If You're Early, You're On Time. If You're On Time, You're Late. And If You're Late, Who Knows What's For Dinner?

I don’t like to be late. I don’t like to be late and I don’t like to be on time.

I like to be early.

Son and Darling Daughter are well aware of this quirk. It rears its head every morning, when, in my role as master-calendar-keeper, household-chauffeur and bossy-mom-extraordinaire, I go over who has to be where and when for the next 24 hours and how that affects everything they are compelled and would like to do and what colleges they may get into as a result.

Today, for example, Son had (yet another) orthodontist appointment. This one, though, was unusually important, because, unbeknownst to him, Son was having his braces removed. Over breakfast, I reminded him that I’d be picking him up later at school. I also coordinated what he’d be doing after school, DD’s afternoon with friends, the upcoming weekend plans, other doctors’ appointments on the horizon, and how our plans might change in the event of rain. (Yes, in addition to being early, I like being thorough.)

The appointment was at 9:00 a.m. Since it takes 15 or 20 minutes, with traffic, to get there, I planned to leave at 8:30 a.m. According to Wiles Mean Time, I’d be there right on time -- 10 minutes early. Perfect.

Kinda. Sure, I’d be there 10 minutes early – but without Son. Oopsy daisy. Must’ve been a hole in the schedule.

No need for suspense. Yes, I was late. And I hated it. I was late picking up Son at school. We both hated that. But by then, there was nothing to be done. We could’ve fumed and stressed. We could’ve yelled at the stupid cars that were driving 10 miles below the speed limit in the passing lane. (OK. We kinda did, but they deserved it.) And Son really could’ve yelled at me -- understandably. But mostly, we laughed. We listened to the radio and laughed all the way to the appointment. And I was grateful.

Yes, we were late -- really late -- getting to the orthodontist. But, as is so often the case, it worked out. The kids’ orthodontist is famously accommodating.

Son’s braces are being removed as I type.

And look. There he is. I am dazzled. For the second time today.

I’m still a planner, though, which is why I came up with this recipe for Slowcooker Chicken in Peanut-Ginger Sauce. Somebody has to be thinking ahead. And somebody has to be accommodating.

In my family, I’m blessed to have it all.

Slowcooker Chicken In Peanut-Ginger Sauce

When I first came up with this recipe, I tried it with bone-in, skin-on thighs, but the result is too fatty and too much work. This version is super simple and very flavorful. The thighs stay moist and tender, and I cook plenty of them, so I can use the leftover chicken in salad or Chicken in Saffron Rice.

10-12 boneless, skinless chicken thighs, excess fat removed
½ cup creamy peanut butter
¼ cup soy sauce
½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil
1 ½ tablespoons fresh grated ginger

1 red bell pepper, cored, cut in thick strips, then cut in half
8 ounces sliced mushrooms
6 peeled garlic cloves

Fresh lime wedges

Quickly sear chicken in a nonstick skillet, over high heat. Put in slowcooker. In a large measuring cup, gradually stir soy sauce into peanut butter. Stir in red pepper flakes, sesame oil and ginger. Scrape mixture into slowcooker and toss with chicken. Scatter bell pepper, mushrooms and garlic on top of chicken. Cook for 3-4 hours on high, or 6 hours on low. Gently pull chicken into bitesize pieces and serve over hot lo mein noodles, or linguini or rice.  Squeeze a bit of lime juice over, for extra flavor.

Starting A Band In The New Millennium. With BBQ.

My 14-year-old son had band practice today.

He also had baseball practice, but he's had baseball practice for the past five years. Band practice, on the other hand, is noteworthy because this is their first practice. It's also notable for, oh, let's say a bajillion other reasons, starting with the fact that they acquired a new lead singer this week. And did I mention that their first gig (a talent show) is Tuesday?

I know. Not exactly how a list-making, plan-ahead, don't-you-need-a-sweater, let's-make-sure-we-have-enough-batteries-and-$20-bills-in-the-house-in-the-event-of-an-apocalypse mom would do it, right?

