I'm OK, But Could Someone Tell Me What To Do About This Bathroom Paint?

Crap.  (Sorry, Mom.)

When I pulled into the driveway a few days ago, a 20-foot tree limb blocked my usual parking spot.  Again.  Only a few weeks ago another sizable branch had plunged to the lawn, just a few feet from this one, leaving a significant divot.

Even though an arborist trimmed the deadwood last fall, these things happen -– particularly with the recent blustery, wet weather we’ve had here in Charlotte.  It doesn’t take a seventh grader to know that a spongy, dry, dead branch soaks up a LOT more weighty water than a healthy, impervious, well-attached branch.

Big whoop.  I know where the pruning saw is.  I’ll hack the thing into somewhat more manageable pieces, drag them to the street and pray to God no one witnesses my ineptitude.  That sawing business, I learned last time, is a lot easier, not too mention a lot more fun, when done by other people.  Try though I may, I’ll never achieve that hopped-up, blurry sawing technique demonstrated so effortlessly by the likes of Wile E. Coyote, Foghorn Leghorn, Jerry the Cat and other Saturday morning friends.

The downed branch is a reminder though, that since I’m no longer married, I'm the one in charge.  Of everything.

When the gutters overflow, when the cat mounts a successful escape, when the basement freezer holding 10 meals worth of Folly Beach shrimp defrosts while we’re out of town, when a baby possum dies (disintegrates and practically dissolves) under the house in 90 degree heat, when the master bathroom paint puckers and peels off in name-that-state-shaped latex sheets, it’s all on me. 

I’m "da man."

When you’re married, there’s a certain division of labor.  There’s also a division of knowledge (you know when the car needs new tires, I know when to schedule teacher conferences) and even a division of worry (you worry about saving for college, I’ll worry about our 14-year-old staying out until midnight).   But for nearly two years now, there's been no division.  More like multiplication.

True, I’ve always been fairly independent.  OK, when I was little, I don't think my teachers used the word "independent."  But "bossy" rings a bell.   And perhaps, "doesn't play well with others."  But what I can’t get used to is that I no longer have someone to run my ideas and decisions by.  (“Does this make me look fat?”  “What do you think of this paint color?”)  

On the upside, I guess, I don’t have anyone to run my ideas and decisions by.  ("Hmm.  I want a cat.  Oh looky there.  I got a cat.")

Like dinner tonight.  I like chicken.  But we had chicken last night.  (Panko-Crusted Chicken With Lemon and Dill, recipe to come).  Still, as I said, I like chicken.  And it's my decision.  So guess what’s cooking Chez Wiles tonight?

Yep.  I'm just fine.  But could someone else take a look at this bathroom paint?

Chicken Roll-Ups with Proscuitto & Sage 

My kids love this dish.  It looks special and fun, but is very easy to make, using very few ingredients.  Feel free to substitute herbs (maybe basil or rosemary) or try Virginia ham or pepperoni in place of the proscuitto.  I often serve it with Thyme-Scented Lemon Rice.)

Three boneless chicken breasts, pounded to 1/2 thickness

three fresh sage leaves

three very thin slices proscuitto

zest of one lemon

1/4 cup olive oil

1-2 tablespoons butter

kosher salt

fresh ground pepper

1/4 cup chicken stock

1/4 dry white wine (or 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice)

1 tablespoon capers

Sprinkle each flattened chicken breast with salt, pepper and lemon zest.  Center one sage leaf on each chicken breast (smooth side down).  Lay proscuitto on top. Roll up, fairly tightly from narrow end up.  Secure with toothpicks.

Heat oil and butter in a large skillet (with a lid) over medium high heat.  Brown chicken roll-ups, until browned fairly evenly on all sides.  Reduce heat to low, place lid on skillet, and cook until juices run clear when pricked with a toothpick (about 10 minutes).  

Remove chicken from skillet and deglaze pan with stock and wine.  Stir in capers.  

Slice roll-ups in 1/2 inch slices and pour sauce over.

Cancel The Pity Party. Start The Stir Fry.

I’m a terrible procrastinator.  In the evening, when I’m trying to dodge mundane responsibilities -- like fixing dinner --– my postponement tool of choice is my Mac.  I’ll check e-mail, the school website, Facebook, Twitter, ESPN, Weather.com.  Whatever. (Hard to believe, but I still have the gall to wonder where my kids get it.)

