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.

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.