Who's Afraid Of The Big, Bad 50?

I’m now 47 and a half. True, I’m still two and a half years away from 50, but I already know lots of people who actually are 50, and I’m not talking about my parents’ friends – I’m talking about mine.

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t want to be a kid again. But I’m not entirely crazy about getting older. I’m pretty darn happy where I am. And when I think about getting older, I worry. And me worrying is never a good thing.

I don’t worry about absolutely everything, though. For example, I don’t worry too much about wrinkles, although honest to Pete, we live in the 21st century, right? Don’t you think by now some smart little scientist would’ve whipped up a skin-shrinking-serum to tighten us up sans surgery – and make himself a bajillion dollars?

And I don’t worry a whole lot about the sagging “girls,” although I could very well be elected president of the “support” lingerie fan club.

Gray hairs don’t get my panties in a wad, either. Have I not mentioned my fabulous hair stylist, Crystal?

What I should worry about is falling and breaking my hip, which is a distinct possibility given that my sole source of daily calcium is a Starbucks venti, nonfat, no-foam chai tea latte. But I’m not even worried about skin cancer, which defies all reason, given that I spent the better part of my youth dunked in Johnson and Johnson Baby Oil, sprawled on towel at Folly Beach in a two-piece.

What I do worry about – what really consumes me – is losing my memory as I get older. This is the one thing I worry about constantly. Or at least when I remember.

Every time I misplace my keys, or forget to return an e-mail, or leave my grocery list at home, I worry. Every time I can’t seem to find a word that was on the tip of my tongue, or I forget the way to someone’s house or one of the kids says, “Remember when I told you [BLAH, BLAH, BLAH] last week,“ I worry.

I even do those little brain exercises that are supposed to keep a person mentally sharp. Crossword puzzles. Sudoku. Brushing my hair and my teeth using my left hand instead of my right.

But then I forget. And I worry.

I recently found a fabulous and fabulously easy chicken recipe in a magazine. I was so taken with it, that I left the magazine open, on my bathroom counter, for weeks. I wanted to make sure I saved the recipe. It was in Food and Wine magazine. Or Oprah. Or maybe Real Simple.

Honest. I have no idea. I went looking for it a few days ago and couldn’t find it. I must’ve flipped through dozens of magazines. (Nope. It wasn’t in the April issue of Money, either.) Convinced I’d seen the recipe in Food and Wine, I checked their website. Dead end. I googled “food wine magazine chicken recipe.” Well, that was stupid. I did another search, adding the word “pancetta.” No good.

WTH? What ? The? H?

Finally, I just came up with my own recipe. I knew the original called for pancetta, but I was out. It called for sage, but that’s not a hit with the kids. But what I came up with instead was really, really tasty. And it’s only got three ingredients, which makes it really, really easy to remember.

No worries. 


Bacon-Wrapped Chicken

Boneless skinless chicken breast halves (smaller sizes are best)
Four short slices of raw bacon per chicken breast
Fresh thyme
Kosher salt
Fresh ground pepper

On a 12-inch piece of plastic wrap, lay four strips of bacon, side by side, slightly overlapping to form a bacon “sheet.” Sprinkle generously with fresh thyme. Lay one boneless breast on bacon sheet, season well with salt and pepper. Now, tightly wrap and roll the chicken in the bacon, so bacon wraps snugly around the chicken. Wrap plastic wrap tightly around the chicken “sausage,” and place in fridge. Repeat with remaining chicken and bacon. Refrigerate chicken rolls several hours or overnight. Now, place chicken rolls in large, non-stick skillet, seam side down. Turn on heat to medium and slowly cook, turning until evenly browned on all side (20-30 minutes).

Remove chicken to a cutting board, and cut in thickish slices. Serve hot.

One Mom's Superpowers.

At Darling Daughter’s middle school, the year-long academic theme for seventh graders is “heroes.”

The students study Greek and Roman mythology to learn about heroes of ancient times.  They read modern novels where everyday people emerge as heroes, albeit occasionally with some reluctance (both the students and the heroes).  In their advisory groups, the kids discuss what makes a hero – both in fiction and in real life.  As I understand it, common heroic qualities are courage, strength, ingenuity, daring and trustworthiness.  Superpowers, while less common, are a plus.

