"How Do You Learn To Cook?" (With Brined, Boneless Chops)

To be honest, I don't like being asked questions.  I don't like being cornered.  I don't like thinking I may not have the "right" answer.  All that said, there is still one question I could answer over and over again:  "How do you learn to cook?"

The question was posed by Darling Daughter -- twice -- this week.

Fair enough.  I'm always sad to realize how many people -- kids and adults alike -- never realize the satisfaction of preparing a meal for a loved one, of peering in the fridge and coming up with a dish on the fly, or ultimately, having someone ask, "Can I have the recipe?"

C'mon.  Cooking's not hard.  I'll grant though, that it can be intimidating.  And for some folks, that's a game-ender.  There's an absolute learning curve, and I'm the first to admit that there will always be, um, "mistakes."  So why risk the inevitably salty soups and slightly charred chocolate chip cookies, much less the bizarrely-seasoned steaks?  (Word to the wise:  Filet mignon + nutmeg = Domino's extra large double pepperoni.)  After all, Harris Teeter is chockful of frozen meals requiring little more than a microwave and a fork.

I'll tell you why.  Because cooking lets you nourish the body, the soul and the ego.

I've written about the first meal I ever cooked -- which resulted, but didn't end, in tears and sobs.  Even then, though, I did what nearly every cook has to do.  I based the meal on what we had on hand.

I still believe that's the key.  You look at what you have, and you see the opportunity.

A few weeks back, Cougar Bait, my 200-mile-away-lifeline, who, although wise and strong and fun beyond reason*, is not yet a Top Chef, called me up.  "I bought a package of pork chops," he said,  "Now what?"

"Now what," indeed.  Before I even blinked, I was thinking sage and proscuitto and apples.  Potatoes and gruyere and thyme.  Rosemary and parsley and garlic.  But that's not Cougar Bait's pantry.  In fact, neither is he likely stocked with the precise measuring spoons and razor-sharp Wusthoff knives and Emile Henry baking dishes that line my shelves.  But are those necessary?

Absolutely not.

So together, on the phone, we came up with a quick dish, based on what he had on hand.  Later that evening, he reported the rave reviews to me as if I had been the chef.

But it wasn't me.  And it wasn't hard.  And next week, 14-year-old Darling Daughter will give the same recipe a shot.  Because that is exactly "how you learn to cook."

No question.

*Cougar Bait would also like me to mention that he's "drop dead sexy."  But that seems to be revealing too much.

Brined & Barbecued Chops

Although it sounds "fancy," brining is a simple technique that adds loads of flavor and juiciness.  Other recipes make it sound ridiculously difficult and time-consuming, but it doesn't have to be.  Just get started 2 to 6 hours in advance.

2 cups hot tap water

2 tablespoons (one palmful) salt

2 tablespoons (one palmful) sugar

4 tablespoons (one healthy pour) plain white or cider vinegar

1 big pinch red pepper flakes

1 bay leaf (or not)
4-6 boneless pork chops

bottled barbecue sauce

In a large bowl, combine all ingredients, except pork chops and barbecue sauce.  Stir until sugar and salt are dissolved.  Now, stir in another two cups of cold water. Drop in pork chops and allow to brine, refrigerated, for two to six hours.   Remove from brine and pat dry.  Grill over indirect heat, 5-6 minutes per side.  Baste liberally with barbecue sauce and continue grilling just until done -- an additional 3-4 minutes per side.  Do not overcook.

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.

The Four Most Powerful Words In My Arsenal.

Hi.  I’m Cheri, and I have two cell phones.

No need for eye rolling.  I’m a stay-at-home mom, and being employer-free, I need only one phone. The other is – you guessed it – not mine.

I do pay for it, though.  It belongs to my teenaged son.  And I pay and I pay and I pay.

Sigh.  The days of enforced timeouts and early bedtimes and withheld cinnamon Teddy Grahams have long passed.  The most punitive words I can utter nowadays are “Hand me your phone.”

Hence, the overburdened electrical outlet in my room.  Son’s not been on top of his work – either at school or at home – so I’m charging for two.

