How Did You Find Me Here?

In the market for “Spiderman underwear for women”?

If so, you might ending up clicking on Feminine Wiles.

Looking for “ways to apologize to a Southern woman”?  Again, you could land on my blog.  Honest.  It’s been done.
Look. I’m no lingerie vendor.  (I do sometimes struggle to keep up with the laundry around here, but I’m certain no superheroes adorn our undergarments.  The washer is a comicbook-character-free zone -- no Betty or even Veronica.)

Apologies aren’t my forté, either.  The only advice I have to offer is that a genuine apology doesn’t include “but.”  (For example, “I’m sorry, but … you don’t understand/you took the wrong turn/what the hell were you thinking?”)

It’s not that I’m a technology-savvy blogger.  I’m not. Other than family and a few friends, I don’t really know who reads Feminine Wiles.  I don’t know everyone who subscribes to Feminine Wiles.  Some days, I don’t even know why I write Feminine Wiles.

But thanks to the supreme navel-gazing-for-bloggers web tracker, StatCounter.com, I can see what “keywords” a person Googled before landing on my blog.

Useless?  Utterly.  Entertaining?  Vastly.

Just imagine the disappointment of “had to use the ladies’ room” when she landed on a blog post about the temperature in my house.

And, to the folks (more than one!) who Googled “how to study for exams with mom” and ended up reading tidbits like, “Put cat in dryer,” I’m sorry.  (Please.  It’s not as if the dryer was on.)

Can I define “feminine wiles”?  Um.  Not really.  And that’s a real shame, because “feminine wiles” is the most-Googled phrase leading readers to my blog. I hate to disappoint, but well, I do.

Here’s another puzzler:  “I can be as good or as bad as I want to be.”  Really?  ‘Cause I think once you’ve come to terms with that essential truth, there’s no help my – or any --  blog can offer.

Really, if you’re coming to Feminine Wiles for any kind of help, the most I can offer is recipes.  I’m slogging through life and parenting and middle-age just like everyone else.  And sometimes, I can get bogged down in even the simplest things.

Take these Rosemary-Garlic Oven Fries, for example.  Once you master the cutting of potatoes, oven fries should be about the simplest thing in a cook’s repertoire.  But for some reason, I was never satisfied.  Not until, after endless variations, I started soaking the raw potatoes to rid them of extra starch, which I suspect had been sapping them of crispiness.

So when it comes to oven fries, problem solved. 

But when I look at “master stir fry in peru keep cats in basement, I haven’t the foggiest.  Thoughts?

Rosemary-Garlic Oven Fries

Note that you’ve got to begin these fries a solid hour in advance.

3 medium-sized baking potatoes, well scrubbed

1 teaspoon fresh rosemary, chopped

1 clove fresh garlic, minced

1 egg white

½ teaspoon kosher salt

additional kosher salt (or seasoning salt, such as Canvender’s Greek Seasoning) nonstick cooking spray

Cut potatoes (skin on) lengthwise into ½" wide fries.  Place in a large bowl of cold water and allow to soak for 45-60 minutes.   (The bath helps remove surface starch, resulting in crispier fries.)  Drain well, using a clean kitchen towel to pat dry and return potatoes to (dried) large bowl.

Preheat oven to 450.  In a small bowl, use a fork to whip egg white until very frothy.  Stir in rosemary, garlic and ½ teaspoon kosher salt into egg white.  Pour over potatoes, tossing until well-coated.

Spray baking sheet well with nonstick cooking spray.  Spread potatoes on baking sheet, so the fries are not touching.  Spray potatoes with additional nonstick cooking spray.  Sprinkle with additional salt and bake approximately 10 minutes.  Remove from oven, toss and turn fries, spray again lightly with nonstick spray before returning to oven for another 10-15 minutes, or until well browned.  Serve hot.

Yes, I'm Divorced, But There's More To Me Than That.

A few months ago, when I was invited to “guest blog” on Charlotte Observer’s MomsCharlotte.com, I agreed to write about the struggles and occasional perils of being a divorced mom.  

And I tried.  Pinky swear.  (Check my October posts.  I marvel that a single scrap of skin remains on my body.)  But divorce is awkward.  It’s painful.  It’s ugly.  I don’t know how to write about that stuff.  And while I’m surely biased, I’m not so sure anyone wants to read it.

