Hope Springs. With Greek Orzo Salad.

Provided you could overlook the pollen-induced chartreuse film, yesterday was absurdly gorgeous here in Charlotte. (Big shout-out to the manufacturers of Nasonex and Allegra!)

Sunny, slightly breezy, high in the 70s -- it promised to be an ideal outdoor day.

However, our local meteorologist was quick to caution us gardening types against plunging into the potting soil. The weather is expected to dip below freezing again later this week, and tender new plants risk being reduced to nothing more than 8-inch deep cylinders of good dirt, if set out too early.

Now, I'm not a risk taker. First, I'm a mom. Caution's part of the package they send home with us from the hospital. Second, I'm a divorced mom. Adventure's not part of the package they send home with us from the lawyers' offices. Finally, well, I've always preferred certainty, to um, not.

Whatever. I ventured forth to our local Home Depot. Just to see what they had. OK, fine. Let's skip to the last chapter, where I ended up buying a ridiculous number of plants. The hydrangeas, with their woody stems and the parsley, with its cool weather tolerance, shouldn't have any problem. The daisies? Iffy. The 18 coleus plants, six New Guinea impatiens and two basil plants? Well, I should know better.

When I was a kid, my bus stop was in a neighbor's front yard, and on the very coldest days of the year, the dozen or so of us would huddle against the side of the house. There was one particular spot where warmth just seemed to leak out between the bricks.

Now that I'm a homeowner, I can't say that I've ever longed for similar insulation-failings, but just in case, I did set the most tender plants close to the house. Maybe it will help. Or maybe I'm just kidding myself.

Inexplicably, I also put out some dill this year. I've never had luck with dill. I plant it every year, and every year, within two months, the potting soil it arrived in is all that remains. What the hell. That'll be another $3.48 (plus tax)

If you don't allow for the time I spent planting, I'll be out a grand total of, well, let's not do that math, OK?

Look at it this way. If the dill survives, it'll be an unexpected gift. The coleus plants and impatiens? To be honest, they make me happy. I'm just crossing my fingers that the happiness lasts more than three days. The basil? I adore fresh basil and it was worth a shot to have an earlier crop. If I'm very lucky (and the meteorologist very wrong), in three or four weeks, I'll be cutting it for fresh arrangements and working it into one of my very favorite pasta dishes.

The temperature's already dropped to 53 degrees. Maybe I'm a greater risk-taker than I realized. Hope springs ...

Greek Orzo Salad

Dressing

3/4 cup olive oil

1/2 cup red wine vinegar

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

2 cloves garlic, minced fine

1 teaspoon oregano (rubbed fine between palms of hands)

salt and pepper to taste.

Salad
1 lb. orzo pasta, cooked, drained and rinsed in cool water

1 cup chopped fresh basil

8 ounces feta cheese, crumbled

2 roma tomatoes, diced

1 medium can black olives, sliced

4 cooked boneless chicken breasts, diced (or optionally, 1 1/2 pounds cooked, shelled shrimp)

Mix dressing ingredients. Pour over remaining salad ingredients in a large bowl and mix well. Chill and serve. (Keeps for several days.)

I "Heart" Embarrassing My Kids

It's not hard to embarrass my kids.  Indeed, it's embarrassingly easy.

Among my daughter's concerns are my laugh (too loud), my stomach (too white), my singing (true, I don't always know all the lyrics and sometimes, none), my existence (usually in the school hallways, but sometimes on the very planet), and my choice of workout music (Justin Timberlake, Soulja Boy, the Commodores, The Pussycat Dolls and the cast of High School Musical).

Among my son's complaints are my singing (what's this obsession with lyrics -- am I raising Simon Cowell?), my texting him (on which I won't relent because it's useful and sometimes I'm too lazy to go upstairs and tell him it's dinnertime), and finally, my use of 21st century vernacular.