After eight months of having these valuable teachings seared into their brains, each student applies these lessons to identify a bona fide hero in his or her own life.  Now hold on just a minute.  If you're thinking DD named me as her hero, she did not.  I’m her mom – and occasionally, The Worst Mom Ever.  Instead, she named Cougar Bait – who is both fun and funny, not to mention strong, daring, trustworthy, and, to paraphrase DD, doesn’t get all upset when there's a problem.  He also has a boat.  Since I’ve found few occasions in life when I myself wouldn’t rather be on a boat, I have absolutely no qualms about DD’s choice.

Besides, I don’t need a 13-year-old to tell me I’m a hero.  Even without the cape and tights – or even sceptor and tiara -- I have no doubt but that I am SuperMom. 

Behold my superpowers:

•  I can shrink everyday objects.  Chez Wiles, I am the only one who, utililizing a secret series of intricate, origami-like folds, can reduce a full-sized, fitted sheet to dimensions suitable for stacking neatly in the linen closet.  (My mysterious abilities further allow me to both open and close the closet door.  My powers do not, however, allow me to reduce my own weight.  Or shoe size.)

•  I have Superman-like vision.  See that clump of cat hair?  See it?  See it?  See it?  No?  Of course not.  I, and only I, can spot the pale orange fur on the dark striped rug, pick it up and properly dispose of it.  All of that, without squinting, closing one eye, or using x-ray vision goggles.

•  I, alone, control the darkness and the light.  OK.  Not the "light" so much, but the "darkness"?  Absolutely.  This is due, in large part, to training my Dad gave me during the 1970s energy crisis, when he would ask, repeatedly and irritatedly, "Am I the only one around here who knows how to turn off a light?"  Why no, Dad, you are not.  You have shared that superpower with me.  And I am grateful.

•  I can make things disappear -- permanently.  Behold the cat vomit and dog poop on the upstairs landing.  Without uttering a single “abracadabra,” I make them vanish, and with a quick spritz of Febreze make it seem as if they never even existed.  Likewise, show me a dishwasher full of clean dishes.  Within moments, the dishwasher will be empty.  Spooky.

•  I am a master of transformation.   Without benefit of a telephone booth or even the aforementioned cape, I take limp, pink, somewhat slimy items (meat), combine them with impossibly crunchy and oversized items (vegetables), apply magic dust (i.e., kosher salt) and voilà – a meal.

This Stir-Fried Chicken – with only a handful of ingredients -- is yet another example of my extraordinary, nay, heroic,  powers.

Anyone see a cape around here somewhere?

Stir-Fried Chicken

This dish comes together very quickly.  I usually serve it with white rice (cooked with a ½ teaspoon of toasted sesame oil), which I prepare in advance and keep warm while preparing the chicken.

2-3 boneless chicken breasts, sliced in thin strips

3 tablespoon soy sauce (or more, to taste), divided

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 teaspoon toasted (dark) sesame oil (optional)

¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes (optional)

3 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 12-ounce bag of pre-cut and washed stir-fry vegetable mix*

3 tablespoons water, plus additional ½ cup water

2 tablespoons cornstarch

Toss chicken with 2 tablespoons of soy sauce, garlic, sesame oil and red pepper flakes and set aside.  In large skillet (with a lid), heat oil over medium high heat.  When very hot, stir in vegetables.  When veggies become bright green, add 3 tablespoons of water, put lid in place, and continue cooking 2-3 minutes or until crisp-tender.  Remove vegetables from skillet and set aside.  Stir together ½ cup water, cornstarch and 1 tablespoon of soy sauce in a measuring cup and set aside.  Reheat skillet over medium high heat.  When very hot, stir in chicken mixture, stirring constantly until done.  Reduce heat to medium, stirring in vegetables, and then, cornstarch mixture.  Stir gently, but constantly, until sauce becomes clear.  Thin with additional water if necessary.  Serve hot over fresh cooked rice.

* I use Eat Smart Vegetable Stir-Fry Mix from my grocery store’s produce section, but you can easily create your own mixture – of broccoli, snow peas, carrots, red bell peppers, etc. --  from the fresh salad bar.

Another Mother Further. Part Two.

