Just Like They Make It In Peru.

Just to be clear, I will not be cooking guinea pig tomorrow.  Will not.

Ditto for beef heart.  Not gonna do it.

This is relevant, because for the past four months, my daughter's sixth grade humanities class has been working on "International Day."  Students are assigned countries from around the world, researching the culture, geography, history and yes, cuisine.  The only part requiring parental assistance -- or more accurately, parental intervention -- is the cuisine portion.  For tomorrow night's International Day Festival, we're to bring food representative of the student's assigned country.

Perfect.  Because really, who better to intervene than me?

Of course it's not that easy.  Never is.  Darling Daughter's assigned country is Peru.  Riiiiiiiiiiiiiggghhht.  Peru.

A quick Google search turns up a number of recipes, including such national favorites as beef heart and guinea pig.  Apparently, beef heart (anticuchos) is a popular casserole dish.  I actually enjoy a good casserole, but this one doesn't have to touch my tastebuds for me to know that I'm anti-anticuchos.  Guinea pigs (cuyes) can be prepared any number of ways -- grilled, roasted, fried, stewed and baked.  (No mention of Bubba Gump-style gumbo, pilaf and scampi.)  However, since none of the cuyes actually survive to spin the wheels in their little cages another day, I can't go there, either.

I interrogate Darling Daughter:  Why couldn't you get France?  Croissants, boeuf bourgogne, coq au vin?  Sign me up.  How about England?  Shepherd's pie may not be the most sought-after dish in middle school, but at least it's familiar.  And Mexico?  Hello, four-one-one, can you give me the number to Taco Bell?  

I'd even go with Australian Vegemite (yeast paste) sandwiches before noshing on a pet.   Or a rodent.  Or a pet rodent.

(As an aside, it does tickle my funnybone to imagine going to my neighborhood Harris Teeter and asking Frank the Butcher for a couple dozen guinea pigs, gutted, skinned and butterflied as described in one recipe.  But I digress.)

Hey!  Isn't Juan Valdez of the coffee commercials from Peru?  My dear friends at Starbucks could cater!  Except, sadly, a Google search indicates that Juan isn't from Peru.  He's from Colombia.  Which means he's got other problems on his plate.  And probably wishes he lived in Peru.

Still, I may be on to something.  A Peruvian beverage might be just the ticket.  Pisco sours look interesting.  But I suspect Darling Daughter would be transferred to another school, posthaste, if I were to serve Peruvian brandy to 100 kids and parents.

Just when I'm ready to throw up my hands, I see it.  Quinoa Salad.  Who knew?  Even though I've never made it before, I'm certain it will work.   And given the alternative, I bet I can even get Darling Daughter to give it a taste.  More to come ...

PS -- Darling Daughter concurs that the salad was very tasty and should become a regular staple here at the Wiles house.  It may not be authentic, as I adjusted some of the quantities to my taste, but still, it's very good!

Quinoa Salad

6 cups cooked quinoa (more, of course, if you're cooking for 100), cooled

1 jalapeno pepper, seeded and finely chopped

1 seedless cucumber, cut in fine dice

2 roma tomatoes, diced

1/4 cup fresh mint, chopped

1/3 cup fresh lime juice

2/3 cup extra virgin olive oil

2 teaspoons kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

1 head iceberg lettuce, shredded (optional)

In a large bowl, whisk together lime juice, olive oil, salt and pepper until creamy.  Gently fold in remaining ingredients.  If desired, serve over bed of shredded lettuce.  Garnish with additional mint leaves if desired.  Be glad you're not eating guinea pig.

Hello. I Am The Worst Mom Ever.

I want my crown. Scepter, too, because as it turns out, I am The Worst Mom Ever.

I have no doubt, because I heard it from someone to whom I am mom. I suspect most of the neighbors also heard, as yesterday had been a lovely day (weather-wise, anyhow), and our screen door was open when the announcement was made loudly, forcefully and more than once. Neighborhood dogs were treated to their own, distinct, high-pitched version. Because Indignant Beloved Child and I were inside, no one else witnessed the accompanying eye-rolling, snorting and foot-stamping, but surely those within earshot could come up with a pretty good visual.

Worst. Mom. Ever. WME.

Like I haven't heard that before.

Little did Indignant Beloved Child (IBC) realize that, like many moms, I'd bestowed that particular title on myself as soon as I learned I was pregnant. I hadn't been eating enough potassium! I'd had a glass of wine over the weekend! I'd gained too much weight! I'd slept on the wrong side -- my right! Or was it my left?

That, my friends, was within the first hour of the little white stick turning blue. Witness my coronation. WME.

I continued to terrify myself by poring over What To Expect When You're Expecting. Although written to inform and soothe, any parent can tell you of the fresh nightmares brought in each chapter of that horror story. Like a Stephen King novel, it's one of those books that should be read only in broad daylight.

Post-delivery, I continued the torment with What To Expect The First Year and later, What To Expect: The Toddler Years. If What To Expect: The Teenaged Years were ever published, I could ditch my bedroom furniture for a treadmill and rowing machine. I'd never sleep again.

Nothing really prepares us parents for the size and scope of the problems and potential consequences of our parenting decisions. Sleeping through the night, potty-training, pacifiers and organic versus convenient -- about which we worry incessantly when our kids are tiny -- are dwarfed by later concerns about drinking, driving, friendships, sports, poor-decision-making in general and worse-decision-making in specific.