Now, everyone who knows me, knows that I'm not afraid of being named, The Worst Mom Ever.  But this time, as deprived as Son feels, I may feel even more so.  I’ve become accustomed to being able to track him down at any time.  I’ll call when he’s visiting friends.  When random thoughts hit, I'll drop him a text, “Don’t forget you’ve got Scouts tonight!  Love, Mom.”  (More than once, the response has been, “U don’t have 2 sign ur name.  I no who u r.”)

I’ve even texted (although not necessarily proudly), “Dinner’s ready.  Come downstairs.”  Truth be known, that’s probably what I text the most.

But what else to do?  Although I’m enamored of the word, I’m not about to start flogging him.  Caning's out of the question, too.  Son's bigger than me.  And funnier.  The best leverage I’ve got is the phone.  So for now, it’s mine.  Unless, of course, I change my mind.

This past weekend, for example, Son needed a phone while babysitting.  Like so many households, the folks he was sitting for don't have a landline.  Son needed a phone, so I handed his over.

That night, after he returned home and had dutifully returned the phone to me, I received a surprising text on my phone, from the folks for whom Son had been babysitting.

“You have a wonderful son.  I hope my son grows up to be like him.”

I know.  My Son?  The kid whose phone I'm holding captive?  It would be like me to say something snarky.  But the truth is, that unexpected and touching text was almost powerful enough for me to forget Son's homework transgressions and return the beloved phone.  Almost.  'Cause he really is a good kid.  So.  No.  I think I'll keep cluttering my electrical outlet for a while -- at least until the school's progress reports come out.

In the meantime, though, maybe I can cut Son some slack.  Some.  And make one of his favorite meals.

Waffles of Insane Greatness are always a favorite.  Who doesn't adore breakfast for dinner?  Or perhaps, Pork Fried Rice.

Hands down, the favored food group Chez Wiles is pork.  (I shudder to think of the number of pork roast, sausage, bacon, prosciutto, pancetta recipes already included in Feminine Wiles!)  This crowd-pleaser comes together very quickly when you’ve got leftover pork.  Which we often do.  Along with a spare cell phone.  Or sometimes, two.

Pork Fried Brown Rice With Broccoli
Note that this recipe requires the rice to be cooked in advance and cooled.  I usually do it the night before.

1 cup raw brown rice, cooked in 2 ¼ cups chicken broth, and cooled

3 tablespoons vegetable oil, divided
2 eggs, beaten

2 cloves garlic, minced
¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes
2 cups (approximately) broccoli flowerettes
2 tablespoons water

2 cups (about) leftover pork, cut in bitesize pieces
½ teaspoon toasted sesame oil
1-2 tablespoons soy sauce (or more to taste)
kosher salt
fresh ground pepper

In a large skillet (with a fitted lid) over medium-high heat, heat 1 tablespoon oil until hot and rippling.  Pour beaten eggs into skillet, and cook (without stirring) until firm.  Remove cooked eggs to a plate or cutting board, and cut into bitesize strips.  Set aside.  Heat one tablespoon of oil in skillet and quickly sauté broccoli, garlic and red pepper flakes, stir frying  3-4 minutes, or until very fragrant.  Stir in water and cook (lidded), until broccoli is tender-crisp and bright green.  Remove vegetables, which will be stirred in later.  Now sauté pork with remaining vegetable oil and sesame oil in same skillet over medium high heat, until slightly browned on the edges.  Stir in rice and continue sautéing another 3-5 minutes.  Gently toss in soy sauce and return vegetables and egg to pan, stirring carefully.  Season to taste with salt and pepper, or additional soy sauce.  Serve hot.

My Own Annual Performance Review: The Feminine Wiles Top Five Recipes

OK.  I’m not in school, so I don’t have a report card to look forward to next week.  (Not that I’m certain, however, that everyone Chez Wiles receiving a report card next week is actually looking forward to it.)

And as a stay-at-home-mom, I don’t have a manager to give me an annual performance review.  (Am I the only person who actually looked forward to those meetings?)