Mothers’ Day got off to a lovely start for me yesterday. Perfect weather, a few extra winks of sleep, thoughtful gifts, our favorite brunch, and inexplicably -- non-bickering kids. I don’t know whether Son and Darling Daughter were in cahoots on that last bit, but it’d be silly to ask, right?

Couldn’t last, of course.

As Son drove us to brunch, our Honda Pilot’s TPMS (Tire Pressure Monitoring System) indicated that the driver’s side rear tire was low. A fluke, right? It was, after all, Mothers’ Day. Just to be sure, I called Charleston to check with my advisor of all things manly -- Cougar Bait. Hmm. CB didn’t want to alarm me, but he noted that if I left the tire unattended, I might wake up to a car limping along on only three good tires the next morning. And then, just to be sure, he called Costco on my behalf, confirmed their operating hours, and told them I was on the way for repairs.

Sigh. I really didn’t have the time. Or the inclination. Weekends are special to me. Especially considering that the custody agreement specifies that Son and Darling Daughter are with their dad every other weekend. That means I only get those two full days of nagging -- uninterrupted by school attendance -- every two weeks. With exams only three weeks away, I had a good bit of nagging to do.

But then, unbidden, DD appeared in the kitchen, asking me to sign a math paper and before I could offer the considerable benefit of my wisdom, giving me her detailed plan to improve her grade.

Not one to be derailed, I went upstairs to explain to Son, in detail, exactly how (in my humble, yet expert, opinion) he ought to spend his afternoon. But it seems he had some kind of spooky, voodoo mindreader thing going, because when I poked my head in his room, he’d emptied out his closet and was making piles of clothes and books – to be donated, to be passed on, to be questioned.

Could Mothers’ Day have ameliorated the need for nagging?

I had no choice but to head to my CB-arranged appointment, where, as I cooled my heels in the aisles of Costco, I acquired a few intriguing facts:

1) You can make a tasty spread with smoked salmon, sour cream and cream cheese. To quote my enthusiastic and aproned friend, “That’s right! Just our special smoked salmon, sour cream and a bit of cream cheese!”

2) “On your way to the hospital [presumably due to choosing an inadequate ladder], you’ll be wishing you had a Little Giant MegaLite.” This is a direct quote.

3) Pub Mix is back! Inexplicably, my favorite snack mix is hit or miss at Costco. Today was a hit. Maybe Mothers’ Day luck? 

4) Edamame, of all things, is available for purchase in 24-ounce packages and can be microwaved.

5) And finally, “A tire can lose half its pressure before it appears to run low.” Sad, but true.

Two and half fact-filled hours later, I drove off with one new tire, arriving home just in time to allow Josie-The-Rescue-Dog -- who spends 23 ½ hours of every day outdoors -- indoors. So she could vomit five times. No kidding.

So much for Mothers’ Day luck.

No sense complaining, of course. I just needed to readjust and arrange to have pizza delivered.

To be truthful, I actually would’ve had time to make the Chicken Cavatappi I’d planned. It’s that simple. And in all likelihood, the kids would’ve enjoyed it more. But somehow, the home-delivered pizza made a much better story. And it reminded me how much more I like my own pizza sauce.

Happy Mothers’ Day.

Chicken And Cavatappi
This is another super simple – and absurdly flavorful -- recipe for my friend Megan, and inspired by CB's recipe for Pizza Chicken, which is the very same recipe, minus the pasta.
8-10 ounces cavatappi (or other hearty pasta) 

3 tablespoons olive oil
3-4 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves, each cut in 3-5 large chunks
2 cups marinara sauce (homemade or from a jar)
2 cups pre-grated mozzarella cheese

Preheat oven to 350. Prepare pasta according to package directions, cooking until al dente. While pasta boils, heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Season chicken chunks generously with salt and pepper, and then brown evenly in skillet. Spray an 8-inch or 9-inch pan with nonstick spray. Drain cooked pasta and pour into pan. Place browned chicken chunks on top of pasta. Pour sauce evenly over chicken and pasta. Spread grated cheese over all. Put dish in oven and bake 10-15 minutes until cheese melts, bubbles and begins to brown. Remove and serve hot.

The Grass Is Greener – Everywhere But Here.

