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!

Forecasters Call For Snow. I Call For Panic.

Lionel, our "indoor" cat, making his way through snow earlier this season.

Just two days ago, the gas gauge on my beloved Honda Pilot (there’s no seat like a heated seat, there’s no seat like a heated seat) hovered perilously close to “E.”*  Yesterday, on the way to Darling Daughter’s basketball game (where, by the way, she had the game of her life), the gauge pointed squarely to “E.” And this morning? Well, let’s just say it could only have been faith that got us to church and back, because fumes were in short supply.

No problem. This evening, I made a quick trip out to “fill ‘er up.” And what to my wondering eyes should appear but … a line? At our neighborhood gas station? Why yes, Virginia. There was a veritable crush of cars snaking around, backing in askew, with drivers leaning out their windows to kindly correct and traffic-direct others.

All that, for the privilege of paying $3.05 a gallon.

It’s January here in Charlotte, so the signs could only point to one thing: Snow’s in the forecast.  But silly me, I still wanted to stop by the grocery store. I know my neighborhood Harris Teeter like the inside of my own pantry, and I only wanted three things -- hamburger buns (for BBQ tonight), Italian sausage (for marinara sauce tomorrow) and grapefruit (for me). Easy peasy. Unfortunately, I also know the parking lot like the inside of my own pantry – and even better now after circling it for far too long to locate a space for the beloved Pilot. (Hey – that wasn’t agression, I really was there before that Highlander.)

Inside the Teeter, I saw everyone I know. Or at least that’s how it felt. And while everyone I know was there, nothing I know was on the shelves. Truly. It’s not that I needed bananas. Or lettuce. Or spinach.

But who did? I need to know. What were people doing? What were they planning to cook? I could understand the disappearance of milk. (Hot chocolate. Duh.) Or diapers. (There is no substitute.) Or pinto beans. (Who doesn’t want a pot of chili steaming on their back burner during a snow storm?)

But spinach? What are people making? Oysters Rockefeller?  Spanakopita?  Gingered Spinach and Mushroom Soup?

I was all but twitching. What was I missing out on? Did we need spinach Chez Wiles? Is it possible I’d be up in the middle of the storm, whipping up a spinach-artichoke casserole? Should I be looking to find a fix at another grocery store?

Nah. I was already confused enough.  Time to get home. Besides, I already had what I needed to weather a storm. A gas grill. Gloves. Beer.

And look. In the back of the fridge, I've got some fresh spinach -- perfect for one of my favorite salads.

Tomorrow, though -- chili!

Spinach Salad with Hearts of Palm, Cranberries and Blue Cheese
Salad

One bag baby spinach (6-8 ounces)
1 can hearts of palm, sliced
1/2 cup dried cranberries
4 ounces blue cheese, crumbled
1/3 cup salted sunflower seeds
1 orange, peeled and cut in sections

Dressing
1/4 cup canola oil
1/4 cup raspberry vinegar
1/4 orange juice
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon kosher salt
healthy grinding of black pepper

Toss salad ingredients in a large bowl. Whisk together dressing ingredients and toss -- lightly -- with salad. Serve immediately.

*As an aside, I never look at the “E” and “F” symbols on the gas gauge without recalling my Dad’s observation when I was a kid: “’E’ is for ‘Edna.’ ‘F’ is for ‘Fountain.’” “Edna,” of course, is my mom. “Fountain” is my maiden name. And still, they were married for nearly 20 years.

A Tip For Parents Everywhere: Don't Spank. Spray.

Parenthood ain't for sissies.

So far as I can tell, from the very nanosecond your newborn gulps that first lungful of air (did he get enough?  is he supposed to cry like that?), every millimeter of your brain is consumed -- completely devoured -- by parenting. Which begs the question: if we weren't parents, would all that gray matter accomplish something more significant and everlasting? Curing devastating diseases? Solving world peace? Keeping Lindsay Lohan sober?

Actually, that Lohan thing falls into the parenting category, which is just one example of a parent's non-stop, humbling rollercoaster of worrying, second-guessing and self-loathing. Just when you figure out how to get rid of the insidious pacifier, you're gobsmacked by potty training, which is further complicated by cloth versus disposable. After conquering grocery store tantrums, you face a never-ending ticker tape of childhood illnesses. When you finally navigate your offspring through the challenges of tantrums, cliques and wildly inappropriate language, you're frantic to think they're falling behind in the college application process. And that's all before kindergarten.

And getting kids to simply behave? Please. Even if you're carnival-man-strong or yoga-man-flexible, you can't simply bend them to your will. I've tried. Moreover, in today's parentally-correct environment, you can't beat the tar out of them either.

C'mon. You know I'm kidding, right?

Still, as the kids get older, what options do you have?

Timeouts don't work with teens. And sending them to their rooms? They wish. Some parents say to me, "Just wait 'til they can drive! Then you can take away the keys." Thanks, but for now, I'm just okey dokey that my kids can't drive. You should be, as well.