And let’s face it, loving and thoughtful as they may be, Snarky Son (SS) and Darling Daughter (DD) aren’t going to leap out of bed tomorrow morning and exclaim, “Wow!  You did all that laundry while we were sleeping?”

Pity.  Because I bask in positive feedback like a teenaged girl in the 70s basked in baby oil at Folly Beach.  (Oh wait.  I was that girl.)

Although I never planned it, that positive feedback is one reason Feminine Wiles, which I’ve now been writing for nearly a year, has been so gratifying.  I’m downright dazzled by the number of folks who tell me they’ve read my posts or tried my recipes.  And I’ve been somewhat surprised at which recipes have been most popular.  Take a look at this Top Five list for 2009:

1. Shrimp and Grits.  I’m crazy about this recipe myself, because it can be made ahead.  In fact, it looks like I liked it so well that I used it in two different blog posts.  My bad.
2. Killer Blue Cheese Dip.  I actually ate this recipe at several holiday parties this year.  And I’m not sure that other people don’t make it better than me!
3. Waffle of Insane Greatness.  I’m not sure whether it was the name that drew people’s attention, but truly – the name is not an overstatement.
4. Red Sangria.  Granted, while the kids were at camp this summer, I managed to post not one, not two, but three different recipes.  Plus, I somehow manage to reference sangria in about every third post.  Couldn’t skew the results, could it?
5. Bacon Bloody Marys.  I got more than double the usual number of clicks when I ran this post, including hits from readers in Israel, Singapore, Romania, and Anchorage, Alaska.  I suspect, though, that this is partially because I managed to use the words, “Spiderman,” “’bacon,” “underwear” and “Bloody Marys” all in the same headline.  From what I hear, though, folks who tried it were pleasantly surprised.
   

So what does this tell us?  Other than, that for reasons surpassing understanding, forty percent of the Top Five list are alcoholic beverages?

Beats me.  But here at the start of a new year, I’m astounded and gratified by the response to Feminine Wiles.  I’d originally thought it would be read by a few family members and friends.  And only the ones who took pity on me, at that.  I had no idea how lucky I was.

So thank you.  What better way to start 2010.

Cheri

PS – Well, heck yeah, there’s a new recipe after all that yacking!  The kids and I had a great pork roast this week.  I usually grill pork roasts (to keep from having to wash a roasting pan), but with this wicked cold weather, it would be days before the roast was done.  This version was great – and as the kids know, the pork fried rice later this week will be even better!

Garlic and Rosemary Crusted Pork Loin Rib Roast

One 3 ½ or 4 lb. pork rib roast
3 large cloves of garlic, minced
2 teaspoons fresh rosemary, minced
1 ½ teaspoons kosher salt, divided
½ teaspoon fresh ground pepper
1 tablespoon olive oil
½ cup dry white wine
½ cup chicken broth (or water)

Preheat oven to 400.  On cutting board, use large knife to cut together garlic, rosemary,½ teaspoon of salt, and pepper.  Continue to mince together until paste-like.  In a small bowl, combine garlic-rosemary paste and olive oil.  Rub mixture over roast, and place, fat-side up in a large roasting pan (no need for a rack).  Sprinkle with remaining 1 teaspoon of salt and roast for 30 minutes.  Reduce heat to 350.  Pour wine and chicken broth (or water, if using) in bottom of roasting pan, and roast until internal thermometer registers 155 degrees (approximately one hour).  When done, remove from oven and allow to rest 15-20 minutes before slicing and serving -- maybe with Simply Sublime Potatoes Au Gratin?

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.

Kids Are In School, But I'm Still Learning. (Pork Fried Rice.)

Darling Daughter and Sensational Son (“Sensational” only because “Awesome” would result in the initials AS, and other than a snarky 14-year-old, who wants that?) finally got back to school last week.  As always, certain universal lessons have already emerged:

• The art teacher is awesome.
• Backpacks come in only two sizes:  too large and too small.
• Homework will never again be as manageable as it is the first day.
• Every morning, someone (everyone) is going to forget something (if not everything) until someone (OK, me) lays down the law.