As I postponed the inevitable a few nights ago, I scanned the screen for new messages, cringing as I read the e-mail subject line: Click Here To View Your Evite.  I didn’t need to “click here.”  I knew what it was.  And frankly, party invitations don’t hold the appeal they once did.

In this case, it was one of the grade level "socials" held for parents at my kids' school.  And although benignly labeled as “socials,” there’s one sentence that appears on every invitation, every year, betraying the actual event: This is not a school-sponsored event.

That’s right, folks.  They won't be serving lime sherbet punch and Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. So you know I'm gonna be there.  With bells on.  And a wine glass.

Honest. I know the food will be great and the company better.  It’s always a fun night  -- entertaining, relaxing and best of all, wildly informative.  I"ll get to hear about classmate crushes, classroom hijinks, and if I'm really lucky, stuff about my own kid –- which is all the more valuable when your son or daughter is going through a tight-lipped phase.  Or a tight-lipped lifetime.

A couple of times, I’ve even been responsible for planning these soirees, so I’ve also got a good idea of what the crowd will look like.  Couples.  Couples.  Couples.  And me.

Hey – it’s not their fault I’m divorced.  And the God’s honest truth is that for the past two years, my friends have been supportive in ways I never could’ve anticipated or requested.  Awesome and awe-inspiring, really.  But still, things like these social are now suddenly awkward.  For me and for them.  I feel it the instant I step over the threshold.  Solo.

Sigh.  I decide not to "click here" to view my Evite.  It can wait.  Besides, while I was busy slipping into a funk, another e-mail popped up – this one from a Wry Mom Friend who’s funny, observant, irreverent and always click-worthy.

I click away.  Turns out, WMF wants to know if I’d like to ride with her and her hubbie to the Social.  Dang.  So much for my pity party.  It's hard to feel sorry for yourself when you’ve got such thoughtful friends.  

Constantly and consistently, during my separation, divorce and the aftermath, my friends are always somehow, invisibly, right beside me, showing themselves when I need them most – with a surprise birthday lunch, a Valentine treat, a supportive card, a carpool offer, an encouraging e-mail, dinner when the kids are with their dad, and when the occasion calls for it (and really, what occasion doesn’t?) -- a lovely bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.

I don’t yet know what I’m going to do about the Social.  But I do know that that one thoughtful e-mail propelled me out of my computer chair and over to the stove to get dinner done – a super quick, super easy and nutritious stir-fry – thanks to my friends, visible and not.

Beef And Vegetable Stir-Fry

You can do this with chicken, shrimp or pork.  I used beef because I had a single steak in the freezer that needed to be used.  When you use pre-cut, cleaned vegetables, the dish comes together very quickly.

1 12-oz bag raw, stir-fry vegetables (the brand I use, Eat Smart, includes broccoli, snow peas and carrots)

¼ cup water

2 tablespoons canola oil

1 large filet mignon steak, sliced very thinly, into bite-sized pieces

1 clove garlic, minced

½ teaspoon grated fresh ginger (or ginger paste)

2 tablespoons soy sauce

1 tablespoon cornstarch

½ cup water

3 cups freshly cooked, hot rice

In a large, heavy-duty lidded skillet, steam vegetables with ¼ cup water, until colors become bright, but vegetables are still crisp.  Drain and keep on a separate platter.

Heat oil in skillet over very high heat.  Quickly sauté steak and garlic, until steak is no longer completely pink.  Stir in steamed vegetables and stir fry another minute or so.

In a measuring cup, combine ½ cup water, soy sauce, cornstarch and ginger.  Pour over meat and vegetables, stirring until sauce is clear and thickened.

Serve over hot rice.  Pass additional soy sauce to taste.

Breaking Rules and Making Memories. With blink-182. And My Son.

Yes.  Today is Wednesday, which means last night was a school night. 

And yes, my 14-year-old (Snarky Son) does indeed currently hold a somewhat lower GPA than he -- or rather, we -- would like.  And yes, I knew that when I took him to the blink-182 concert last night.  Which was 40 minutes away.  On a school night.

Don’t judge me. 

blink-182 is SS’s very favorite band.  (Yes, it's a struggle for me to type blink-182 all lowercase.  But with a name like Cheri, who am I to cast stones?)  He knows all their songs.  Half of them he can play on his guitar.  Plus, blink hasn’t toured in years.  This was a reunion tour, so there’s no telling whether they’ll ever tour again.  Plus, a bunch of other kids he knows were going to the concert, too.