Sure. Confiscating the phone works on occasion. Or the laptop. But other times, you need something more attention-getting. More powerful. More, um, unexpected.

Something like the spray bottle.

C'mon. You know I'm not kidding, right?

The spray bottle works. Sure, it can't be 100% on major issues like drinking and driving, or academic failings. But burping at the table? Spritz. Teasing your sibling? Squirt away. Bad manners? Shouldn't take more than a couple of pulls of the trigger.

It works with Josie-the-rescue-dog. It works with the Lionel-the-pugilistic-cat. It works with the teenagers. The spray bottle just works.

Note that, even though it would surely improve my accuracy, I chose not to use a water gun. That would be wrong. But a bottle -- with plain old water in it. C'mon.

In truth, I think I'm starting a trend. Before you know it, you'll watch a teaser spot on The Today Show, extolling the virtues and unexpected effectiveness of a single, affordable parenting technique -- to be revealed in the 9 o'clock hour. And at 9-O-5, there will be me. With my spray bottle.

Until then, though, in the absence of a spray bottle, I'll flex my culinary muscles to get my way.

This Creamy Broccoli Soup -- which is easy to make, hugely satisfying, very green, and has nary a meatball or shred of ham does the trick.  I can't get enough of it.  The kids clearly can.  But it'll have to do.  Until, of course, I find my spray bottle under somebody's bed.

Creamy Broccoli Soup with Garlic Croutons

6 cups chicken stock

2 medium baking potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced

3 cups chopped broccoli

16 baby carrots, chopped

2-3 cups broccoli flowerettes

1 cup cream

1/4 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper

kosher salt

pepper

3-4 slices homestyle white bread, diced in 1/2-inch cubes

3-4 tablespoons butter

3-4 cloves garlic, peeled

kosher salt

pepper

In a large soup pot, bring chicken stock to a boil.  Stir in potatoes, chopped broccoli and carrots, reduce heat to low and simmer until vegetables are very, very tender - about 45 minutes.  Use an immersion blender to smooth soup until consistent and creamy.  Stir in broccoli flowerettes and cream and simmer an additional 6-8 minutes, or until broccoli is just done.   Season with cayenne, salt and pepper.  Garnish with croutons.

For croutons
Heat butter over medium high heat in large, nonstick skillet.  Toss in bread cubes and whole garlic cloves.  Sautee, stirring regularly, until well browned.  Remove garlic cloves and season well with salt and pepper.  Drain on paper towels until needed.

I'm A Listmaker. Not That There's Anything Wrong With That.

A few days ago, one of the kids’ friends asked whether I intended to buy the new iPhone 4G. 

Nope. There’s absolutely no reason to trade in my 3G, I insisted. Furthermore, exactly how crazy do I look? Do I look as if I’m made of money? (OK. I didn’t actually say that last bit. But my kids knew I was thinking it.)

Twelve hours later, my 3G hit the road – literally – one too many times. And there it was. The unalterably-blank screen. I now had a reason – an overwhelming one -- to trade in my 3G.

Sigh. Off to the always-mobbed Apple Store at Southpark Mall, where, upon crossing the threshold, you have to wade through the masses to track down the blue-shirted master-list-keeper, so you can get on the proper waiting list to have one of the blue-shirted product-keepers help you buy something – anything – which in this case, was a 4G.

Still, the next day, as we drove down to the lake, I told the kids and Cougar Bait that it hadn't been all that bad. I’d qualified for the “upgrade,” so I didn’t have to pay full ticket. All my emails, text messages, contacts, songs, games and photos were synced to my Mac, so no problem there. My only real concern was that I’d lost my lists.

Over the years, I explained, I’ve kept all kinds of lists on my phones. To-do’s. Gift ideas. (A ceiling fan? Really?) Bumper stickers. (“Unlike the hellbound demon spawn in your car, my children are saved.”) Unexpected sightings (an African-American man wearing a t-shirt reading, I’m the white man who’s been keeping you down.) Stuff my kids say, which I can post on my “Overheard At My House” page on Facebook. (Son, describing one of his sister’s textbooks, “If the Devil wrote a bible, this would be it.”)

Oh – and let’s not forget my list of words that can be typed using every single finger, but each only once.

Cripes. Should’ve stopped with the “Overheard At My House” list. But maybe I didn’t mention that last list out loud. The car, after all, was oddly quiet. But wait for it.  Thirty seconds later, the three of them, in unison, said, “You do WHAT?”

Whatever. I’m Cheri and I’m a listmaker. A few years ago, I realized that typing the word “pleasing” requires using every finger once.  So it became a personal little quest. And to keep track, I keep a list.  So what?

C’mon. It could be worse. Way worse. Just think of the things that other people write in emails. Or put in text messages (Tiger Woods). Or say on tape (Mel Gibson). ‘Nuff said.

My little list, albeit quirky, is fairly harmless. Besides, thanks to MobileMe, my list was restored later that day – which allows me to boast that my current list includes 15 words – if you include proper nouns and the occasional oddity.  Which I do.