Some of these concerns we discuss openly in school meetings. Sometimes, we seek confidential advice from our closest friends and family. Still other worries lurk in our hearts and prey on our minds late at night, when everyone else -- seemingly unaware of the pitfalls of wily college applications -- is blissfully asleep.

IBC and I managed to work it out yesterday -- and pretty expediently at that. Although it wasn't exactly a Proud Parenting Moment, I handled the situation by -- giggling. Other Beloved Child pitched in, speaking harshly and disdainfully to IBC, "Huh! Did you really think that would work?"

A few excruciatingly long minutes passed before IBC came around, sticking a Best Mom Ever sign on my back.

Like I believe that. Particularly since, tonight, I'll be sneaking roundly-reviled spinach into the pasta, insisting that it's an abundance of somewhat-less-abhorred parsley.

Where's my crown? And has anyone seen my scepter?

Lemon Shrimp and Pasta

1/2 pound dry pasta (I'd prefer linguini, but I've got penne, so that's what I'm using)

1/2 - 3/4 pound shrimp, peeled (deheaded, if necessary)

1 lemon, zested and juiced (reserve juice for later)

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

1 clove garlic, minced

red pepper flakes

about 1/2 cup dry white wine

about 1/2 cup chicken broth or clam juice

3-4 handfuls of baby spinach, rinsed, stacked and sliced in ribbons

kosher salt

Cook pasta (al dente) in well-salted boiling water and drain. Set aside.

While pasta is cooking, stir together shrimp, olive oil, garlic, one teaspoon of lemon zest and a sprinkle of red pepper flakes.

When pasta is done, place a large skillet over high heat. When skillet is hot, stir in shrimp mixture. Keep stirring, over high heat, so garlic doesn't scorch. When shrimp turn pink, stir in reserved lemon juice (about 2 tablespoons) and wine. Continue cooking another 1-2 minutes, until liquid is reduced and shrimp is cooked through. Stir in spinach, broth and pasta to heat through and wilt spinach. Adjust seasonings and serve hot.

Looks As If I Need To Make My Own Luck

I am, without a doubt, a see-a-penny-pick-it-up, jinx-you-owe-me-a-Coke, lift-your-feet-over-the-railroad-tracks kind of girl.  (I still raise my feet at the railroad crossing by South Windermere in Charleston -- even though those tracks were extricated years ago.)

I have limits, of course.  Despite having a baseball player in the house, I've never indulged in the lucky-unwashed-socks, inside-out-dorky-looking-rally-cap, jockstrap-over-the-head approach to altering life's courses.  Given my age and gender, that's better for all of us.

Still, for much of my life I've felt "luck" was on my side.  I'm somewhat embarrassed to consider how many times I've said, verbatim, I am the luckiest person I know.

I have been lucky -- particularly when it comes to lovable, quick-minded, fun-to-be-with, thought-provoking kids  Before them, I had a career where people paid me -- really good money -- to do what I loved.  Even my recent divorce wasn't as dreadful as it could have been.  We never showed our faces in court.  And I was never arrested for slashing his tires with a machete.  (Just a fantasy.  No reason.)

Still, I can't say I've felt terribly lucky as of late.  Maybe part of luck has to do with perspective.  So here's the question:  Do we make our own luck?

I used to think I was lucky.  And I was.  Then, I didn't think I was lucky, and well, tah-dah -- that's what the inside of the crapper looks like.

Then again, maybe I am.  That Rembrandts' song I adored, but no one else ever listened to 15 years ago (Just The Way It Is, Baby)?  It was playing in a neighborhood shop recently.  Carole King's You've Got A Friend popped up on the radio a few days later.  A vacationing friend asked me to keep an eye on her pool this weekend, and sure enough, it's 78 and sunny.  And get this -- the dill I planted a month ago, with zero expectation of it surviving?  It's thriving.  (See my post, "Hope Springs".)

In the novel I'm currently reading, American Wife (ironic, I know), the main character, apropos of nothing, makes lentil salad.  Although I've never tasted such a thing, I couldn't get it out of my mind.  I determined to make it today.  How hard could it be?  Lentils, some seasoning, fresh veggies and a piquant vinaigrette.

I can't get enough of lentils.  I wasn't looking forward to cooking them, though.  It's already hot and sticky outside, and I didn't want to make the house hotter and stickier still.  Nevertheless, preparing lentils is pretty basic.  Simmer gently in a simple broth including a rib of celery, a carrot and a bay leaf.  Don't season until they're done.  I could handle that.

I headed to my beloved Trader Joe's for ingredients.  Cuke and tomatoes?  Check.  Feta cheese (in brine)?  Natch.  But look at this -- right there on the bottom shelf, where no one would ever think to look -- pre-cooked beluga black lentils. Are you kidding?  Serendipity!

The tiny, tender lentils look like little black pearls.  And there are only two bags.  Sold.  Looks as if I will, indeed, be having lentil salad tonight.  The salad would be great, too, with a slab of grilled salmon.  But I won't press my luck.  I'm doing just fine as it is.

Lentil Salad

1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil

3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

1/2 teaspoon (maybe more, depending on the saltiness of the feta) kosher salt

1 tablespoon fresh chopped dill

fresh ground pepper

3 cups gently cooked lentils (preferably black beluga or French green)

4 ounces feta cheese, crumbled

1/2 of an English cucumber, peeled and diced

20 grape tomatoes, halved

In a large bowl, whisk together vinaigrette ingredients -- oil, lemon juice, salt, dill and pepper.

Gently stir in remaining ingredients.  Serve at room temperature.  Omigosh.