OK. I joke (lamely). I realize they're 14. I know their Y-chromosomes could be playing a role here. For them, this is likely going exactly according to schedule. Just consider the many items they've already checked off the "Let's Start A Band" list.

An epic name? Check. Naming the band required weeks of discussion (a.k.a., "text messaging") and research (a.k.a., "Googling"). "Lycanthrope,"* an early frontrunner, emerged victorious.

A beastly logo? Check. You can't have a band without groupies, you can't have groupies without T-shirts, and you can't have T-shirts without a logo. Duh ... The bass player graciously diverted time from his exam preparation schedule to design the band logo (above). No T-shirts yet, but dude, have you seen the logo?

An awesome Facebook page? Check. Being a band of the new millennium, Lycanthrope (or, as it's known on FB, "Lycanthrope!") requires a virtual fan club. Without a single performance, rehearsal or CD, they'd already picked up 46 potential groupies via Facebook. True, four of them are the band members, but to their credit, none of them are me. Parents and little sisters would surely skew the desired demographics, which are, presumably, major record labels and 14-year-old girls, not necessarily in that order.

Artistic differences? Check. Even before the first gig, the lead singer was replaced. It's possible that, years from now, on VHI's "Behind The Music: Lycanthrope," he'll be compared to Pete Best, the original drummer for the Beatles. It's more likely, though, that he'll have his own skyrocketing solo career, which won't involve sharing concert receipts (or groupies) with any bandmates.

A place to practice? Check. Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good, because practice is not Chez Wiles. Fate was "instrumental" here. As my teen explained to me: Every band (and ostensibly, every band mom) knows that practices are always at the drummer's house. Even though you may tire of listening to it at home, particularly during the hours of, let's say, anytime you're at home, an electric guitar can fit in a car and go to practice somewhere else. A drum kit, not so much.

Hairstyles? Check, check, check and check. Three of the bandmates are going "emo," which has not been clearly translated for me, but is apparently the preferred style of every guitarist who's made an appearance on The Today Show this year. (Sadly, Matt and Meredith are my other primary sources for new music.) The fourth band member has either agreed to, or been coerced into, something slightly more extreme, involving the need for an electric shaver. He's not my kid. I'm not asking.

In truth, we parents are pretty excited to see what comes of this. We've all invested plenty of time in music lessons over the years, although not for any of these particular instruments. My own son took piano and cello. Go figure. We're curious to see how this plays out, so to speak. I, for one, have never known anyone who started a band. It all sounds pretty Disney-Channel to me.

And should Lycanthrope end up with more than one gig, I'll be happy to cater (a.k.a., "spy" and "eavesdrop"). I'll even bring hair products and pick out the green M&Ms. But only after they've had something decent to eat, like this easy, slow-cooker BBQ.

(Bonus: Click here for a peek at the first Lycanthrope practice! Also sure to be featured in "Behind the Music: Lycanthrope.")

* Lycanthrope -- A werewolf or alien spirit in the physical form of a bloodthirsty wolf.

Slow-Cooker Pulled Pork BBQ

1 large Boston butt or pork shoulder, as large as will fit in your slow cooker

1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon chili powder

1/2 teaspoon fresh ground pepper

2 tablespoons brown sugar

1 tablespoon paprika

red pepper flakes

1 lemon, sliced

1 onion, peeled and sliced

1 bay leaf

1 teaspoon Liquid Smoke

1/2 cup cider vinegar

1/2 cup water

Your favorite BBQ sauce (I use 1/2 cup Bone Sucking Sauce and 1/2 cup cider vinegar)

Mix spices and rub over pork. Place in slow cooker. Place lemon, bay leaf and onion slices on top. Mix Liquid Smoke, vinegar and water, and pour in bottom of slow cooker. Cook on low (don't remove the lid!) for about 10 hours. Pork will be very tender. Remove roast from slow cooker, pull apart with forks and discard fat. Remove onions and lemons from slow cooker and return shredded pork. Season with Tabasco and your preference of BBQ sauce. Combine and let heat another 1/2 hour. Serve on rolls with slaw. Leftovers freeze well.

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.