Is “replanks” a word?  On my list, yes.  Yes indeed.

Speaking of quirky and harmless, you’ve got to try these sautéed chickpeas. They’re not a side dish, really (although I guess they could be). And as far as hors d’oeuvres go, they’re a bit messy – kind of like olives. Plus, you can change the seasoning up any way you like. I’m showing them here with cumin and chili powder, but you can also try them with fresh minced rosemary and lemon zest. And, oh my, are they tasty.

“Pleasing,” in fact, is the word that comes to mind. P-L-E-A-S-I-N-G.

Sautéed Chickpeas

1 can chickpeas (garbanzo beans), drained, rinsed, patted dry
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon chili powder
½ teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

Heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat. When oil begins to ripple, stir in remaining ingredients, shaking and stirring occasionally, until chickpeas begin to brown slightly (about 10 minutes). Drain on a paper towel, check for seasonings (salt), and munch away.

Even A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day Can Get Worse.

Yesterday, in the words of one of my favorite children’s books*, was a “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.” 

I was unsettled.  Out of kilter.  Overwhelmed.  Under-able.  I was so awash in pity that the lyrics to Jimmy Buffet’s song, “My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink, and I Don’t Love Jesus” kept running through my mind.

The house needs painting, the laundry needs washing, the kids need to be more helpful, the bills need to be paid, I need to be do more volunteer work, the cat needs to go to the vet, the plants need to be watered, I’m not sure how to manage a few financial hurdles, I have no sangria, and I’m struggling with subject-verb agreement.

I wasn’t awash in pity.  I was wallowing in it.  Bathing in it.

In my head, I was chanting the lyrics to an old childhood song, “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I’m gonna eat some worms.”  And then, sure enough, things got worse.

A few days earlier, when the kids and I returned from Reunion Weekend, we’d noticed an “off” smell in the house.  So “off,” in fact, that the kids refused to hang out downstairs.  It was foul.  It was pervasive.  It was an “unwelcome” mat.  After a good bit of head-scratching, cautious-tiptoeing, hesitant-door-opening and reluctant pantry-sniffing.  I found the culprit – a decomposed, liquefied potato.

I tossed it immediately.  The smell, however, lingered.  Indeed, it worsened.

For the next couple of days, I burned candles, sprayed Febreze, ran the fans, and “aired” out the house – in 97 degree heat.

The funk remained.

Combined with my own foul mood, that stench made misery for everyone.  I typically turn to cooking to lift my mood, so I began making up a batch of Darling Daughter’s favorite macaroni and cheese for supper and chopping the ingredients needed to re-stock the basement freezer with marinara sauce.

Um.  Did I say “freezer”?

Dammit.  (Sorry, Mom.)   My super-sleuthing and super-sniffing hadn’t extended to the basement.  Dammit.  So now, cracking the basement door was akin to opening the gates of Hell.  Poets write of hell reeking of sulfur and brimstone, but I’d say Hell is a personal matter.  For me, Hell smells like 30 pounds of putrefied, decomposing chicken, oozing out a freezer door.

Shap.**

Trust me, I could be far more graphic – describing, for example, how the various plastic zippered bags holding far-from-frozen poultry were either inflated like balloons, or had already burst, releasing foul, black used-to-be-chicken sludge – but really, who wants to hear about that?

So just like that, my pity party was over.  I had to get to work.  No time for self-indulgent navel gazing.  Time to put on those big girl panties.  I had to scoop poultry residue from a fridge.

And then, come up with something decidedly “not poultry” for lunch.  Something like this cool, refreshing cucumber salad.

Hold the worms.

Creamy Cucumber Salad

¼ cup sour cream

2 tablespoons chopped fresh chives

1 very small clove of garlic, minced, then mashed to a paste with 3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

1 seedless (hothouse) cucumber, peeled, cut in quarters lengthwise, then sliced

Combine first five ingredients, to make a dressing.  Toss in cucumber slices.  Chill slightly and serve.

*Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, Judith Viorst

** That’s “crap.”  With an “s-h.”

Everyone Has An Opinion, And In Mine, Reunions Are Terrifying.

When I was pregnant (well after Bill Haley and His Comets flamed out, thank you very much, but well before the sun rose on Green Day, or practically any other band heard on Sirius 26), I found all kinds of ways to dodge The Question:

“What are you going to name the baby?”

Even now, when I hear someone else – even a total stranger – being asked The Question, I want to shriek, “Don’t answer!  It’s a trick!  You’re about to have your bubble burst, your dreams shattered!  You’re exposing your tender and most intimately-considered plans to a gut-sucking, albeit cape-less, emotional marauder of comic book proportions.” 

No, I don’t think I’m overstating.

