In My Next Life, I Want To Come Back As My Cat.

Last night, our indoor cat, Lionel, escaped. Twice. This, despite the mantra of my every waking moment: You're an indoor cat, you're an indoor cat, you're an indoor cat.

The word cat, I suppose, is key. Our furry feline undoubtedly hears me as if I'm one of the adults in It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

Wah, wah-wah, wah-wah.

Anyhow. He slipped out. Bedlam ensued. Children scurried. Flashlights flickered. Catnip scattered. After a few panicky minutes, though, I had to wonder, “Exactly why is this a crisis?”

Honestly. When I was growing up, pets came and pets went – indoors, outdoors, around the block, in the lake. Wherever. Not that I didn’t miss them when they were “gone,” like Mikey, the parakeet we had when I was a toddler, who reportedly “flew away,” but in truth, had been found earlier that day on his little birdy back, rigor mortis-stiffened feet in the air. Or Snowball, my first cat, who reportedly “ran away,” but in truth had taken a long, one-way car ride. (I learned both these truths on a visit home as an adult, after more than one tongue-loosening glass of wine. Rough night.)

In the 60s and 70s, dogs were not only unleashed -- I didn’t know a family who even owned a leash.

Lassie didn’t have a leash. Neither did Tiger, of The Brady Bunch fame. We might have seen a leash sometime on TV. But only on a fancy dog. Like a poodle. In a fancy city. Like New York City. Or Paris, France.

Our family dog, Snoopy Bonaparte Fountain, was no poodle. He was a loud, quarrelsome, battle-scarred black dachshund who had no idea that the only animal closer to the ground than him was a Palmetto bug (a.k.a., roach). He didn't need no stinkin' leash. He didn’t even have a collar -- unless you counted the occasional plain white plastic Hart’s flea collar looped around his neck. I wasn’t a bully as a kid, but if I’d ever seen a dog with an engraved "My Name Is SNOOPY" tag, I’d have been forced to call that dog a sissy. Or worse.

My similarly collar-less childhood cat, Smokey Jo, was also free to come and go. Except for that night she kept yowling and yowling and yowling and rubbing herself on the furniture, and my parents said, “Do NOT open the door for that cat. Under ANY circumstances.”

Being an obedient child, I did NOT open the front door for Smokey. Or the back door. Or the door to the garage. Eventually, though, I did open my bedroom window for her.

Funny story. Turns out my parents were right. There WERE boy cats out there that night. Or, at least one. Because a few months later, Smokey (nee “Minuit” – French for “midnight” -- which my bullheaded family refused to call her) gave birth to four spicy kittens, Ginger, Pepper, Nutmeg and Cinnamon.<

Shortly thereafter, we paid a visit to Dr. Murray's veterinary clinic to get Smokey "fixed."

I never knew she was broken.

So last night, when Lionel tried on the life of a refugee, I didn’t panic. I knew he’d be back. He may see himself as a rebel, but in truth, he’s one pampered pussycat. Outside was hot, dirty and dark. It didn’t take long for Lionel to reveal his true Mike Tyson personality. Fierce. Belligerent. With a ridiculously tiny, high-pitched voice. Lionel responded loud, clear and pathetically when we called him. Unlike the notorious pugilist, though, our pampered indoor cat didn't lisp.

So welcome back, Lionel. We knew you’d return. The only question now is whether you came back because you missed us -- or because we were having Shrimp and Grits for dinner.

Wah, wah-wah, wah-wah.

I probably don’t want to know.

Super Simple Shrimp & Grits

This zesty casserole version of shrimp and grits is perfect for supper, but I like it even better for breakfast. If you do too, you can save time by making it the day before and keeping it refrigerated 'til morning.