Another super simple recipe for my friend Megan -- one pot and seven ingredients -- if you include lemon juice and red pepper flakes.

Lionel, our now 14-pound indoor cat, got out again yesterday.

I retrieved him fairly quickly  this time – not because I’m particularly fleet of foot, but because I’m patient and he, well, he was distracted.  He started out well enough, zipping past the catnip flourishing by the door, but then, couldn't make it another five feet before being waylaid – by a leaf, a twig, a bug, the “outsideness” of it all. 

Poor kitty.  His furry fanny was tossed back inside before he set paw off the driveway.

I can’t help but laugh.  That cat spends most of his waking hours, which admittedly aren’t many, lurking by the back door, plotting his getaway.  But why?  Inside, he’s kitty king – with his choice of canned or dry food, a cat condo, and two litter boxes.  Not to mention access to every bed and sofa when we’re home, and every countertop and table when we’re not.

All that, and yet, he yearns to be outside.

Josie, the rescue dog, is of like mind – although she only has access to the beds and sofas when we’re not at home, and the counters and tables when she masters the art of canine levitation.

The grass is always greener, I suppose, somewhere else.

My eyes are blue.  If I believe what folks have told me, they are blue, blue, bluer than blue.   So why, when I was a kid, did I want brown eyes?  As well as braces?  And glasses?

Along these same lines, Son and Darling Daughter would always rather be at someone else’s house.  Sure, there are plenty of extenuating circumstances, what with the divorce and our lack of a hot tub, but I don’t take this personally.  There’s even a Facebook fan page titled, “I’d rather do nothing at your house than at mine.”  Already, 1.6 million fans have signed up.  And counting.

Lucky for me, the exception – for my kids and kids of all ages  – is Mom’s home-cooking.  Sure, there have been incidents where my kids have begged me to get recipes from other friends’ moms.  (Let it be noted, though that on two occasions, the recipe was “boxed Alfredo sauce” and “pre-made mac n’n cheese.")  Still, when it comes to certain dishes, no one does it like your own Mom.  Son and DD love my Sausage Pasta.  My Waffles of Insane Greatness are -- for my kids -- beyond compare.   And they wouldn’t know what do with Pork Fried Rice served in a restaurant.

My former mother-in-law, who was an enthusiastic and accomplished cook, used to tell her son, “You can't talk about my cooking with other women in your life.  Don’t talk about my macaroni and cheese.  Don’t talk about my cheesecake.  It’s just not fair or right.”

I agree.  No one does it like Mom.  Even now, I won’t put a fork to any egg that wasn’t fried by my Mom.  Green tomatoes fried anywhere other than "home" may as well have been left on the vine.  And although it may not be authentic, my Mom’s version of Veal Parmesan prevents me from ordering it in any restaurant.  Ever.

In a way, I suppose, we moms ruin our kids for anyone else.

Take this “Not Clams Linguini.”  Couldn’t be tastier.  Couldn’t be simpler.  And I’m guessing my kids believe it couldn’t be made any better than than it is at home.

The grass may be greener elsewhere, but home is home and dinner is dinner.  And no one wants lawn clippings for dinner.

Not Clams Linguini

Sadly, if you’re wearing braces, linguini – as well as spaghetti, angel hair pasta and vermicelli – can be a challenge to eat, so for now we’re using lots of other pasta shapes, including piccolini.  Wide egg noodles would also work well.

8 oz. piccolini (or slightly more)

4 slices of bacon, diced

2 cans, chopped clams

1 cup chicken broth

1 pinch red pepper flakes

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

fresh ground pepper

salt

½ cup (or more) chopped parsley

Cook pasta according to package directions in large pot of boiling, well-salted water.  Drain.  In same pot, cook diced bacon over medium high heat until very crispy.  Remove bacon bits and set aside.  In remaining bacon fat, stir in clams (including juice), broth and seasonings (except parsley).  Bring to a boil.  Stir in cooked pasta and parsley.  Sprinkle bacon bits on top.  Serve hot, making sure to include ample broth in each serving.

Five Words To Thrill Any Mom's Heart.

Returning home from school yesterday, Darling Daughter uttered the five words sure to warm any mom’s heart:  It smells good in here.