We hear stories of newborns named, unexpectedly, after obstetricians, nurses, and, if you ascribe to urban myth, hospital food.  Surely you’ve heard of the tiny twins afflicted with the unfortunate monikers of “Orangello” and “Limongello,” ostensibly for the gelatin flavors the new mom most enjoyed post-delivery?  Truth be told, who could blame her?  After all the baby-naming babble and umbilical cord snipping and opinion-injection of every English-speaking person on the planet – and perhaps a few Aussies – it’s easy to lose track of your own opinion.

Did I really name my kid ‘Orangello’?  Do I even like ‘Orangello’?  Didn’t I hear about a school bully named ‘Orangello’?  Wait.  Am I hungry?  Are you going to eat that chicken?  Can we have Jello for dessert?  Maybe banana-strawberry flavored?

High school reunions, it seems, evoke a similar reaction.  Everyone has an opinion.  And the current universal opinion seems to be that I’m a smack-talking, lily-livered, Scotch-drinking, feather-shedding chicken butt.

I recently wrote about my ambivalence – fine, call the spade by its name, “terror” – regarding my upcoming 30^th high school reunion.  I couldn’t believe how many people chirped up.   You have to go.  30^th is the best ever.  Everyone’s counting on you.  You’ll regret it if you don’t.

Holy cow.  (Or, as my mom’s husband says, “sanctified bovine.”)

I’m going already.  But until then, I’m working my butt off.  Actually, that’s not accurate.  I know you can’t “work” your butt off.  Nor can you “talk” someone’s ear off.  And saddest of all, you can’t “laugh” your ass off. 

I’ve tried. If all it took was working, talking and laughing, I'd be the skinniest person around.  And my friends wouldn't have anything to hook their sunglasses onto.  But I’ve tugged on those “fat jeans.”  Trust me, everything's still there.

I’ve got a few months to go, though.  I just need to work out more.  And eat better. 

This Black Bean and Corn Salad is a good start.  Easy to make, lots of protein, lots of fiber and low in fat.  It’s really, really good served as  a salsa with Fritos Scoopers, too.  But for now, I’m passing on Fritos.  Jello, too.

Besides.  I heard that Orangello might make it to the reunion.

Black Bean and Corn Salad With Lime Dressing

1 can black beans, rinsed and drained well

1 can sweet corn, rinsed and drained well

½ cup finely chopped red onion

½ cup finely chopped red bell pepper

juice of two limes (about ¼ cup)

¼ cup canola oil

½ teaspoon chili powder

½ teaspoon kosher salt

¼ teaspoon fresh ground pepper

1 avocado, peeled and sliced, or optionally, halved

Combine all ingredients except avocado.  Stir gently and refrigerate until well chilled.  Serve over avocado slices.

Cold and Fat Is No Way To Go Through Life. (Anyone Else Remember "Animal House"?)

OK.  What’s wrong here?  I’m wearing jeans.  Ski socks.  Wool-lined boots.  (Really cute ones – black with tassels!)  A turtleneck and a hooded fleece jacket.  I’m zipped in and hooded up.

Yet, I’m popsiclesque.  In my own house.

Clearly, Charlotte – like most of the country – is in the midst of a prolonged cold snap.  Or more accurately, given these temperatures, a cold shatter.  Nevertheless, I’m indoors, and while the thermostat Chez Wiles isn’t exactly set at “balmy,” it is holding steady at 68.

Still, Snarky Son and Darling Daughter actually set off for school this morning dressed less warmly than I am right now.  (And no, SS wasn’t, as threatened, wearing his cheetah Snuggie.  Is it possible a teenager would say such things only to see how a parent would react?)

I’ve always been cold-natured.  And I could write the book, the employee manual, the very Gideon’s Bible on layering.  Just ask anyone who saw me in the ladies' room at last Sunday’s Panthers-Saints game. Or, more accurately, anyone who had to cross her legs, jiggle her heels, tap her toes, bite her lip, and clinch the very most inner part of her being, waiting for me to peel back all that fabric in my stall.  And continue to wait, while I took twice as long to reconstruct the elaborate textile structure I’d devised to help stave off the cold, including HandWarmers, BFF to many a woman of a certain age.  (I've actually slept with a Handwarmer under my pillow before.  Toasty.)

The “layering” premise isn't perfect, however.  I don't have scientific evidence, exactly, but consider this:  If layering really worked, then the 10-pounds I mortared on this holiday season would seal in some of my body heat, wouldn’t it?  Wouldn't I be warmer?  Fat chance.  And I say that without irony.  Fat.

Sadly, now that I’m a woman of a certain age, that's one layer that isn’t peeling off in a ladies’ room – much less anytime in the next few weeks.  As one dear friend put it, “Remember college?  After a big tailgating weekend, you’d put on five pounds.  So Monday, you'd skip dinner and that's all it took -- you were right back in your skinny jeans."

Those.  Were.  The days, my friend.  They ended.

Now that I'm in my 40s, skipping dinner is just a way to avoid acid reflux.  I need a more thoughtful, and perhaps, more nutrition-based approach to weight-loss.  And if possible, one that will also help defrost my fingers and toes (because I will not, I repeat, will NOT, raise the thermostat when I’m the only one here at home.  At least not while I’m still abiding to the holy trinity of New Year’s Resolutions -- losing weight, getting fit and cutting costs!)

