Paving My (Well-Traveled) Road To Hell

The kids are away this weekend.  My daughter snagged an invite to birthday beach party in Charleston.  My son is testing his freshly healed and reconditioned rotator cuff by sea kayaking at a another Charleston beach.  And no, neither has any concept how lucky they are.  (Truly, what did you do with your weekends growing up?  Getaways to the most beautiful beaches in America -- where we visited just last weekend?  Or chores?  Me, too.)

Naturally, when friends hear that I'm kid-free for 48 hours, they can't prevent themselves from asking, "Whatever will you do with all that free time?"

Umm.  Hmm.  Well.  I suppose I could clean out that coat closet.  It'd be nice to be able to close it without a strength training class.  My daughter's jewelry-making beads seem to have spilled across the tile floor in the sunroom.  Someone should definitely take care of that.  And given that the coming week holds, at a minimum, three baseball games, two baseball practices, two music lessons, a school concert, a Scout meeting, a parent meeting and a doctor's appointment, a smart single mom would use this time to stash a few meals in the fridge and freezer.

My high school English teacher used to admonish, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."  Given that my relationship with project due dates and term paper deadlines at that time could best described as an open relationship, I was a frequent recipient of this cautionary tale.  I'd cringe as she delivered the message.  And I was conflicted:  Did I feel guilty?  Or worried that she might be fired for using such language?  She was a good teacher.  I would've missed her.

But now, it's already Sunday afternoon.  My son's about to return, and his sister will be on his heels.  The closet's still choked, the beads sprawled, the meals unmade.  What did I do this weekend?

Nothing, I guess.  But wait.  I did laugh for nearly four solid hours Friday night.  I got together with some work friends from 15 years ago, who are among the wittiest, quickest, most self-deprecating storytellers I know.   As one friend pointed out, the punchline to nearly every story was, "Needless to say, we didn't get that account."  I guess you had to be there.  I wasn't quite to the point of tears streaming down my cheeks.  However, I may have identified a new marketing angle for Depends.

I was still smiling -- and occasionally laughing out loud -- Saturday morning.  I guess that's when the rest of the weekend went to hell.  (I'm not a high school English teacher, so I can use that language.)  I got my hair cut.  I Facebooked.  I drank wine.  I watched an indulgent chick flick.  OK.  Actually, I watched two, but fell asleep during the second.  I already knew that Meg Ryan figures out, in the end, that it was Tom Hanks all along.

Sunday morning, I was still smiling.  I planted more herbs to supplement the ones that didn't succumb to the freezing temps and hail of a week ago.  I shopped.  Sure, I did a couple of household maintenance things, but nothing I want to brag about.

And I'm still smiling.  More important, I don't feel guilty.  Scientists insist that laughter is good medicine.  If so, I'm pretty darn healthy this weekend.  To welcome the kids home, I'm going to make something that always makes them smile, "Beer Butt Chicken."

The name alone does it, right?

Plus, it's always good, always juicy, and is guaranteed to start our meal off with a smile.

I'll get to the closet, the beads and the meals.  It's not as if I'm still in high school.  But for tonight, we're going to smile and laugh and enjoy being back together.

Beer Butt Chicken

Truly, the name is a bit of a misnomer, as you can replace the beer with Coke, for that matter, and it's still really good.  And I think most people refer to it as "Beer Can Chicken" anyhow.  But right now, I'm going with what makes me smile!

1 whole chicken (about 4 lbs.)

1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon (about) fresh ground pepper

1 teaspoon (about) fresh rosemary

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Zest of one lemon

1 clove garlic, minced

2 additional cloves of garlic, peeled

1 sprig of rosemary

1 can of cold beer

Preheat the grill.  You'll be cooking the chicken on "indirect" heat.

On a cutting board, using a chef's knife, "cut" together the spices, the lemon zest and minced clove of garlic.  You'll end up with a "rub" which you'll use on the chicken.  Make sure to rub it in well, over the entire chicken, including under the skin.  As you're rubbing the seasoning under the skin, try to loosen the skin as much as possible from the bird, which will improve the browning and crisping of the skin.