At the beginning of every school year, we hold these truths to be self-evident -- as predictable as hairbows on kindergartners and slouches on middle-schoolers.  Truly.  My kids were in school three days last week.  How many days do you suppose they forgot stuff?  Well, including all three days, the answer would be, let’s see … three.

Embarrassingly, that meant three roundtrips to school for me.

I know -- hardly the norm for "The Worst Mom Ever."  (It's official.  I earned it.  Click here for details.)  First of all, school isn’t exactly across the street. It’s four Starbucks away, for Pete’s sake.  In Manhattan, of course, that would be something less than five city blocks, but here in Charlotte, it’s about 10 miles.  In the time it takes to get to school and back, I could fit in a workout at the Y.  A good, sweaty one.

Second – and the kids know this -- I’m all about doing things right.  Nevertheless, we always struggle to get back in the groove these first few days.  I try to be patient, but I know I'm going to have to have The Talk –- the one about organization and responsibility and planning and respect for other people.  While I’m on it, I’ll likely throw a few side sermons about saving for a rainy day, being a good friend, appreciation for the many blessings (i.e., many iPods) in our lives, and the necessity of turning off lights and making beds.  But then, I'll get back on point and finish strong, promising to provide each child with a morning checklist.  And threatening seizure of iPods and cell phones should they fail to comply.

The situation is dire.   I’ve got to schedule The Talk quick, fast and in a hurry.  I need to make it clear that Mom’s Delivery Service – like so many other businesses as of late – would like to thank its customers, but is shutting its doors (FOREVER!)

Unbeknownst to DD and SS, I plan The Talk for Sunday dinner.  While they unwittingly finish up their homework, I cook, building my case by mentally re-creating Friday morning’s chaos.  I've got plenty of examples.  I recall the kids packing up their lunches, water bottles and extra food to tide them over between school and cross country practice.  I see them loading up books and binders and signed syllabus forms and medical insurance permission slips and homework assignments fresh from the laser printer – not to mention the oft-forgotten USB key.  I remember them stuffing their sports bags with shoes and running clothes and PE clothes.  I can see SS gathering his stuff for an overnight trip with his cross country team, which required him leaving straight from school. Finally, both of them packed bags to spend the weekend with their Dad.

Then it hits me:  Should I really be casting stones here?  Three times out of four, I can’t remember to take my grocery list to the store.

Yes.  DD and SS need to be more responsible and organized.  But I can cut them a few days' slack.  Under the circumstances, they're doing just fine.  I go ahead and set the table, deciding to postpone The Talk and only briefly mention that they may want to start loading their backpacks at night.

Lo and behold, Monday morning goes off without a hitch.  Or if there was one, no one was bold enough to text an S.O.S. my way.

We all need at least one part of our life to be easy and predictable.  That may be my most important job right now -- just greasing the tracks as DD and SS ease into the school year.  That, and preparing plenty of comfort food -- like the Pork Fried Rice we had this week.

Pork Fried Rice
3 cups cooked rice (brown is best), cooled
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
12 baby carrots, cut into matchstick-sized pieces
1/2 medium onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger
2 cups chopped fresh pineapple

2 cups leftover (cooked) pork roast, chopped

1 tablespoon soy sauce, or more to taste

½ teaspoon kosher salt, or more to taste

generous grinding of black pepper

In a large skillet, sauté carrots and onion until slightly soft and brown.  Stir in garlic and ginger, stir frying another minute or so, or until very fragrant.  Stir in rice and pineapple.  Stir fry, gently tossing the ingredients, over high heat for another 3-5 minutes, until combined and very hot.  Stir in pork and remaining ingredients.  Heat through, adjust seasoning and serve.

On Sleepovers. And The Morning After. (Grilled Pork Loin)

I’m already bracing myself.

No, not for the start of school.  I’m preparing for the return of Darling Daughter (DD) and Satiric Son (SS).  Both had sleepovers last night.
 