I’m not in college.  I can’t lose 10 pounds overnight, but this vegetarian Black-Eyed Pea Soup has to be a good start.  Low in fat, but high in flavor, this soup is made with my other new BFF – Ro-Tel tomatoes and chiles.  Which, coincidentally, also helps warm me up.

Don’t you love it when a recipe comes together?

Spicy Black-Eyed Pea Soup

If you want to add some type of meat, something as simple as crumbled bacon or sausage would be good here.  Or, you could add a slice of ham hock while cooking the peas.  Also, note that the consistency of this zesty soup will change considerably if you refrigerate it overnight – becoming more stew-like.  I eat it both ways and can't say which I prefer!

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 medium onion, chopped

12-15 baby carrots, sliced

1 rib celery, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 quart vegetable stock, divided

1 10-ounce carton fresh black-eyed peas

½ teaspoon kosher salt

1 10-ounce can Ro-Tel tomatoes with green chiles

¼ teaspoon Liquid Smoke (optional)

½ cup raw rice

sour cream for garnish (optional)

In a very large lidded skillet or soup kettle, sauté onion in olive oil over medium-heat until translucent, stir in carrots and celery and continuing sautéing until edges of vegetables begin to brown.  Stir in garlic, and sauté another couple of minutes, until garlic is very fragrant.

Pour in 3 cups of vegetable stock, increase heat to high, and bring to a boil.  Dump in black-eyed peas and salt and reduce heat to low.  Simmer, lidded, until peas are very nearly done.  Everyone says this should take fewer than 30 minutes, but it never has for me.  More like an hour.

When peas are nearly done (not crunchy or starchy, but slightly firm to the bite), stir in tomatoes, Liquid Smoke (if using), and rice.  Replace lid and simmer, stirring occasionally, until rice is done – about 20 minutes.

Check for seasoning.  If you like your soup more brothy, stir in remaining cup of vegetable stock.  Heat through and serve.  Top with a spoonful of sour cream, if desired.

Another New Year. Another New Year's Resolution. Bring On The Potatoes Au Gratin.

Yes.  I have a calendar.  An up-to-date one, at that.  But like so many stay-at-home-moms, my “New Year’ didn’t begin until today – the day the kids returned to school.  And holy educational system, Batman – this was one rocky day.  Cranky, tired, disorganized and unfocused.  And I’m guessing the kids’ day wasn’t much better.

I’m sheerly overwhelmed by the “things to be done” – the undecorating, the clutter-clearing, the return-to-schedule.  Not to mention, of course, the “New Year’s Resolutions.”  (Seriously, am I the only one who imagines that bellowed in a deep, echoing, theatrical voice?)

According to USA.gov (whose slogan, “Government Made Easy” makes them a wee bit suspect), the most popular New Year’s resolutions are:

• Lose weight

• Manage debt

• Save money

• Get a better job

• Get fit

• Get a better education

• Drink less alcohol

Hmm.  Plainly, I don’t need to draft my own list, because that one is pretty much on target.  Check, check, check, check, check, check and -- sigh --  check (except for sangria, natch).

Post-holiday time is already rife with “things to do.”  Do we really need to add to that list just because yet another 12-month period has begun?

Besides, in some ways, I began my own “new” year several months back when I became divorced.  I’ve got plenty on my plate – plenty that no one would ever want to see itemized.  Like, “call school to explain change in marital status.”  Or, “find reasonable health insurance as unemployed homemaker.”  Or how about, “learn to recognize when you’re being hit on.  And not."

Honest.  It’s harder than you'd think.

Nevertheless, I do have my own list of “good intentions” for 2010, and perversely, most of them coincide with the items listed on USA.gov.  Turns out, I’m just another common citizen.

But given the rocky start to my own New Year, I’m going to ease in.  I did go to the Y today (check, “get fit”) and I did not drink sangria tonight (check, “drink less alcohol”), and I even considered spending the next month as a vegetarian.

The following recipe, however, probably won’t help me accomplish that top goal, “lose weight.”  But holy potato, Batman, it is so very good and easy – and makes for a much easier return home from that first day back to school.

Simply Sublime (and Sublimely Simple) Potatoes Au Gratin

It's hard to believe that something so decadent is so simple to make.  You can dress these up, I suppose, using fresh thyme or minced garlic or half gruyere and half parmigiano-reggiano.  A little zip of cayenne wouldn't be out of place either, but basically, all you need is butter, potatoes, cheese and cream.  Yum.

2 tablespoons butter

3 medium sized baking potatoes, peeled and sliced thinly

1 cup (about ¼ lb.) gruyere cheese, grated

1 cup cream

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

½ teaspoon ground thyme

Preheat oven to 350.  Use 1 tablespoon butter to grease bottom of medium sized baking dish.  Place one layer of potatoes (not overlapping) on bottom of dish.  Top with 1/3 cup cheese.  Sprinkle with salt, pepper, thyme (and, if you’re feeling fancy, 1 minced clove garlic).  Repeat layering (except for thyme and garlic) two more times.  Pour cream over all, and bake for 1 hour, until browned and bubbling.  Remove from oven and let rest 15-20 minutes before serving.  Eat extravagantly.  No need for meat.