I’ve heard the words before, but they never fail to give me a little thrill (or as my family used to say, “a pat on the popo.”)  To be honest, I’d be equally delighted to hear, “Hey Mom.  You know that advice you gave me?  Well, I talked to my friend today, and we worked it all out.  You were right.” 

“You were right,” however, isn’t part of the 13-year-old vernacular.  Come to think of it, “you were right” isn’t part of most adults’ vernacular.

“It smells good in here” is close enough.  (And for the record, any kid who walks in my kitchen and says those five words is absolutely entitled to use, without repercussion, the three words I detest, “What’s for dinner?”)

I’ve been cooking nearly all my life, including a culinary fiasco at age eight, which thanks to Mom’s intervention and Dad’s patience, did not result in a single trip to the ER.  It’s safe to say that a family-wide case of trichinosis could’ve turned me away from the kitchen for life.

Nowadays, cooking is just what I do – for comfort, for fun, for healing, for nourishment.  It always surprises me, then, when someone says they don’t cook.  How can that be?  You’ve got to eat, right?

Besides, cooking isn’t hard. 

That aroma that DD embraced yesterday afternoon?   It wafted from a dish with only three ingredients.  Heck, I’ll even spot you the salt and pepper.  That’s still only five ingredients, for crying out loud – boneless pork ribs, barbecue sauce, vinegar, salt and pepper.

Five ingredients, plus some steamed rice and a box of frozen peas -- voilà, a complete meal.  Not to mention a “Hey, it smells good in here.”

If I just keep working at it, "you were right" could be just around the corner.

Super Simple Boneless Pork Ribs

2-3 lbs. boneless (often called “countrystyle”) pork ribs

½ cup cider or white vinegar (don’t use the expensive stuff)

½ cup prepared barbecue sauce (any brand will do, I usually use “Bone Suckin’ Sauce,” because I like the label)

½ cup water

salt and pepper

Spray a lidded, nonstick skillet or saucepan with nonstick spray.  Generously season the ribs with salt and pepper.  Over medium high heat, lightly brown ribs (in batches, if necessary) on all sides.  Combine vinegar, barbecue sauce and water and pour over ribs in pan.  Reduce heat to low, put lid in place, and cook until done.  Check occasionally.  Should be fork-tender in about 1 ½ hours.  Serve with hot steamed rice or grits.

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.

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.

We Need To Cook.

“Mom, we need to cook.”

Were more inspiring, gratifying words ever spoken?

Darling Daughter (DD) and her darling friend (DF) indulged me this weekend, accompanying me to Julie & Julia, the movie based on the true story of an aspiring writer who, in a pique of resentment with her friends’ career successes, decides to tackle all 524 recipes in Julia Child’s opus, Mastering the Art of French Cooking Vol. 1.  Making her hastily-considered idea even whackier, Julie self-imposes a time limit of one year.  That’s right.  That's 524 recipes (many of them extraordinarily complicated) in 365 days.  In a cramped NYC studio apartment.  While working a full-time job.  Blogging all the while.  And ultimately, publishing her own book, Julie and Julia:  My Year of Cooking Dangerously.

Now that I’ve finally seen it, I'm embarrassed it took me so long to get there.

When I was growing up and learning to cook, Mom had an entire shelf of cookbooks I could thumb through and splatter on, including the venerable classics, The Joy of Cooking, with its endearing red ribbon bookmark and The Better Homes & Gardens Cookbook, with its recognizable red and white gingham cover.  There was also local favorite Charleston Receipts, which, just like an oven or a yard, appeared to be standard issue in every house on James Island.  And there was my very first cookbook, blandly titled Kids’ Cooking, which in fact, was my source for tuna salad.

I also could leaf through Mom’s older cookbooks, one with the titillating title, The Way To A Man’s Heart, which, if memory serves, included a recipe for a lettuce wedge with blue cheese dressing – the only type of salad a manly man would deign to eat.  Finally, of course, there was Julia Child’s master opus, Mastering The Art of French Cooking.

I used all Mom's books liberally – both for precise recipes and guided inspiration -- as I learned to simmer and bake and roast and saute.  All, that is, except Julia’s.