SS celebrated a friend’s birthday at a nearby resort lodge with an enormous indoor waterpark, six-story slides and a video game arcade.  Yes, the host’s parents were in attendance, but wisely planned to make themselves scarce.  They also wisely planned to procure the necessary provisions, i.e., wine and a corkscrew, to enjoy their own pleasant evening.

Any mom knows that water activity – all on its own – is exhausting, but add a hotel room and four teenaged-boys – none of whom, under any circumstances, wants to be first to fall asleep – and, well, re-entry’s going to be a little rough the following day.

On the face of it, DD’s evening should’ve been less eventful.  She stayed the night with her preschool BFF who lives right here in the ‘hood.  From a sleepover standpoint, hers should’ve been a pretty mild – and recoverable – event.  But it was her second sleepover of the weekend.

I know.  What kind of mom lets her daughter go to back-to-back sleepovers?  Let’s just say I'd procured provisions of my own.

Five girls were at the first sleepover.  From what I heard, no one went to sleep before 3:30.  3:30 A.M.  In the morning.  And since it was a party, no one slept past 7:30.  7:30 A.M.  Again, in the morning.

Hmm.  When thinking of it that way, I’m kind of glad she had that second sleepover.  Who wants to deal with a 12-year-old limping along on four hours sleep?  Surely, her 12-year-old BFF could cope better than I.

Today, however, the Wiles chickens come home to roost.  The peace and quiet and venti non-fat, no-foam chai I’m sipping will do little to prepare me for the onslaught.

When the kids were little, I was so wary of the exhaustion and drama --real or, worse, imagined –- of sleepovers that I avoided them for years, favoring, instead, the “pretend” sleepover.  The kids' friends could come over, eat pizza, chug soft drinks, gobble popcorn, change into their jammies, snuggle down into their sleeping bags, watch a movie, and at 10:00 p.m., go home.

The problem with sleepovers is that, at some point -- usually well after midnight -- someone will get out of control.  Someone will whisper secrets.  Someone’s privacy will be invaded.  Someone’s feelings will be hurt.  Someone will cry.  Someone will stamp her foot and shriek that she'll never, ever, ever, ever have another sleepover.

Oops.  I kind of slipped back in time there for a minute.  Sorry.

But now, it’s T minus 40.  SS and DD are scheduled to return home at roughly the same time.  I’m hunkering down as if Hurricane Bill were headed in our direction:  stocking up on food, pulling out activities designed to distract (movies, games), checking our ice supply (in the event someone returns home with bruised joints – or egos), and securing all loose objects that might, under stormy circumstances, become projectiles.

I’m also planning a simple, quibble-free meal – pork roast, mashed potatoes, carrot-pineapple salad.  Maybe white sangria for me.

It’s now T minus 22.

Let us pray.


Grilled Pork Loin With Garlic, Mustard and Sage

As much as my kids enjoy pork roast, they love even more knowing that the leftovers will show up in pork fried rice a few days later.


2 1/2 - 3 lb. whole boneless pork loin (not tenderloin)
3 cloves garlic
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon fresh ground pepper
1 tablespoon whole grain mustard
3 leaves fresh sage (or 1/2 teaspoon dried), minced


With a very sharp knife, lightly score pork.  Set aside.  Mince garlic.  When finely minced, use knife to "cut in" salt, until garlic becomes pasty.  Cut in pepper and sage.  Stir in mustard.  Rub paste over pork (all sides), and allow to rest about 30 minutes.  In the meantime, heat up your grill.  When meat is ready, grill over direct heat until lightly browned (about 5 minutes per side).  Move roast to indirect heat and continue grilling until internal temperature reaches 145 degrees (about 1 hour).  When temperature is reached, remove roast to platter and allow to rest 20 minutes before carving.  

Settling Into Summer Routines -- Or A Lack Thereof. With Ribs.

School's out.

Not, as Alice Cooper eventually proclaimed, "forever," but at least "for summer."