The Key To A Well-Stocked Kitchen and Perfect Mashed Potatoes.

I am not a pack rat.

My local Salvation Army could very well attest to that fact.   Indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if they developed a frequent donor program in my honor, complete with key tags, bumper stickers and punch cards  (“After your sixth donation, your seventh one is, um, welcome?”)

I’m not unsentimental, but where some people live by The Golden Rule and others are guided by The Serenity Prayer, the inspirational, uplifting words I live by are, If you haven’t worn it or used it in the past two years, lose it.  I have no problem disposing of unworn clothes, unneeded dishes, unopened boxes of glasses (adorned with hand-painted holly berries), unused gifts (Oh, you shouldn't have -- really!), or even an ex-husband’s bundle of high school newspapers and the snowsuit he wore when he was two.  (OK.  I actually asked whether he wanted those.)

I couldn’t possibly recall all the times Darling Daughter or Snarky Son (before he was "snarky") asked, “Have you seen my Beanie Baby/Lego Star Wars C3PO/15¢ McDonald’s Happy Meal Toy?” and to which, because I’m not a gifted liar, I'd have to look away and mutter in response, “Oh.  Can’t you find it?” knowing all the while that the suddenly-desired toy had taken a one-way, no-return trip to Goodwill.  And also knowing, that I may eventually discard something of such future monetary value that my then-adult child will have no recourse but to take me to court.  Just so you know, I’ll be good for the cost of therapy, but no other damages.

Last week, I loaded the Pilot up to the sunroof with a motley assortment of donation items which had been cluttering the attic for years, including teeny, tiny children’s backpacks, ridiculously-large pieces of luggage, slightly worn double-size bed sheets and twin-size comforters, a kitchen-sized Glad bag of dresses for third grade girls, two unused miniature Bose speakers and a brand new laser printer.  Or, at least it was "brand new" three years ago.

Despite these frequent purges, my closets, cabinets and pantry remain ridiculously well-stocked. I may not be a pack rat, but I stock up like a squirrel in acorn season.

Need some parchment paper?  Here’s a fresh roll.  Lemongrass?  Check the spice cabinet.  A biscuit cutter?  What size? 

And since Thanksgiving’s just around the corner, I’m also reminded that I have a ricer.

I only make mashed potatoes six or seven times a year, but this is one kitchen tool that will never see the inside of the Goodwill bin.  When I was a kid, my mom had a ricer too, but to my recollection, she only used it for ricing hard-boiled eggs to serve the day after Easter over shredded lettuce with Thousand Island dressing.  Since I was a kid, my natural reaction was, “Ick.”

I was an adult before I realized that the ricer -- not a masher, or heaven forbid, a handmixer --  is also the secret to making perfect-every-time, never-gluey-or-gloppy, velvety mashed potatoes – the only kind that should grace a table -- at Thanksgiving or any other meal.

Always Perfect Buttermilk Mashed Potatoes

Buttermilk adds the perfect tang – just like sour cream on a baked potato – without adding any real fat.  Despite the rich-sounding name, buttermilk has about as much fat as 1% milk.  Adding goat cheese makes the potatoes a bit richer and fancier.

2 lbs. Yukon Gold potatoes

3 cloves garlic, peeled
3 tablespoons butter

¾ cup buttermilk

4 ounces goat cheese (optional)

1 tablespoon minced fresh chives (optional)

1 tablespoon minced fresh parsley

fresh ground pepper

gracious plenty kosher salt

Put unpeeled potatoes and peeled garlic in a large stockpot.  Add enough water to cover and one tablespoon of kosher salt. Bring to a boil, then, reduce heat to simmer and cook gently until potato is easily pierced with a fork.  (Potatoes will cook more quickly if the pot is lidded.)

Remove and drain potatoes.  When cool enough to touch, use your fingers to peel off skin.  Cut potatoes in chunks.

Push through the ricer in batches, into a large bowl with remaining ingredients.  Heat from the potatoes will melt the butter and warm the milk.  (You could, of course, zap the ingredients in the microwave before adding the potatoes, too.)  Stir everything together, adjust seasoning, and serve.

Waging, But Not Winning, The War on Bathroom Lights, Halloween Costumes and Wet Towels.

I am a winner.

Or, at least, I have won the battle.  OK.  I have won a single battle.

Still.  As the single mom of 14-year-old Snarky Son (SS) and 12-year-old Darling Daughter (DD), I engage in hand-to-hand, wit-to-wit combat every day.  I'll take any victory I can get.