4 cups chicken broth

1 cup regular (not instant) grits

1 8 oz. package grated cheddar/jack cheese, divided

2 tablespoons butter

6 green onions, chopped

1 green bell pepper, chopped

1 clove garlic, minced

1 lb. shrimp (smaller is better), cooked and peeled

1 (10 oz.) can diced tomatoes with mild green chilies (Ro-Tel), drained

Bring chicken broth to a boil in large saucepan; stir in grits. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 20 minutes. Stir in all but 1/4 cup of grated cheese. In a separate skillet, melt butter; add green onions, bell pepper, and garlic, sauté 5 minutes, or until tender. Stir green onion mixture into grits. Add shrimp and tomatoes. Pour into a lightly greased 2-quart baking dish. Top with remaining 1/4 cheese. Bake at 350 for 30-45 minutes. If refrigerated, adjust cooking time (as grits will be cold) accordingly. Serves 6-8.

Simply Wonderful Wings

I am not daunted by lengthy ingredient lists.

On the contrary, I pride myself on quickly scanning a list and categorizing the ingredients – spices, fridge items, pantry items, special-purchase items, etc. Oftentimes, what seems to be an overwhelming list is merely clogged with spices (even the most basic pumpkin pie has four – cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and cloves) or “starter” ingredients (olive oil, onions, garlic, bell pepper and garlic are the foundation of many a soup or sauce), or the occasional “show-off” items. (Really, are shallots necessary in a boullabaise that already includes onions, garlic, and leeks? And I'm still trying to figure out what yuzu -- a Japanese citrus fruit that managed to pop up on nearly every Top Chef episode this past season -- looks like.)

So this past weekend, when Darling Daughter begged me to make her aunt’s and uncle’s “Greek Wings,” I didn’t flinch.

Actually, Greek Wings (I know -- it sounds like something excavated from an ancient Athenian archaeological site) is just one recipe in my sister and brother-in-law’s wing repertoire, which includes Buffalo Wings, BBQ Wings and Teriyaki Wings. DD insisted, though, that the “Greeks” were the best. (Already I know that my Greek brother-in-law, G-BIL, will relish repeating that phrase out of context.) The Greek Wings are grilled, DD revealed and they have the best sauce ever.

That, my friends, was the sound of the gauntlet being thrown.

Being 12, however, DD had no idea what the sauce included. I was horrified to realize that she didn’t even care! I pressed on, though. Was it creamy? I asked, envisioning a tangy cucumber-yogurt tzatziki. Was it chunky -- maybe with Kalamata olives, feta and preserved lemon? Was it zesty – maybe riffing on traditional Greek salad dressing with olive oil, wine vinegar and oregano?

Her answer remained firm. And to make sure her pushy 46-year-old mom got the point, DD cranked the volume: I DON’T KNOW.

Okkkaaaaaayyy. Plan B.

Luckily, G-BIL was happy to oblige. He even sent pictures (which makes it even more embarrassing that it took me a week to post this blog). Turns out, those Greek Wings are the best. And here’s a shocker: Not including the wings themselves, the ingredient list numbered three – and with the wings, just four!

Yep. Keep your shallots and preserved lemon and arcane fruits (I still want to know what yuzu tastes like, though). These three-ingredient wings are going to become regulars on our backyard grill.

G-BIL’s Greek Wings

½ cup lemon juice

½ cup olive oil

1-2 teaspoons Cavender’s Greek Seasoning, plus extra for sprinkling

chicken wings (a couple of pounds), cut into pieces, tips discarded (or frozen for broth)

Mix lemon juice, olive oil and seasoning in a large bowl. Stir in wings (can allow to marinate for an hour, if you like). Then, grill wings slowly over low heat. When wings are nearly done, baste liberally with remaining Greek sauce. Continue grilling and basting until wings are done. (Don’t baste wings the final two minutes or so.) DD likes hers extra “saucy,” so remaining marinade can be zapped in the microwave to be served at the table.

Hi. I'm Cheri, and I'm Vitamin D Deficient

Here’s a poorly-concealed fact about me: I like to get things right.

Part of it is because I’m the oldest of three kids. A lot was expected of me and I’m here to tell you – I was eager to deliver.

When I say a lot was expected consider this: Mom began potty-training me at … don't even try to guess … three months. This, despite the fact that, according to my baby book, I couldn’t even sit up until a month later. That didn’t hold me back, of course. I was dry through the night before my first birthday. (Sure, other people might be reticent to boast about something they did 45 years ago, but not me. You know why? You betcha. 'Cause I got it right.)

