Three Words Every Mom Cringes To Hear.

Much as I love Snarky Son and Darling Daughter, a sizable part of me dreads their return from school each day -- because I know they’ll bring with them those Three Little Words.  Those Three Little Words that every mom 'round the world cringes to hear.  What's.  For.  Dinner.

Heaven help me.

The kids know my feelings about The Question, but they can’t keep it to themselves any more than they can chew Doritos with their mouths closed.  Or Frosted Flakes.  Or sadly, even Bubble Yum Watermelon Wave chewing gum.  For the love of Wrigley's.  It's not "smacking" gum.  It's "chewing" gum.  Keep your lips together.  I sometimes wonder whether the problem is the result of an anatomical defect.  Um.  Where was I?

(As an aside, DD just now looked over my shoulder, read the first paragraph, and asked, “What’s for dinner?”  Scout’s honor.)

Earlier this week, DD poked her head into the kitchen to pose The Question.  For once, I was thrilled.  I was all but wagging my tail.  “Doesn’t it smell great?” I gushed.  “It’s that Boeuf Bourgignon you said you wanted to try.  From that movie, Julie and Julia.  Remember?   I blogged about you wanting to try it?  Remember?”

To which, DD distractedly replied, “Oh.”  

Voilà the second reason I disdain The Question.  I hate having to “justify” what’s for dinner.  When I was married, I could get away with saying, ‘Well, your Dad likes it, so we’re having it.”  Or, “Look, I can’t always cook for kids.  You’re going to have to learn to eat like an adult.”

Post-divorce, though, I’m outnumbered.  Kids, two.  Adults, one.

Look.  I don’t mind cooking the beloved Sausage Pasta with Broccoli a couple of times a month.  Indeed, I’m flattered that SS and DD are such fans.  Ditto Tuna & Noodles.  And Pot Roast.  But sometimes, I feel hemmed in by the tastes of people who are shorter than me.  Or, at least, who were shorter than me.  Like yesterday.

You don’t like squash?  Well, OK.  Lots of times, I don’t either. Not too crazy about braised cabbage, limas or cheeses ending in “-reuse” or “-bert” or sometimes even “cheese”?   I can work around that.  You don’t like gravies, syrups, dips, sauces, salad dressings or toppings of any sort?  Say what?  Get me the phone.  Surely there was some sort of mix-up at the hospital.

Today is one of those days.  But instead of accommodating, I’m rebelling.  I made meatballs, which, for reasons surpassing understanding, are never well-received Chez Wiles.  Oh.  Did I mention they were lamb meatballs?  With spinach?  And gracious plenty garlic?  Mmm-hmm.  I didn't mention it to the kids, either.

DD was first to ask, “What are those?”

“Herbed Meatballs” I blithely responded, fingers crossed behind my back.

SS then demanded, “You’re not putting them in some kind of tomato sauce, are you?”

“Um.  No.”

“Well good.  Let’s eat.”

And they did.  Go figure.  Kids, two.  Adult, won.  

(They didn’t touch the tzatziki sauce I made for dipping the meatballs, though.  I’m just saying …)

Lamb and Spinach Meatballs

Recipe makes nearly 2 dozen 1 1/2” meatballs. Particularly good served with grilled pita bread and tzatziki sauce.

1 clove garlic, minced fine

1 teaspoon kosher salt

2-3 teaspoons fresh mint, chopped

2-3 teaspoons fresh oregano, chopped

1 lb. ground lamb

1/2 package frozen chopped spinach, thawed, moisture squeezed out

1 egg

1/3 cup dry breadcrumbs (I used panko)

½ teaspoon ground cumin

fresh ground pepper

On cutting board, use large knife to “cut” salt into garlic until nearly pasty.  “Cut in” mint and oregano until well combined.  Set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, use your hands to combine lamb, spinach and egg.  When mixture is consistent, mix in breadcrumbs with your hands.  Sprinkle meat mixture with cumin and reserved garlic mixture.  Use hands to combine well.  On a small saucer, “cook” about a teaspoon of the meat mixture in the microwave for 30 seconds.  Taste, and adjust seasoning accordingly.

Preheat oven to 375.  Spray large baking sheet with nonstick spray.  Use hands to lightly shape meatballs – approximately 1 ½” – and place on baking sheet.  Bake at 375 for about 10 minutes.  Serve hot with tzatziki sauce and pita bread.

Organized For A Cause, And As Always, Cooking.

My calendar is color-coded.  Snarky Son’s activities in green.  Darling Daughter’s in purple.  Mine in blue.  OK.  That’s not all.  Birthdays are pink.  Family stuff, orange.  And school stuff?  Blue (the school color).