Drink the top off the beer.  The can should now be about 2/3 full.  Drop in the additional garlic and rosemary.

Taking care not to spill it, put the beer can in the chicken's, ahem, cavity.  Position the chicken, standing up on the beer can, over indirect heat, on the grill.  Tuck the wings behind the bird, so they don't splay out.  Use the chicken legs to make sure everything balances.

Close lid and cook for about one hour or until done (when juices run clear).

Let rest 10-15 minutes before carving.

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.

There's Only One Place They Call Me One Of Their Own

It startles -- and probably concerns -- my children on those rare occasions when someone asks me where I'm from, and I name my hometown -- Charleston.

Their confusion is understandable.  Charlotte, not Charleston, is the only home they've ever known.  Besides, I haven't lived in Charleston for nearly 30 years.  In a way, it's just one more item tacked on the ever-lengthening list of "Ways Mom Is Losing Her Mind."  (This list, which includes things as mundane as "Can't Remember Where The Car Is Parked" and "Called My Friend 'Sugar'" and "Asked How Many Vegetables I've Eaten Today" is not as long as the list of "Ways Mom Embarrasses Us," but there are some redundancies between the two.)

A friend claims that Charleston is a balm to my soul.  He's right (a nasty habit which I overlook, because, well, he's often right).  When I roll over the bridge on the way to James Island, I eagerly roll down the windows, hoping for that funky, decaying, salty smell that signals low tide, and which, to the unfamiliar, smells like something that maybe needs to be flushed.

Sure, given its balmy breezes, overwhelming history and unceasing charm, Charleston is popular with lots of people.  But it's not home to lots of people.  Home is home, whether it's Aiken or Atlanta or Summerton or San Francisco.  There's an odd comfort in returning to the place where we're as well known for our flaws as for our achievements.

When I'm home, my mom knows I can cook, but she also knows full well about my need to be right, my inability to be patient in the face of stupidity, and my intolerance for bad table manners (with the exception of mine, in which case, I'm just being funny, not rude).

My dad knows that although I've got plenty of good intentions (with which I'm undoubtedly paving a highway to hell), when it comes to certain situations (and relatives), I am downright harsh.  He also is aware that I've gotten away with plenty of things by insisting that I'm not a good liar (except on rare occasions when I am).

My sister.  Well, what doesn't my sister know?

Still, when I go home, they welcome me, they feed me, they take care of me.  Sure, they may buy me drinks, too, but that's not why I go.

It's home -- H-O-M-E.  One day, my kids will feel that same way about their own hometown -- with its incredible canopy of trees, clean streets and street names that suddenly change without rhyme or reason.

Until then, they'll have to tolerate my affection for my own hometown, and my understandable craving for the seafood of my childhood.  This dip is actually named for McClellanville,  a small coastal town just above Charleston, known for its fishing and shrimping.  I never actually even ate it growing up, but the tastes are so familiar, it always reminds me of home.

McClellanville Caviar
This is the dip the folks always crowd around at a party.  Serve it with big, hearty chips -- Fritos Scoopers, for example.  The next day, you can also scoop any leftovers onto a bed of lettuce for a quick salad or fold it into an omelet.

1 1/2 pounds cooked shrimp

1 16-ounce can black beans, rinsed and drained

1/4 cup finely chopped bell pepper

1/2 cup finely chopped Vidalia onion

1 1/2 cups prepared salsa

1/4 cup fresh lime juice

2 tablespoons honey

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

Finely chop shrimp (or even quicker, carefully pulse about 20-30 seconds in food processor).  Toss shrimp with remaining ingredients.  Taste for seasoning (particularly salt and lime juice).  Cover and refrigerate for 8 hours, stirring occasionally.  Serve with chips.  (Keeps for 2-3 days.)