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.

First Dance, First Kiss, First Dinner.

The instant my Darling (and Drowsy) Daughter pried open her sleep-sanded eyes this morning, I recognized it. Although nearly 60 hours had passed since her first dance (Friday night), she was still enshrouded in that ethereal, walking-on-air, anything-can-happen, post-dance fog. Even as she finally floated out the door to school, precious, girlish memories of that evening were still swarming around her, with odd bits clinging to her hair and fingertips.

Parents of infants are trained to note "firsts." The first time they roll over, the first time they sit up, and first foods. (Huh. Oddly similar to pet-training, isn't it?)

Then, it's all about those first words, the first time they eat unassisted, and eventually, mercifully, the first day without diapers.

All of the sudden, we don’t get to witness their firsts. First day at school, first sleepover, first test. First crush, first dance, first date, first kiss. We have to rely on our kids (or more likely, their chatty, less-inhibited friends) to share even the tiniest, splintered details.

My own first kiss was less than magical. Memorable, yes -- but not in a good way. Disastrous is more accurate. A slimy disaster. Like a bad sci-fi movie. We seventh graders were playing Spin the Bottle, when despite the odds, the bottle spun by my so-called boyfriend slowed to point squarely at me. We'd never kissed before, and I was thrilled. My heart pounded. As we leaned toward each other, images from movies and books flooded my mind. I may have swooned. I may have heard a host of heavenly angels.

For about half a second. Eeeewwww. What a disappointment.

Although I'd bet he has no recollection of the event, in my mind, that awkward kiss was a deal-breaker. We broke up the following Monday, and for the next 5½ years -- until we graduated high school and I went to college -- I avoided all contact -- even eye contact -- with him. Ick.

The first meal I ever prepared was more successful – but only slightly. It was a typical, sticky, swampy summer day in Charleston, and I was -- no kidding -- eight years old. I knew what the day held. Phoebe, our housekeeper/maid/babysitter (this was before the rise of nannies) would surely send us out for the day, with the usual admonishment, “I don’t even want to see you children again until lunch.”

But that day I had a plan. I couldn’t go out and play, I insisted. I wanted to make dinner. Seeing as how Phoebe didn’t cook, she agreed to let me have at it. Either I was an convincing liar, or Phoebe had mis-placed her confidence in an eight-year-old. I didn’t know which, but I didn’t care.

I dug through the chest freezer and plowed through The Joy Of Cooking -- looking for ingredients and ideas, so I could compose my menu. Iced tea with mint and lemon. Mashed potatoes, which looked easy because I was actually pretty good with a peeler. Waldorf Salad, which I’d never even heard of, but since we had the basic ingredients (apples, celery, nuts, mayonnaise) I hoped would add an exotic twist. Green beans (canned) were a foregone conclusion, as they were the only vegetable everyone in the family agreed upon. And finally, the piece de resistance – pork roast.

The recipe looked simple enough. Pat the roast down with flour, garlic powder, salt and pepper, and put it in the oven for 25 min./lb. I wasn’t sure why they tacked that “/lb.” on there, but then again, I didn’t understand a lot of things. I was eight. If Mrs. Looper had ever mentioned such a thing in our third grade class, I didn’t remember it. It seemed insignificant, like the way the Waldorf Salad recipe required a “fine dice” for the apples. Whatever.

I made a list and began tackling it. Because I was so eager to have the meal prepared, I put the roast in at about 2:00 p.m., figuring I’d just warm it back up when my parents got home at 5:30 p.m.

I was stunned and confused when I checked the roast at 2:25 p.m. It wasn't brown and succulent. It hadn’t changed color in the slightest. I consulted Phoebe (remember, not exactly a culinary wizard), and we agreed it probably needed a little more time. I kept the roast in the oven, opening and closing the door at five minute intervals, for another 20 minutes, when it finally lost that raw pink color on the outside.

True, it wasn't exactly brown, but I remember thinking, perfect, as I turned off the oven. (Plainly, we hadn't studied trichinosis in third grade, either.) I filled the remainder of the afternoon finishing up the other dishes, setting the table and thinking of all the witty ways I’d announce to my parents that I, all by myself, had cooked dinner!

When Mom got home at 5:30 p.m., she listened to my boastful description of the afternoon, and then, gaped, horrified, at the practically raw, now room temperature, five-pound, bone-in, grayish porcine slab, resting in a pool of pink juices in the oven. I could provide graphic details, but in a nutshell: my dad declared that we needed another dinner plan, my brother couldn’t believe how dumb I was, my sister just wanted to go to bed, and I sobbed hysterically.

Mom persisted, though: We were having roast for dinner. Even, she proclaimed, if it meant eating at midnight. In truth, it didn't take quite that long, but it was a good 2 ½ hours later – well past my baby sister’s bedtime – when we ate. After all the tears, my eyes were swollen nearly shut. I could scarely taste anything. It was one of the finest meals ever.