I know this, first, because there are two additional, oversized bodies bumping around the house, each dividing his or her time equally between foraging for food; dwindling the charge on my MacBook; carpeting the floors with soggy towels and P.E. clothes which haven't seen the inside of a washing machine since before Christmas; misplacing my MacBook after the draining the battery; planning, scrapping, then re-planning social outings; and finally, in the ongoing quest for sustenance, begging to be taken off-premises -- to Harris Teeter, Smoothie King or Chick-Fil-A -- for still more food.

Second, I know school's out because both of my beloved and believed-to-be-bright children has already had the audacity to whine, "I'm bored." Silly them. As if there isn't always dog poop to be scooped and kitty litter boxes to be sifted.

Even more audacious, each of them, separately, has protested indignantly, "What difference does it make if I leave my wet towels (dirty laundry, Jolly Rancher wrappers, backpack contents, fill-in-the-blank) on the floor? It's summer! Why do you care so much?"

Well. I've got gracious plenty responses for that, but before I make a list, did you really think that tone of voice would change my mind?

Honestly, though, I see their point. Wouldn't it be delightful if life actually worked that way? If school let out for summer, the temp soared to 90, and no one had to do laundry or take out trash or clean toilets? If the pantry were endlessly stocked with Krispy Kreme doughnuts, the fridge with Minute Maid Limeade and the freezer with filet mignon? (No kidding about that last one. It would be difficult to overstate the number of times, in this week alone, that my 14-year-old-son has asked, "Do we have any steak?" -- as if we routinely snack on $20-a-pound, medium rare, grilled meat.)

Some things do slack up, of course. Dress codes are abandoned. Bedtimes slide. Breakfast becomes every-man-for-himself. I even have a friend who, for years, got away with telling her young children that, "Yes, church is closed during the summer. Just like school."

In truth, when I was a kid, it felt as if all routines did come to a halt during the summer. Every morning, we'd get on our bikes and go -- ride trails, build forts, catch fiddler crabs and dine on Lowcountry delicacies like blackberries, wild plums, honeysuckle and sourgrass (that last, despite our parents telling us it was only sour because dogs peed on it).

We could go shoeless for days. To break any monotony that might creep in about mid-July, we'd shove someone off a boat -- in three feet of water or 30. Life jacket, life schmacket.

What a life.

So OK. No more pencils, no more books. School is out for my kids. I can't abolish all routines, but provided they can keep my MacBook on the charger, I reckon I can let a few other things slide. It's summer. We may as well enjoy it -- starting with these savory ribs inspired by a recipe I found in Bon Appetit magazine.

Babyback Ribs With Asian Flavors

Note that preparation for these ribs must begin hours in advance, or even better, the day before.

1, 3-3 1/2 lb. rack babyback ribs

1 tablespoon ginger paste (or 1 tablespoon fresh grated ginger)

1 tablespoon honey

1 tablespoon soy sauce

1 tablespoon asian fish sauce

3 cloves garlic, minced to a paste with 1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon fresh ground pepper

Prepare ribs. Rinse in cold water. Using a small thin knife, peel white membrane from underside of ribs. (Tough to do, but worth it.) Pat dry with paper towels.

Combine remaining ingredients in a small bowl (or better, a small food processor or blender). Rub both sides of rack with mixture, wrap tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate at least four hours, or overnight.

Preheat oven to 250. After refrigerating ribs, cut into several (single-serving) sections. Put in a large baking dish, cover tightly with foil, and bake for two hours at 250 degrees.

Remove ribs from oven, check for tenderness. Ribs should be fully cooked and tender. Baste with pan juices and grill over indirect medium heat, until browned and crusty on both sides -- 10-15 minutes per side.

Starting A Band In The New Millennium. With BBQ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slow-Cooker Pulled Pork BBQ

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

1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon chili powder

1/2 teaspoon fresh ground pepper

2 tablespoons brown sugar

1 tablespoon paprika

red pepper flakes

1 lemon, sliced

1 onion, peeled and sliced

1 bay leaf

1 teaspoon Liquid Smoke

1/2 cup cider vinegar

1/2 cup water

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

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

I Want To Be Good, But ...

I want to be good. Really I do.

I want to eat the right foods and burn off the necessary number of calories each week.

I want to go to church and be politically correct and do good works and minimize my carbon footprint.