Some encounters are predictable, of course.  Every parent of school-age children sees frontline action in routine academic-expectations conflicts -- some more bloody than others.  We also encounter ongoing appropriate-dress skirmishes.  Really, who would think I would ever have to say -- out loud, mid-winter -- "no pants, no dinner"?  Do manufacturers no longer make girls' tops with sleeves?  And are those jeans?  Or some kind of new-fangled denim tights?  Clothing casualties abound Chez Wiles.

I can't help but engage in the day-to-day respect-for-your-elders battle, even when I brandish nothing more threatening than such war-weary cliches as, "Because I said so," and "I don't care what your best friend is doing," and ultimately, "Just stop talking to me."  Easy to see how I earned the title, Worst Mom Ever, right?  And chores-ignored?  Well, as SS and DD hear it, Whah, whah-whah, whah-whah.  Hmmph.  So much for my planned stealth attack on individual responsibility, contributing to the household, and those dang cat litter boxes.

These are just the routine clashes, of course.  We've recently added the issue of rock concerts.  On school nights.  And phone calls.  After midnight.  And appropriate language.  For 14-year-old boys.  And 12-year-old girls.  And there's always Old Faithful -- the perpetually "up" bathroom switch.  Seriously.  Is it that hard to turn off a light?

One current issue is the upcoming Halloween holiday.  When the kids were little, I'd choose what they'd be, I'd make the costumes, and I'd decide which houses we'd visit -- based largely on the type of beer I'd be offered.  I'd then decide when we were done (serendipitously coinciding with when my beer bottle was drained), and I'd eve help the kids decide which candy they would like.  ("Yuck.  You won't like those.  Let me get rid of those Kit Kats for you.")

Sigh.  Those choices haven't been mine for a while.  This year, DD is dressing up as a Wannabe Ballerina.  Don't ask.  All I know is that it involves striped tights, navy blue lipstick and a Fat Hen t-shirt.  Nice.  SS is considering gathering his posse to make the rounds for their own sugar stash, but knows I'll insist on a costume.  ("No pants, no dinner.  No costume, no candy."  Who thinks these things up?)

So here's the question:  Does a t-shirt reading, "No, really.  This is my Halloween costume" count as a costume?  I was afraid so.

Yep.  Parenting only gets tougher as they get older.  These kids are clever.  Persuasive, too.  As SS recently said, "I just told you a lot of stuff that should make you change your mind."  Sheepishly, I agreed.  Yet, I have my victory.

The dreaded wet-towel-on-the-floor beast has been slain.

I fought the good fight.  I pleaded, I threatened, I cajoled, I reasoned.  I docked allowance, billing the resister with a "maid service" fee every time I scooped up a soggy towel.  I made reminder checklists and dutifully called any offender home from a playdate should so much as a washcloth be left on the floor.

I told embarrassing stories to friends and family, and at one point, I banished towels altogether.  Turns out I was more uncomfortable with the resulting 70s-style streaking than they were.  That, and I couldn't help but join in with the giggling.

The power shifted one recent evening, though, when I called a repeat-offender upstairs, with the usual admonishment, "Towels belong on the rack, not the floor."  (If I only had a beer for every time I've uttered that phrase.  I could open a pub.)

Then, genius struck.

"Think about this," I said, "See where you left your towel?  That's exactly where the cat walks on his sweet, little pink paws. Just after he steps out of the stinky, smelly litter box, after depositing a fresh batch of the dog's favorite treats -- Tiny Tiger Tootsie Rolls.  You dropped your damply absorbent towel there.  And later, you're going to rub that same towel on your body.  Yuck."

Hasn't been a towel on the floor for three days now.  That's one in the "W" column for Mom.

To keep my winning streak alive, I'm making one of the kids' favorites for supper -- corned beef.  Actually, their "favorite" favorite is corned beef hash, but since I wasn't able to cook the corned beef in advance (BTW, the slow cooker is the best way to go), I'm making Not Corned Beef Hash -- serving roasted potatoes, etc., with all the flavors of hash, alongside the corned beef.

Another victory for me.  I now feel brave enough to tackle the perpetually-on-bathroom-lights -- after snagging a few Kit Kats for dessert.

Not Corned Beef Hash

3 Yukon Gold potatoes, unpeeled, cut in 1" dice

1 onion, peeled and cut in 1" dice

16-20 baby carrots, cut in chunks

1/4 vegetable or olive oil

several sprigs of fresh thyme

1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

1 ladle corned beef cooking broth (about 1/2 cup)

Soak potatoes in cold water for about 30 minutes (to remove excess starch and improve browning), rinse and drain well.

Preheat oven to 450 (or 400, if using convection).  In a large roasting pan, toss drained potatoes with onions, carrots oil, thyme and Worcestershire sauce.  Sprinkle with kosher salt.

Roast about 15 minutes, or until vegetables begin to brown.  Stir in cooking broth, toss well, and continue roasting until done -- browned and crispy -- about 20 minutes.

Serve with freshly sliced hot corned beef.

The Rules Parents Make Up.