"'Sup?" (as in, "yo -- whatssup?"), "true dat" and  "chillin'" are all off-limits.  Sparks recently flew when I said to him, innocently, "Feel free to dance."   By which, I meant, your sister is having a Zumba class for her birthday, and if you'd like to come and dance, we'd love to have you.  What did it mean to him?  I have no idea, but clearly, I overstepped.  I am allowed to say, "Rock on with your bad self," which sounds better than it reads, but that's plainly from the 20th century (Rock the Boat, The Hues Corporation, 1974), so I'm in the clear.  Given my age, he also suggested that "groovy" and "far out" would pass muster.

My most recent transgression involves clothing.  It's a T-shirt -- not too tight, not too short, and not too flambouyant.  The embarrassingly white stomach is well-concealed.  There's no mention of sex, drugs, rock and roll, or even rock and roll lyrics.  I ordered it from Bravo.com (home of Top Chef) and it says, "I Heart Fabio."  OK, it doesn't exactly say that.  It says "I," then there's a cardinal red heart, and then, a photo of Fabio, my favorite Top Chef contestant.  Got the picture?

Now picture this.  My son insisted I not wear the shirt anywhere that anyone could see it.  Grudgingly, he agreed it would be OK under a sweatshirt.  Given that the sweatshirt sports the logo of my perennially-losing alma mater, the South Carolina Gamecocks, I guess it was a concession.

My daughter begged -- begged - me not to wear the T-shirt to school.   She pleaded her case for a full 10 minutes, despite knowing full well that I rarely wear T-shirts and certainly don't wear them to her school.  The next day, though, I had to rush to school, unexpectedly, to pick up her sick brother.  Yep.  I arrived at school in said T-shirt.  Busted.  Oops.

Oh well.  Their own dresser drawers and shelves spew T-shirts.  Soccer, baseball, cross country, and others of that ilk, as well as such gems as "Gossip Curls," "No, Really, This Is My Halloween Costume," and "The National Sarcasm Society.  Like We Need Your Support."  In this week's laundry stacks are "Green Monsta," "Green Eggs and Ham," "Led Zeppelin," and "Carolina Girls."

I'm over it.  I'm wearing Fabio even as I write this.

Lo and behold, certain ingredients are also embarrassing.  I can't fit it in my head how a kid who will eat octopus sushi and another kid who names calamari as her favorite appetizer could ever pass judgment on someone else's dining choices.   And I can't imagine how even the pickiest eater could ever deride artichoke hearts.  They're not actual hearts, OK?  These hearts are no more real than the heart on my Fabio T-shirt.

Then again, there are times when I don't mind embarrassing the kids.  So guess what we're having for dinner?  And then, guess what I'll be wearing.

Chicken with Artichokes and Olives

After you brown the chicken, this is a ridiculously easy "dump" dish.  Just dump everything into a slow cooker and let it go!  Amazingly good and fragrant!

2 tablespoons olive oil

3 lbs cut-up chicken (I prefer dark meat, but a mix is fine)

1 onion, halved and sliced thinly

1 10-ounce package frozen artichoke hearts

1 6-ounce jar pitted kalamata olives, drained

5 cloves garlic, peeled

1 lemon, thickly sliced, plus additional 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1 teaspoon kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

In batches, brown chicken (well!) in olive oil in a large skillet.  Put browned chicken in a slow cooker and add remaining ingredients.  Toss to coat.  Cover and cook on low for 8-10 hours in slow cooker.  Serve with hot rice or buttered noodles.

Isn't There Something You'd Like To Say?

Yesterday was one of those days where I had to do what every good parent has to do from time to time -- absolutely nothing.  I simply sat on my hands and bit my tongue.  Suffice to say, my tongue is perforated.

It's a hard thing to watch your kid make a mistake.  It's miserable to sit on the sidelines while they learn "the hard way."

Nevertheless, there are lessons we all have to learn.  One of them is how to say, "I'm sorry."