I want to be a model parent and raise socially-informed, athletically-gifted, musically-distinguished, academically-unrivaled ...

Whoa. Did I just go there? Yikes. That wasn't the plan. I'd intended to write about my own frailties and shortcomings, not about the excesses and egos of cutthroat, competitive parenting.

But you see my point, right? Where does this striving for perfection end?

'Cause truly -- grains, fruits and vegetables are good, but to my way of thinking, sometimes chocolate, wine and the occasional single malt scotch are better. And as good as I feel after a 600-calorie workout, I also feel perfectly fine stretched out on the sofa watching a DVR'd episode of Trust Me. Particularly if there's a bag of Pepperidge Farm Bordeaux cookies around. Besides, after watching TV, I don't have to take another hour to cool down, stretch out, and shower. Pretty efficient time-management, right?

There are gracious plenty Sunday mornings when I entirely yield to the urge to lounge and end up indulging in a beverage served in a disposable cup with a non-recyclable lid, which I know, despite my fervent hopes and disregard, will remain in our landfills for generations to come. As good as I want to be, though, I'm just not ready to turn my back on a venti, non-fat, no-foam chai tea latte. (Even as I type it, I know how arrogant it sounds. But have you ever had one? You'd swell the ranks of Sunday school slackers in no time.)

And regarding the superior parenting thing? The God's honest truth is, I just can't compete. And more brutally honest, my kids don't want me to.

It's not that I'm ready to throw my hands up. It's not that I want to settle and yield to the lowest common denominator. It's that I sometimes want to acknowledge that "good enough" is "plenty good." It's not a matter of seeing life as "as good as it gets." It's a matter of seeing the life we have as already being "pretty darn good."

Yes, I can do better. But I can't do better every time. I can't even do "the best I can" every time. I'm working on it, but I can't.

So today, I had a plenty healthy lunch. Fresh fruit salad. Grilled chicken salad (no dressing) with lots of dark, leafy greens. Unsweetened tea (with lemon). A small bite of dessert. All the right stuff.

Not for dinner, though. At home tonight, we're back to the kids' favorite food group -- sausage. Try as you may, you just can't say anything redeeming about sausage. I don't want to read the nutritional information about it, I don't want to know where it comes from, and I don't want to see it made.

At our house, though, it's one of those ingredients that, when it's on the menu, everyone seems to linger at the table. Everyone seems to have more stories to tell about their day. Everyone seems to have a few more minutes to spare away from their cell phones and iPods and bikes and computers. Everyone seems to be happy enough just to be a member of the family.

I don't know what it says about us that there's this attitudinal (if that's a word) shift that hovers over any sausage-based meal. I'm not necessarily proud that our emotions are so easily affected by ground, seasoned pork. I'm just saying ...

So even though I want to be good, I'll choose an engaging dinner conversation and a chance to connect with my kids every time. For me, that's more than good enough. It's the best ever.

Pasta Sauce With Sausage

This is a great, hugely flavorful sauce, which is easily doubled and tripled.

1 lb. (about 3 links) Italian sweet sausage, grilled, cooled and thinly sliced (alternatively, remove casings and saute instead of grilling)

1 onion, chopped

10-12 baby carrots, chopped (trust me, no one will ever know)

8 oz. fresh mushrooms, sliced

3 cloves garlic, minced

2 teaspoons dried basil

2 teaspoons dried oregano

1 bay leaf

1 sprig fresh rosemary

Generous splash (about 1/2 cup) red wine

generous grinding of black pepper

1 teaspoon kosher salt (maybe more)

28-oz can crushed tomatoes in puree

1 cup water

Over medium high heat, saute sliced sausage in a large, deep skillet. Once sausage starts to brown, stir in onion. When onion begins to turn translucent, stir in carrots and mushrooms. When carrots and mushrooms start brown, stir in garlic. Continue sautéing over medium heat for another 10-15 minutes.