No shock, then, that in school, I was that annoying kid who wanted to be an achiever. Don’t pretend you don’t know who that kid was in your class. Every grade had one, and if you can’t provide that kid’s first and last name and an embarrassing example of their unabashed, smarmy apple-polishing -- well then, I feel sorry for you. Take a gander in the mirror. Looks like you were that kid.

I haven’t been in a classroom for about 25 years now, but my need to succeed never faded. It’s a nasty trait, but it’s there when I’m cooking, when I’m driving, when I’m writing, when I’m training the dog and even when I’m folding laundry. I want to get things right. It even oozes over into areas of my life over which I have virtually no control.

I beam when a nurse reports that my blood pressure is “perfect.” Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? My weight? Just fine. My temperature? A cool 98.4. Urinalysis? No problems whatsoever. My vision? Surprisingly (to everyone except me, of course) good.

So when my doctor recently told me it was time for a routine Vitamin D test, I was practically eager to hear the results.

To be sure, even during routine tests, it does occur to me that something could go wrong. What if -- for example -- my vision isn’t perfect:? And I have to get glasses? And because my new prescription glasses are delayed, I mistakenly deliver the kids to the wrong summer camp? And instead of sailing, they're taught to juggle and swing on a flying trapeze? And then, instead of returning home and running into my welcoming arms, they run away with the circus? Without their phone chargers? So they can’t even call me? And since I didn’t give them pre-addressed envelopes, they can’t write to me, either? Then what? Is it now my job to clean the cat litter boxes -- just because my eyesight faltered?

I digress.

Back to Vitamin D. Really. Are you kidding me?

Imagine my surprise when, a week later, my doctor mailed a letter telling me that my blood sugar is fine, my thyroid is 1.76 (apparently okey dokey), my CBC (sorry, I have no idea) is normal, my cholesterol is chockfull of the good, life-extending cholesterol, but I am Vitamin D deficient.

Deficient? Ouch. That hurts.

C’mon! Vitamin D? OK. It is true that I never drink milk except in the form of a venti, non-fat, no-foam chai from Starbucks. But as a baseball mom, I spend ample time in outdoors in the bleachers and get gracious plenty sun. Doesn't that help my body make its own D?

Panicked, I turned to my Mac keyboard and Googled “Vitamin D deficiency.”

Wheeeewwww. OK. I can breathe a little easier now. Looks like there’s no relationship between wine consumption and D deficiency. So plainly, it’s not my fault.

However, as it turns out, researchers are realizing that many, if not most, women are Vitamin D deficient. I also learn that Vitamin D deficiency can be a factor in many serious diseases, including cancer, heart disease, and most obviously, osteoporosis. And listen to these symptoms of deficiency: weak bones, low energy, symptoms of depression, mood swings and sleep irregularities.

I know, right? We all thought that was all just part and parcel of being me!

Treating a D deficiency is easy. I take a prescription supplement once a week for 12 weeks and will be re-tested in a year. Tah. Dah.

I’m also trying to eat more D-rich foods, including fortified orange juice and eggs. Embarrassingly, I still can’t force myself to choke down a glass of milk. However, my "deficiency" (which I now choose to embrace as a “quirk”) made it easy to render a quick “yes,” when Darling Daughter requested (D-rich) tuna sandwiches this weekend.

As I may have mentioned, I do like to get things right.

(To learn more about Vitamin D deficiencies, which may affect as many as 85% of American women, check this website, http://www.womentowomen.com/healthynutrition/vitamind.aspx)

Tuna Salad Sandwiches

When I was a kid, we stretched this recipe to make five sandwiches. I'm an adult now, and Chez Wiles, the same recipe makes two hearty sandwiches. On whole wheat bread, of course.
One can tuna, packed in olive oil, drained
1/4 onion, minced
1/2 large kosher pickle, cubed
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons mayonnaise
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
Generous grinding black pepper


In a medium mixing bowl, stir together drained tuna, celery, onion and pickle. Don't mash. Stir in lemon juice and mayonnaise. Season with salt and pepper and adjust seasoning as needed.