To this day, I still enjoy a good pork roast, although I usually cook it on the grill now and not in the oven. It's pretty basic. A beef pot roast, I think, can pose a bigger challenges, but even so, there are only two tricks. One, Lipton Onion Soup mix is not enough. You've got to have other ingredients to give your pot roast enough depth of flavor. Two, you've got to cook it way longer than any recipe ever tells you. It may not quite compare to a first dance or first kiss, but still, it's pretty darn good.

Beef Pot Roast
3-4 pound chuck roast

olive oil

2 onions, cut in half lengthwise and sliced thinly

10-12 baby carrots, cut in 1/2-inch chunks

1 rib celery, chopped

3-4 cloves garlic, minced

generous splash of red wine (about 1/2 cup)

fresh ground pepper

bay leaf

1 packet Lipton Onion Soup mix

1 cup water

Thinly coat the bottom of a large, heavy-duty lidded skillet with oil. Heat until oil is rippling, then brown both sides of roast well.  Remove roast from pan, and stir in onions. Saute until translucent, then add carrots and celery. Continue sauteeing until carrots are slightly browned. Stir in garlic and continue cooking another 2-3 minutes.  Return browned roast to pan, adding wine, pepper, bay leaf, soup mix and water. Cover, and cook over low heat 3-4 hours until roast is absolutely fork tender. Using fork, pull apart roast and serve over egg noodles with broth.

On Gardening, Baseball and Dancing -- Hopefully, With Dilled Dip.

I did it. Again.

I visited my neighborhood gardening center today to get a couple of "filler" plants for the yard. I had a list. The actual plan was for three filler plants. All right -- if you insisted on counting each individual plant, it would have totaled five, but I'd planned to consider the three silver coral bells as a single item. (I know. That kind of thinking does not win me any friends in the 10-item-only checkout lane.)

It was a fine plan. But 30 minutes later, after perambulating the aisles and at one point, exhorting another shopper to "buy more!" (she plainly didn't have enough -- she didn't even have a cart), I ended up with a trunkload of plants. Deja vu all over again. Shoving even one more verbena, salvia or butterfly bush into the back of the Pilot would have required a crowbar. Or a good-sized sumo wrestler.

What was I thinking? Not thinking, actually, but hoping?

In a way, it's been a weekend packed with hope Chez Wiles. After enduring a fairly, or let's be honest, wholly miserable school baseball season, my son began a new rec league baseball season. Being 14, he tried to keep his hopes in check for this weekend's season-opener, but still, a victory would've been a thrilling start to the new season. Some time on the mound would've been even better. And a monster hit, a bona fide ego-distender.

And what could be more hopeful -- or hope-filled -- than my daughter's weekend? Friday was her first middle school dance -- and she spent most of the preceding 634 waking hours hoping that her outfit would be cute enough, that her hair would be smooth enough, that she wouldn't embarrass herself, and that someone, anyone, that one, would ask her to dance.

Like some kind of Disney channel movie, it was all good. On the baseball front, despite a second-inning injury, my son helped his team pick up a win -- both with his pitching and his hitting. More surprising, despite expectations of Kilimanjaro-esque proportions, that first dance was everything my daughter had hoped. She and her girlfriends had a sleepover later that night, and their breathless giggling and gushing descriptions made my own heart skip a beat.

That hopefulness was bound to spill over, and so it did -- into the aisles of the Lowe's gardening center today. I really had no business buying more plants. When I began spring planting, my very first trunkload of purchases included a dill plant. (To see that post, click here.) In my mind, though, the dill was a kind of disposable purchase. I'm inordinately fond of the herb, but never had any success growing it. Six weeks later though, either through my own dumb luck or its own sheer tenacity, the dill is still here. Now what?

I minced some over our baked potatoes tonight. I know I can fold it into scrambled eggs, or stir it with melted butter and lemon to drizzle over salmon, but I think I want to try something new: An herbed dip. I'll admit right now that the following recipe is one that I'm making up as I type, but the proportions look right, and really, how can you go wrong with dill and cream cheese? Here's hoping ...

Dilled Dip

1 8-ounce package cream cheese, at room temp

1/2 cup sour cream

1/4 cup mayonnaise

1 small bunch (thickness of your index finger) of chives

2 tablespoons fresh dill, minced

1/4 cup fresh parsley, minced

2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

1 teaspoons kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

You could drop all the ingredients in a food processor and give it a whirl, but to make the dip by hand, start by mashing the cream cheese with a fork, until it's smooth. Incorporate sour cream, one spoonful at a time, and then, mayonnaise. Stir in herbs, lemon juice and seasoning, adjusting seasoning as needed. Serve with chips or crudites.