic “hello,” I’ve already imagined countless “what if” scenarios – none of which bear repeating here.

I’m proud and terrified. Excited and devastated. Thrilled and saddened.

I love my boy. And I need him to know that he still needs me. But then, unexpectedly, I get a text message, “What side of the car is my gas tank on again?”

Sigh. Not exactly what I was looking for, but yep -- he still needs me.

Salmon With Curried Cauliflower Couscous

When Carter was little, his most-requested birthday meal was grilled salmon, sliced cucumbers and steamed broccoli.  This meal is somewhat more sophisticated -- appropriate, perhaps for someone earning his first paycheck.

Grilled Salmon

salmon filets

rice wine vinegar

hoisin sauce

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

Sprinkle fish liberally with rice wine vinegar (or, in a pinch, squeeze fresh lemon wedges over).  Baste with hoisin sauce, and season well with salt and pepper.  Grill skin side down, over indirect heat, about 10 minutes, or just until done.  Try not to overcook.

Curried Cauliflower Couscous

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

1 1/2 cup uncooked Israeli couscous

1 (14 ounce) can chicken or vegetable broth

2 cups raw cauliflower, broken into small bitesize pieces

1 teaspoon curry powder

1 pinch red pepper flakes

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

In a lidded saucepan, heat oil over medium high heat.  Stir in raw couscous and sauté 3-4 minutes.  Stir in broth, cauliflower, curry, salt and red pepper flakes.  Bring to a boil, reduce heat to low and cook 6-7 minutes.  Stir, remove from heat, and allow to stand an additional five minutes (or until all liquid is absorbed) before serving with salmon.

Putting Our Lives Into Words and Our Words Into Lives

I am, by turns, both thrilled and terrified by writing.

I feel compelled to "use my words"  – I find the process exhilarating – but even as I post my carefully constructed phrases and meager manic ramblings, I cringe, bracing for the worst. The criticism. The discovered typos. And the nagging fear that no one is reading.

Yesterday marked the birthday of James Dickey (1923 – 1997). You may know him as the author of Deliverance. Or, as one the great poets of 20th century America. To me, he was more. Author and poet laureate James Lafayette Dickey was my first college English professor.

With his massive 6’ 3” frame, Professor Dickey was imposing even before he unleashed his booming, raspy drawl. There were about 10 of us in the class – 10 slack-jawed, sleepy-eyed, wildly unappreciative 18-year-olds.

I was, by turns, both thrilled and terrified.

I can’t recall ever feeling so inspired – or scared to bits.  I came to tears listening to him recite Randall Jarrell's "The Death Of A Ball Turrett Gunner."  I dreaded handing in assignments. My eyes watered to think of Professor Dickey critiquing my ill-conceived, dashed-off essays.  Some days, I couldn’t even bring myself to cross the classroom threshold.  I couldn’t bear the scrutiny.

Like a moth, though, neither could I stay away.

I thought I was sufficiently stealthy, until on one assignment (which I’d turned in late), he wrote, “STOP standing outside the door during class. It doesn’t matter whether your paper is complete; it matters whether you are present.”

I was, and still am, dazzled. Exposed, to be sure, but dazzled nonetheless.

Writing can be soul-baring, and unlike the spoken word, once we put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, our written words become permanent, immovable, memorable and susceptible to judgment. Which is why I so admire anyone willing to put fingers to keyboard and share their story.

Last week, Cougar Bait’s 22-year-old son packed his bags and set off for Costa Rica. Sure, he’ll be back, but it could be a few months. It’s a sweet story – one we’ll all want to remember – which may be why CB took the time and made the effort to put it down in words.

No, CB doesn’t aspire to be a novelist or poet laureate or even a regular blogger. Like other writers, he just has that need to share and willingness to risk scrutiny by writing it down for everyone to see. If you’d like to take a peek, here’s the link: A Tale Of Two Boys.

I was, and still am, dazzled.

Fried Potatoes
I believe the phrase I used most often with Son and Darling Daughter when they were little was, “Use your words,” which may be why I was so gratified one recent evening when, instead of merely saying “thank you for dinner, “ Darling Daughter said, “Those potatoes were great! How did you make them and when can we have them again?”

4-6 medium sized Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut in 3/4" dice

1 cup chicken broth

3 tablespoons olive oil

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon paprika

1/2 teasoon dried thyme leaves

1/4 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper

Combine all ingredients is a large, nonstick skillet with a lid.  Bring to a boil, put lid in place, and reduce heat to medium low, until potatoes start to get tender.  Remove lid, increase heat to medium high, and cook, stirring or shaking frequently, until the liquid cooks off and only the oil remains.  Keep shaking and stirring until potatoes are well browned and crispy.

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!