Whoa.  Now I sound like the 14-year-old.  But am I wrong to see his point?

Rules are rules, and there are plenty of ‘em Chez Wiles. We’ve got rules for saving money, for donating money and for spending money.  We’ve got rules for putting away laundry (gratefully), for loading your own dishes (immediately) and for playing the guitar after 10 p.m. (quietly).  There are homework rules, dinner table rules and no-girls-in-the-bedroom rules.  (Except, of course, for Darling Daughter, who, when the occasion arises, will have to abide by the no-boys-in-the-bedroom rule.)

But c’mon.  It was blink-182, dude.  And it was SS’s first concert.

Who doesn’t remember his or her own first concert?  OK.  A few staggering teenagers who were escorted out by loyal friends last night -- before blink even took the stage -- may not have total recall.  I only hope their churning liquid demons were liberated before – not during – the car ride home. 

I remember my own first concert -- The Commodores, 1978.  (Of course I blogged about it.  Click here.)  On Facebook, I recently mentioned that I’d been to an Earth, Wind & Fire concert in Columbia, SC in 1979.  Sure enough, a Facebook friend, who I didn't know then was at the same concert.  And it turns out that Cougar Bait (one of the knights-in-shining-armor when my car was broken into last week, click here for the whole unsettling story) and I were at the same Doobie Brothers concert in 1980.  I know, right?  Serendipitous.

I love knowing that SS and DD are, at this very minute, constructing their own music history.  As she does her required reading, DD is listening to The Killers, Are We Human.  SS, natch, has blink-182 on a non-stop loop.  I love knowing that DD associates Journey’s, Don’t Stop Believing, with her first middle school dance.  (I think I do, too.)


And I love knowing that SS’s first concert was with me.

It occurs to me that, if I were still married, I may not have been the parent of choice at last night’s concert.  I might have been designated to stay home with DD.  I might have chosen warmth and a good night’s sleep over crowds and ringing eardrums.  I might not have ended up being one of so few 47-year-old moms in attendance that we all could’ve fit in the bathroom at one time.  In a single stall.

Instead, I got to be with SS, ridiculing the warm-up band, singing All The Small Things with 15,000 other blink-182 fans, teasing SS about the existence – and his eventual purchase – of blink underwear.  (Honestly, the boy wears boxers.  What made him think those "emo" – his word, not mine – underpants were a good idea?  And why did he choose the T-shirt with the cartoon character, instead of the one with the tour info?)

OK.  I didn’t actually get to sit with SS.  He hooked up with his buddies before we were even patted down at the gate.  But he checked in with me throughout the concert, advising me not to listen to the warm-up act.  (Quote:  He's terribad.  Don’t listen to him.  I’m not listening to a stupid white guy pretending to be black.)  And best of all, I got to be with him on the ride home, hoarse from singing, exhausted from dancing and buzzing from adrenaline.

So we broke a few rules.  I was there.  Lucky me.  And since I’ve been to a concert or two in my day, I’d planned ahead, nutrition-wise.  Early in the day, I’d made a good-sized batch of granola.  That way, I could break a few cholesterol-, carbohydrate- and calorie-rules at the concert.  And make a memory with my son.

Blueberry Pecan Granola

I’ve pored over a lot of granola recipes recently, before coming up with this one, which incorporates my favorite nuts (pecans) and dried fruit (blueberries).  I like it right out of the bag, but it’s also good with yogurt or in a bowl with milk.  Note that it's essential that the various ingredients be toasted, carefully and separately, before combining.

5 cups rolled oats, toasted in a 350 degree oven

2 cups coarsely chopped pecans, lightly toasted in a 350 degree oven

1/2 cup sesame seeds, lightly toasted

1 cup sweetened coconut shreds, toasted (carefully)

1 cup dried blueberries

1/3 cup canola oil

1/2 cup honey

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

Preheat oven to 350.  Mix oats, pecans, sesame seeds, coconut and blueberries in a large bowl.  Combine oil, honey and cinnamon in a glass measuring cup, and microwave 45 seconds.  Pour over oat mixture and stir gently.  Spread in a large roasting pan and sprinkle with kosher salt.  Bake about 20 minutes, stirring every 5 minutes, or until golden brown.  Remove from oven and cool completely.  Store in airtight containers or zipper bags.