Three days have passed since we celebrated Easter.  The wine, the arguing and the candy have all returned full-force.  True, none of us at the Wiles household experienced a totally abstinent Lenten season.  There were slip-ups, or should I say sip-ups, but of all the things back in our house, the one thing I'm already exhausted by is the candy.  (You didn't think I was going to say "the wine," did you?)

Parents constantly have to make up new rules.  The standards -- "Be nice," "Don't forget your manners," "Don't run with scissors," and my father's favorite, "I'm not paying to air condition the backyard," really don't cover as many situations as you'd hope.

Among the many others I've added are:  "No one wants to smell your feet," "Fist-size is not bite-size," "Jock straps don't go on your head," and "Never break up with someone by text message."  Those last two were made up for the same child.

There's also:  "If you can't brush it, you can't have it" (regarding hair), "If I can hear it, it's too loud" (regarding iPods), and "If I can see it, it's too small" (regarding clothing).

Finally, there's:  "Washing your hands requires actual water -- and soap," "Gummy worms are not an entree -- even on top of ice cream," and "Chick-Fil-A is not your actual home (although Starbucks may be)."

As a teenaged babysitter, I once had to spontaneously invent a rule for a kid who had lost a tooth:  "Teeth don't go in ears."  Huh.  Didn't work.

But here's the newest rule, which will welcome my kids upon their return from school today, "No more candy -- ever."

OK.  Even I can't impose that one, but still, I've got to come up with something to manage all this candy. 
I'm tired of stepping on sticky, half-masticated jelly beans with all the color and flavor sucked off.  Those flimsy foil wrappers that are so decorative when fitted around little chocolate eggs lose their appeal when they re-appear in pet poop.  The earless, legless and eyeless chocolate bunnies seem more appropriate for a carnival freak show than someone's bedside table.  And the cat and the dog are wearing grooves in the floor, skittering after random Reese's Pieces and SweetTarts.

I'm tired of it.  And I need some real nutrition.

Lucky for me, roasted vegetables are a cinch to make.  And lucky for the kids, they won't even be home for dinner tonight to complain about my meal choice.  And that ends up being lucky for me too, because I know exactly where in their rooms to find dessert.

Jelly bean, anyone?

Pan Roasted Vegetables
The oven has to be hot, hot, hot for this to work -- 450 degrees.  Anything lower, and some of the vegetables can end up stewing, instead of roasting.

handful of baby carrots

1 fennel bulb, cut in wedges

1 parsnip, peeled, cut in large, bite-size chunks

1 onion, peeled, cut in wedges

red bell pepper, cut in large, bite-size chunks

asparagus spears (thicker ones are better)

1-2 garlic cloves, peeled

1/4 cup olive oil

2-3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

fresh rosemary

salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 450.  (If you've got a convection oven and ever wondered when to use it, now's the time.)

Toss all prepared vegetables with oil, vinegar and seasonings.  Spread carrots, fennel and parsnip (single layer) in a large baking pan, and roast about 20 minutes.  Stir in remaining vegetables, sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper and rosemary, and roast another 20-25 minutes, or until all vegetables are tender and somewhat browned.  Serve, if you wish, with another dash of balsamic or lemon juice.

Plan K (Asian Asparagus)

We've had a frantic weekend here at the Wiles household. Every single, best-laid plan was upended, revised, revised again, and in a couple of instances, entirely scrapped. Plan A evolved into Plan B, and suddenly, we were at Plan K, which was shaky at best. Arriving at that rickety plan was an exercise in nimbleness, negotiating, among other things, vomit, flight delays, dog diarrhea, birthday parties, Icee-soaked shoes, the possibility of snow, and car swapping. Plenty of reasons to renege on that idea of a "wine-free" Lent, if you ask me.

But that's the parenting gig. If you're not quick on your feet, you're not dead in the water -- you're just dead. Or you may as well be.

Consider a typical weekend night with a teen and pre-teen. You're going to be home for dinner? Great! You'll be an hour late? OK. Oh -- now half an hour early? I can deal. You're bringing two friends, maybe three? I can stretch. Oh -- it turns out everyone wants to go to the movies and make a meal of Mountain Dew, popcorn and Mike & Ikes?

DO I LOOK INSANE TO YOU? Don't answer that.

Could be time to simplify. I think I'll start by making one of the simplest things I know -- Asian Asparagus. It's not a meal, and since it's served cold, I don't really think of it as a sidedish. I got the recipe from my sister, who claims she could eat the whole dish herself. I actually have. Morning, noon and night, it's simply that good.

Asian Asparagus

1 bunch of asparagus

2 tablespoons soy sauce

2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil

1 small clove of garlic, minced

Blanch asparagus for one minute and drain. Immerse in ice water, drain again and pat dry.

Combine asparagus with remaining ingredients in a plastic bag and marinate, refrigerated, up to four days, turning occasionally. (Note: Tastes best if allowed to marinate overnight before the first sampling, but if you just can't wait, give it at least four hours. Otherwise, the garlic taste is too sharp.)