Julia’s was an overwhelming book, published in two volumes, each of which was 500-600 pages.  It was impractical, too; we had the paperback version, rendering each more similar to a chunky Michael Crichton novel than a reference book.  Is it possible it was thicker than it was wide?  I could hardly prop it open, much less flop it open.

Even more challenging for me, though, was that most recipes were so exotic I couldn’t even conceive of them, much less muster the ingredients.  This was in the mid 70s, when Parkay, not butter, graced most tables, garlic salt, not a garlic clove, was king, and well, who was to say that Cool Whip wasn't "real" whipped cream?

Even if, for example, I somehow managed to procure the three pounds of lean stewing beef and 24 tiny white onions needed for Julia’s legendary Boeuf Bourguignon, then what?  What about the "three cups of full-bodied young red wine" Julia ordained?  The Blue Nun Liebfraumilch our family kept on hand was clearly no substitute.

And beef aspic?  Really?  Who eats such things?  (Of course I read the recipe, but it was like reading a horror story.  I couldn’t put it down.)

Nevertheless, beef aspic and all, DD was enchanted by Julie & Julia.  I was inspired as well and before the lights went up, I determine to go directly to the bookstore to get my own copy of Mastering and immediately begin sauteeing the luscious mushrooms we'd seen in the movie.  (The phrase "food porn" comes to mind.)  Before I could get my own thoughts out, though, DD insisted that we had to go home and “cook something.”

"Mom, we need to cook."

Surprised, I tried to suppress my joy.  "What should we cook?" I asked.

"Something from that book," DD replied. "Something good.  Something like baked ziti."

DF quickly chimed in.  "I love baked ziti!  Do you have the recipe?"

Um.  Baked ziti?  French cuisine?  Julia Child?

You know.  That sounds perfect.  Let's cook.

DD's Baked Ziti (Without Yucky Ricotta)

This is an easy recipe, quickly assembled with any pre-made red sauce or marinara sauce.  I keep lots of homemade sauce in the freezer, though, with Italian sausage as my kids prefer.  Click here for the recipe.

½ box (about 8 ounces) ziti

2 ½ - 3 cups red sauce, heated

4 oz. fresh mozzarella cheese, cut in ½ cubes

½ - ¾ cup grated mozzarella, or grated Italian cheese mix (I used Sargento brand, which includes mozzarella, parmesan, provolone, asiago etc.)

Preheat oven to 350.  Spray an 8 x 8 baking dish with Pam. 

Cook ziti in a large pot of boiling water until almost done, or slightly chewy.  Drain well, and stir in sauce.  Stir in cubed cheese.  Pour into prepared baking dish and sprinkle grated cheese evenly over.  Bake until heated through and bubbling – about 20 minutes.

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.

The Toughest Job In The World and My New Goal In Life.

Oprah (no need for a last name, right?) often trumpets, "Moms have the toughest job in the world."

All right, first the obvious: Oprah knows this because ...?

And second, although she is right about it being tough, is it a job?

If so, I've got a couple of questions.

When's my performance review? My peer evaluation? I'm an achiever. I need someone to tell me I'm doing a superior job, identify areas in which I've improved, and areas that need work. The more flowery, ego-inflating adjectives, the better.

How many vacation days do I get? What's the tech guy's number? My computer's running kind of slow. And can I talk to the HR person about my chair? It's really bothering my back.

What's my projected career path? When is lunch? And oh yeah, I'm taking a sick day tomorrow.

Yep. Being a mom isn't so much a job as it is a living. On my resume, it would read, "Mom. 1995 to the present, into the foreseeable future, atrophying into a permanent, occasionally crippling, condition."

Now, don't get me wrong. I love being a mom. But it's pretty obvious what I miss about working. With the mom gig, no one ever says, "The way you waited out that temper tantrum was masterful. Good job!" You never hear, "Well, thank God that laundry's over. Now you can just stick it in a file and forget it." Or, "The way you handled that talk about substance abuse? Brilliant. What do you say we podcast it?"

I just can't tell when or if I'm doing the right thing as a parent. The people for whom I am mom (my clients, I suppose) will never say, at the end of a carefully-worded, well-crafted "talk" on my part say, "You know Mom, you make a good point."