A good "I'm sorry" resolves a myriad of issues. I'm not talking about one of those through-the-teeth and half-unspoken, "I'm sorry" (and silently, that you ran full force into my clenched fist.)  Or, "I'm sorry that your feelings were hurt" because you're such a wimp.  Or, "I'm sorry" that I got caught.  Or worst of all, "I'm sorry" that my mom is making me apologize.

I'm talking about a selfless, "I made a mistake, please forgive me, what can I do to make this better?" that eases the pain of the recipient and the provider.

Empathy can be a tough thing to teach.  But as my own kids hear over and over again, in addition to being the "right" thing to do, apologizing and admitting your error can make you feel better.

It's our job as parents to help them learn this, and the sooner the better.

So I've got a question for the various CEOs and bonus-hoarders and investment bankers and Ponzi-schemers currently making headlines and devastating American families and institutions alike:  Does your mother know what you're up to?

Actually, I've got quite a few questions.  Were you raised in a barn?  Do I have to call your father?  Where are your parents?  Isn't there something you'd like to say?

Yes!  Lawyers be damned, there is something you need to say.  Two words.  1) I'm.  2) Sorry.

Groveling isn't required, but surely would work in your favor.  Belly-crawling would be fine by me, as well.  I'd even accept tears, but since I suspect you'd only be able to muster the alligator variety, I won't insist.

To be sure, this mess is so deep and so smelly that an apology wouldn't actually fix anything, but it might ease the pain of some of your many victims.  And, if, down the road, leniency is ever an option, a heartfelt and well-rendered apology may work to your benefit.  OK.  Probably not in this life, but maybe in the next.

My son's seventh grade science teacher had a phrase that comes to mind --  "Man up."  When any of the boys in class shirked their responsibilities or complained about the workload, she'd summon a sharp, "Man up!" to remind them to behave accordingly.  I love how much meaning is packed into that one phrase.  Man up:  Stop thinking only of yourself, you are better than this, do the right thing, we expect more of you, take responsibility.  Man up.

That's my advice to Wall Street:  "Man up."  Apologize.  And start setting this right.

If your mom is Southern, she'd probably point out that proffering a plate of cheese wafers wouldn't hurt, either.  Some of the best apologies are catered.  This recipe makes about 300, which isn't nearly enough for the mess you've made.  But combined with a good, old-fashioned "I'm sorry," it's a start.

Cheese Wafers

These crackers are the perfect nibble at cocktail parties.  The recipe is easily halved, but I prefer to make a larger batch and then, freeze half of the dough "logs," to be thawed and baked as needed.

1 lb. extra sharp NY cheddar cheese (alternatively, use 1/2 lb. cheddar and 1/2 lb. blue cheese, crumbled), grated

1 lb. unsalted butter, room temperature

2 teaspoons kosher salt

4 cups flour

1/2 - 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

2-3 tablespoons poppy seeds

2 cups pecans, chopped (optional)

Beat butter until light and fluffy.  Stir in cheese, salt, cayenne pepper and poppy seeds.  Gradually stir and mash in flour.  Eventually, you'll have to use your hands to incorporate all of the flour, because dough will be very crumbly, and then, stiff.  Using your hands, incorporate the pecans.  (Be patient, this takes a while.)  When all ingredients are incorporated, break off a chunk of dough about the size of your fist and roll it out into a log.  I prefer my wafers small, so my "log" is usually slightly larger than the diameter of a quarter.  If you're feeling fancy, you can then roll the log in any extra poppy seeds or nuts (or even kosher salt -- lightly!).  Wrap the log in plastic wrap, and repeat with remaining dough.  Refrigerate logs for at least four hours (or as long as four days).  To bake, preheat oven to 400.  Remove plastic wrap from log, and, using a serrated knife, slice into 1/4" thick wafers.  (Note:  dough will not rise or spread.  What you cut is what you get.)  Place wafers on parchment paper on a baking sheet and bake approximately 10 minutes, or until lightly golden.