C’mon.  How does this not make sense?

My spices are alphabetized. Don't judge me.  I bet lots of people do it.  They’re just afraid to come out of the spice cabinet and own up.   Pity, that.  United, we could convert cooks countrywide, allowing everyone that supreme satisfaction of locating your Turkish bay leaves and Greek oregano in 8 seconds.  Flat.

With my passion for order, you can imagine what “allowance day” is like Chez Wiles.  Suffice to say, SS and DD have always divvied up their monthly payola so that some goes toward short-term spending, some for long-term savings and some for charity.

SS and DD have wildly different spending and saving habits.  SS is a get-rid-of-it-before-it-sears-my-flesh spender -- he's a reliable stimulator of the U.S. economy.  DD is a rainy-day-but-that’s-not-rain-that’s-just-drizzle saver -- stashing cash in drawers, purses, wallets and jewelry boxes, anticipating the inevitable monsoon.  (Even then, though, I’m not sure how much of the loot would be unleashed.)

None of this is to say, however, that every single shopping excursion with the kids doesn’t involve the following dialogue:  Kid, “Will you buy this for me?”  Me, “Nope.  You have your own money.”  Kid, astonished, “What?”  Me, “If you want that psychedelic-peace-symbol-t-shirt/Superman-candle/pocket-Buddha so much, buy it yourself.”  Kid, “Are you serious?  I'm not buying that!”

Last week, though, with only the barest understanding of the dire post-earthquake situation in Haiti, the kids didn’t hesitate before digging into their charity stash.  DD, ever the planner, contributed a double-digit percentage of her coffers, but held the remainder in reserve.  Should another crisis arrive, she'll be prepared to help there, too.  I love that kid.

SS, on the other hand, opened his charity jar and said, “Take it.  All of it.”  After I added my contribution to the pile, we logged onto the Red Cross website, satisfied we’d made a good decision and relieved to feel as if we were doing something – anything – to help.

Two days later, though, SS’s favorite band, Blink-182 announced its own fundraising effort, selling Haiti T-shirts, with all proceeds going to the American Red Cross.

Naturally, SS asked if I’d buy one.  Naturally, I reminded him he has his own money.  He then quickly asked if he could resort to his “charity” cash.  And just as quickly, he remembered those coffers had been drained.

“I guess, then, that I’ll just buy it myself,” he said.  “It’s another way to help, right?”

I love that kid.

I also love the short ribs that we had this weekend.  Super tender.  Super flavorful.  And at $4.99 a pound (even at the fancy butcher), super affordable.

And in case you don’t print out the recipe, but want it later, it’s also super easy to find.  You know me.  It’s already categorized and filed.  You'll find it under “Main Dish Recipes” to the right!

Braised Beef Short Ribs with Whole Grain Mustard

Serves six -- or four with yummy leftovers

5 lbs. beef short ribs

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 onion, chopped

1 carrot, diced

1 rib celery, chopped

3 cloves garlic

2 cups dry red wine (I used an affordable Cabernet Sauvignon)

1 can beef broth

3 tablespoons whole grain mustard

1 teaspoon kosher salt

very generous grinding of pepper

In a large, heavy duty lidded pan (a Dutch oven or roaster is ideal), heat oil over medium high heat until hot and rippling.  Working in batches, brown ribs on all sides.  (This can take a while.  Be patient, and get a nice deep brown.)  Remove ribs from pan, and stir in onions.  Saute until translucent, then add carrot, celery and garlic.  Saute until lightly browned.  Stir in wine, beef broth, mustard, salt and pepper and bring to a boil.  Return short ribs to pan, put in oven (lidded) to bake at 300.  Check occasionally (if only to briefly lift the lid and let the aroma fill your kitchen).  After three hours, check with a fork.  Beef should be very tender and nearly falling off the bone.  If not, return to the oven for another 30 minutes or so.  When ribs are done, remove from oven and allow to rest 15 minutes (or up to 45 minutes) before serving over hot cooked egg noodles.

The Sweetest Surprise -- And All A 12-Year-Old Needs To Know. (Frosted Cinnamon Biscuits)

Last week, The Today Show aired a segment about the things every woman should know how to do (drawn from the new book, How to Sew A Button:  And Other Nifty Things Your Grandmother Knew.)

In addition to “sew a button,” the must-know’s included roast a chicken, hang a picture, throw a yard sale, and build a fire.  (It’s not just me, right?  A yard sale? Really?)  Nevertheless, at age 47, I’m sufficiently old that it never occurred to me to “test” myself.