And the odds of my ever hearing, "You're right"? Well, let's just say it's appropriate that I've never been a gambling kind of girl.

A mom friend of mine recently received what I consider the consummate mom compliment ("mompliment" maybe?) from her 19-year-old son. As she put it, "We were discussing how some of his peers had screwed up -- probably because their parents had taken it too easy on them over the years. I wondered aloud if I had been tough enough on him and his brother." There was a pause, then her incredible, perceptive, profoundly honest son replied, "Believe me, Mom. You were sufficiently hard-ass."

Sufficiently hard-ass. My new goal in life.

First though, dinner. And since I'm the kind of mom who, although they don't know it, likes to please her kids, I'm making "Not So Dirty Rice." I once made the mistake of referring to it as "Dirty Rice" but since I'm also the kind of mom who can learn from her mistakes, I quickly changed the name. Nevertheless, this is quick, easy and always a crowd-pleaser.

Not So Dirty Rice (with Sausage)

A traditional Cajun dish, Dirty Rice is often made with chicken livers, as well as sausage. The crumbly livers give the rice a particularly "dirty" tinge.. Although it's often served as a side dish (with fried chicken or ham), Dirty Rice is a main dish at our house. This version serves four.

1 lb bulk breakfast sausage

1 onion, chopped

1 rib celery, chopped

1-2 cloves garlic, minced

pinch of cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

1 cup uncooked rice

2 cups (approx.) chicken broth

In a large skillet (with a lid), begin browning sausage. When no longer pink, stir in onion and celery. Continue sauteeing. When vegetables are translucent, stir in garlic. Keep stirring. When sausage is browned, season with cayenne pepper, salt and pepper. Stir in rice. Cook an additional 2 minutes, then pour in chicken broth, reduce heat to low and cover. (Don't stir again.) Check to see if all liquid is absorbed after 20 minutes. If not, replace lid and cook an additional 3-5 minutes. (If liquid is absorbed, though, and rice isn't done, add some more chicken broth.) Fluff, and add additional seasoning, if necessary. (May depend upon the spiciness of the sausage.) Serve hot. Pass the Tabasco.

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.

Comfort Food (Sausage Pasta)

Although I'd been a copywriter for years, as recently as one year ago I could not have written a blog. Not that I didn't want to. I daydreamed, even fantasized, about it. My husband of 22+ years had moved out. Our children felt eviscerated and humiliated, our family was stunned, and our friends didn't know which way to turn. I had to hire a lawyer and got to hire a therapist.

I wanted to write -- even felt it would be cathartic -- but my thoughts were tainted. The topics that came to mind were either piteous or vitriolic or both. My fingertips on a keyboard would have been venomous. Satisfying in one way, perhaps, but not my style.

What I could do, of course, was cook. And luckily for me, the kids wanted me to cook. Despite earlier claims, they couldn't live by Chick Fil A alone (at least not more than once a day). Not surprisingly, they wanted comfort food.

"Comfort food" varies from person to person and family to family, of course. Neither meatloaf nor mac 'n' cheese nor lasagna makes the top 10, or even top 25, cut for my son or daughter. Nope. They want "sausage pasta." Although not imaginatively named, it's the one dish they regularly request. It's the one that they'll always choose -- knocking the beloved Chick Fil A out of the ring. Even when they have friends for sleepovers, where pepperoni pizza is de rigueur and "real" food disdained, "sausage pasta" is allowed. It transcends teen and pre-teen dining requirements.

My son recently had a school assignment requiring him to write about a food that evokes powerful memories for him. I was honored that he wrote about my "sausage pasta," which I'll serve again tonight. Here's the recipe he included in his essay:

Sausage Pasta

3 links sweet Italian sausage, grilled and sliced

3/4 pounds penne pasta

3 cups broccoli flowerettes

1 lemon, zested

1 can chicken broth

1/2 cup cream

oregano

red pepper flakes

sea salt and pepper

Cook penne pasta according to package directions. About one minute before pasta is done, add broccoli. Cook additional minute, then drain well and return to pot. Gently stir in cream and lemon zest. Stir in sliced sausage and broth as needed. Season to taste with oregano, red pepper flakes, salt, pepper and juice from zested lemon. Eat. Enjoy.