Stir in herbs. Stir in red wine, salt and black pepper. Cook for an additional 5-10 minutes until wine is somewhat reduced. Stir in crushed tomatoes. Pour 1 cup water into emptied tomato can and swirl around. Pour water into sauce, stir well, then cover. Cook at a reduced heat for another 45-60 minutes.

Serve hot over fresh cooked spaghetti -- or even better, a "chunkier" pasta, such as penne rigate, fusille or orrechiete. Sauce freezes well, for at least 6 months.

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.

Tonight Is All About Mom

I spent the better part of today with my feet up in the air. And I'd appreciate if you'd get your mind out of that gutter. I sprained my right ankle yesterday afternoon, and the medical experts (i.e., WebMD) agree that the key to a speedy recovery is elevating my softball-sized ankle above my chest. Ice and ibuprofen are also recommended. Sauvignon blanc probably is, too, but I gave it up for Lent. Next year for Lent, I'm giving up spraining my ankle.

Nevertheless, I'm a mom, and as long as I still have my hands and senses about me, I'm in charge of everything that no one else wants to do. It also means I have the powers of prophecy. I can absolutely foretell that, in the next hour or so, someone's going to be bold enough to ask, "What's for dinner?"

Between you and me, it's lasagna.

For reasons that escape me, my kids aren't fans of lasagna. Sure, they manage when it's on the plate in front of them. I've even heard them choke out "thank you, that was good" when served lasagna at someone else's house. But at home, it's a dish that elicits an overly prolonged, overly vocal sigh. That single exhalation could inflate a small raft.

Too bad. I want lasagna. My ankle hurts, I can't have wine, the dog peed in the dining room and homemade lasagna's in the freezer. If the kids dare ask what we're eating tonight, I'm invoking "don't ask, don't tell."

I love lasagna and consider it a parental failing that the children don't share my enthusiasm. I learned to make it in college and still have an overblown sense of accomplishment when I sprinkle on that final layer of cheese. I bet you know what I'm talking about. Lasagna requires both culinary sensibility and architectural expertise. With 38 years of cooking and 10 years of Lego construction under my belt, I have both.

So lasagna it is. Lasagna -- and an ice pack.

No-Boil Lasagna With Sausage

Sauce

1 lb. sweet italian sausages, casings removed

1 large onion, diced

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 large carrots, grated

3 large cloves of garlic, minced

(1 zucchini, grated, optional)

2 teaspoons dried oregano

1 28-ounce can crushed tomatoes with puree

1 14-oz can diced tomatoes

1 cup water

1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

1/2 cup chopped fresh basil

Filling

1 10-ounce package frozen spinach, thawed and squeezed dry

2 15-ounce containers of ricotta cheese

3/4 cup fresh grated Parmesan cheese

2 large eggs, beaten slightly

salt, pepper, nutmeg and dried oregano

Lasagna

Sauce (see above)

Filling (see above)

12 uncooked lasagna noodles

1 cup fresh grated Parmesan

4 cups grated mozzarella (or 1 lb, sliced)

Make sauce. Saute onion and sausages in hot oil, using large spoon to break up the sausage. (I sometimes simply grill the sausage and slice them.) Continue browning, adding garlic, carrots, (zucchini, if using) and herbs. When all vegetables are soft, stir in remaining ingredients, bring to a boil and simmer at least 30 minutes. Salt and pepper to taste.

Make filling. Thoroughly mix all filling ingredients in a large bowl, using hands if necessary.

Preheat oven to 375.

Assemble lasagna. Spray a 13x9 inch baking dish with nonstick cooking spray. Spread 1 cup of sauce in bottom of dish. Arrange layer of 3 uncooked noodles on top. Spoon 1 1/2 cups of filling over noodles, spreading evenly. Sprinkle with 1 cup of mozzarella and 1/4 cup of Parmesan. Repeat layering two more times. Top with another layer of noodles, and spread remaining sauce on top. Sprinkle with remaining cheese. Spray a large piece of foil with nonstick spray and use it to cover lasagna.

Bake 40 minutes, remove foil, increase oven to 400 and bake another 20 minutes, or until noodles are tender and sauce is very bubbly. Let rest 15-20 minutes before serving.

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.