Instead, my always-on-mothering mind instantly darted to Darling Daughter (DD).  How would she measure up?  Or, to be frank, as the most-likely-teacher of her success-in-life-requirements, how would I measure up?  (Easy to see why I’ve never subscribed to Cosmo.  Every monthly quiz delivered by Mike The Mailman would prompt an appointment with my neighborhood psychiatric professional.)

OK.  DD’s only 12, so I’ll keep my expectations to a simmer.  I’m not worried about her roasting a chicken.  True, she is skeeved out at the very idea of touching meat – much less chilly, raw, jiggly, pink meat, but she’s 12, OK?  I’m not worried.  Knowing how much she enjoys roast chicken (particularly Beer Butt Chicken), I’m willing to bet DD overcomes these issues as an adult.

DD should also, according to "those in the know," be able to hang a picture, compost, and build a fire.  Ideal training, I suppose, for her future.  Provided her future involves a career as a perfectionistic, environmentally-minded arsonist.

So.  “Tie a tie?”  Ummm, OK.  Particularly helpful, I suppose, if she ever has a son, and if her spouse (presumably, the keeper of that tie-tying knowledge) works long hours, but she's the one who’s got to deliver the kid to a coat-and-tie event.  (Been there, done that.  Times 10 other boys whose moms couldn’t tie a tie.)

So what’s left?  “Mix a perfect martini?”  Maybe.  But as her mother’s daughter, DD’s expertise is more likely to lie with sangria.  But I digress.  My real advice to her (when she’s of age, of course), would be to understand that when her date says he wants a bourbon and ginger, he is not sending a double-top-secret code for more sangria.  Even if her sangria is the very one that The Episcopal Church is considering serving at Communion.  He wants bourbon and ginger.  So relent and make the best bourbon and ginger ever.  Crushed ice.  Decent bourbon.  In a hefty, cut-crystal highball (not double-old-fashioned) glass.  With your own signature touch.  A slice of candied ginger comes to mind.

Despite these occasional worries and fret-sessions, I love being DD’s mom.  Still, I’ve recently been longing for and reminiscing about the days when she was wee bit of a girl.  When I could tote her on my hip and snug her into my bed.  When the backseat of my minivan was crunchy and paved with Goldfish and Cheerios. When DD so plainly and plaintively needed me.

But wouldn’t you know it?  Just as I was in the midst of thinking that DD had outgrown me -- just when I was fretting about silly stuff like composting and sewing on buttons (which really, I do need to teach her), DD's started showing up in my bedroom in the early morning.  Weekend, school day.  Whatever.  With her sleep-crusted eyes, somehow always-fabulous-looking hair, and her hip Winnie-The-Pooh pajamas, she wanders into my room and stretches across the foot of my bed just a few minutes before I’d have headed into her room to wake her up.

What a sweet surprise.  What a wonderful way to wake up.  What a tremendous reminder of my fortune at being her mom.

Just as sweet – one recent morning, after snuggling on the bed with me and Lionel (the 12-pound man of the house), DD suggested that there might be a way to improve on my basic Buttermilk Biscuits.

She was right.  These rich, untraditional buttermilk biscuits were a hit -- and have been added to our own list of “things every woman should know.”

Frosted Cinnamon Biscuits

Makes 12-15 biscuits.

2 cups all-purpose flour, plus extra for dusting the board

2 tablespoons sugar

4 teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoons salt

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

6 tablespoons shortening (chilled, cut in small slices)

2 tablespoons unsalted butter (chilled, cut in small slices)

1/2 cup buttermilk

1/2 cup heavy cream

½ cup cinnamon chips

Frosting

½ cup confectioner’s sugar

1-2 tablespoons heavy cream

½ teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 400.  In a large mixing bowl, whisk together dry ingredients for biscuits.  Using a pastry cutter or two forks, cut in shortening and butter until mixture is crumbly and mealy.  Quickly stir in cream, buttermilk and cinnamon chips.  Do not overmix.  Dough should be soft and sticky.  Scrape dough onto well-floured board or counter.  It will not (and should not) be as elastic or dry as bread dough.  Using floured hands, gently pat out dough, folding it over itself several times (patting, not kneading).  Pat dough to ¾ inch thickness.  Dipping biscuit cutter in flour, cut out biscuits, placing on ungreased cookie sheet.  Repeat with remaining dough scraps.  Bake until very lightly golden – about 10 minutes.

While baking, mix together frosting ingredients, beginning with only 1 tablespoon of cream, and adding more as necessary to achieve a spreadable consistency.  Spread over biscuits while still warm and serve.  No butter needed!