Yes, I can tell tales of the obvious:  the legal process, the single parenting, the navigation of “Couple Land” as a “single.”  Nevertheless, I’m ill-prepared to write about the many things I didn’t foresee.  

I’m no expert.  Mrs. Evelyn Hall, the high school composition teacher who taught me practically everything I know about writing and virtually nothing about the apparent rapture of coffee, cigarettes and braided hair, was adamant:  Write about what you know.  

Do I know what I’m doing? Most days, I haven’t the foggiest. Can I foretell how my post-divorce life will unfold?  Ummm.  That would be “no.”  Most days, I feel as if I’ve been air-dropped into a foreign country.  In another galaxy.

I didn’t foresee how differently I’d be labeled, for example.  In 30 years, I’ve gone from Cheri-Hyper-Blue-Eyes (I kid you not -- check The Iliad, my high school yearbook), to Cheri-Who’s-Married-To-An-Ivy-League-Lawyer, to Cheri-Who-Has-Two-Kids, to finally, sadly, Cheri-Who’s-Divorced. 

I didn’t realize how differently I’d be perceived as a single woman.  I worried – far more than was necessary – about whether other parents would be hesitant to let their kids come over.  I worried – far less than was necessary – about how I’d be regarded by men – both single, and, ahem, decidedly not.

I couldn’t have predicted the emotions – not just mine and the kids’, but also our family’s.  Our friends’.  Divorce is devastating, and the effect is ongoing.  The ripple goes on and on and on.  And just when you think everyone's OK, it goes on.  And then some.

All that said, though, I don’t want to be known as Cheri-Who’s-Divorced.  Surely there’s more to this story.  I’m not sure what lies around the corner, but the knowledge that other things do lie around the corner allows me to write about all kinds of things.  Cooking.  Parenting.  Laughing.  Dating.  President Obama.  American Idol.  Bad manners.  And on occasion, divorce.

At the moment, cooking’s what’s on my mind.  A few months back, Darling Daughter (DD) and I were inspired by the movie, Julie and Julia.  At that time, DD insisted that we needed to cook more.  (Of course, I blogged about it.  Click here.)  Because of the movie, our hearts were set on Boeuf Bourgignon, but in reality, no one here would allow the tine of their fork to even pierce a pearl onion, I’m the only one who would eat a mushroom, and Julia, really?  A six-ounce “chunk” of bacon?  

Yep.  We can improvise.  And although it may not be what was originally intended, It’s still pretty darned good -– post-divorce and pre-what-comes-next -– Chez Wiles.

Not Julia’s Boeuf Bourgignon

As much as I admire Julia Child, her Boeuf Bourgignon is more sophisticated than might be appreciated Chez Wiles.  This version is plenty hearty with lovely, layered flavors.  And since most of the meals I cook are of the 60-minutes-or-less variety, my kids think this slow-cooked maindish is pretty special all by itself.

Serves four

5 slices bacon, diced

2 ½ lbs. stew beef

1 carrot, peeled and diced

1 medium onion, peeled and diced

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 teaspoon kosher salt

fresh ground black pepper

heaping tablespoon flour

½ teaspoon dried thyme

bay leaf

1 14-oz. can beef broth

2 cups dry red wine (pinot noir or cabernet saugignon)

½ cup V-8 juice (optional)

½ lb. white mushrooms, sliced, sautéed in 2 tablespoons butter

In a large, lidded, ovenproof saucepan, sauté the bacon until very crispy.  Remove bacon (you’ll use it later).  Heat remaining bacon grease over medium high heat.  When very hot, brown beef (in batches), until browned on all sides.  When all beef is browned, remove to another dish, and sauté carrot, onion and garlic in hot grease.  When vegetables are softened and lightly browned, return beef and bacon crisps to pan.  Heat through, and sprinkle with salt, pepper and flour.  When thickened, quickly stir in beef broth, wine, bay leaf and V-8 juice (if using).  Replace lid and put entire pan in preheated 325 oven for 2 ½ - 3 hours, or until beef is very tender.  Stir in sautéed mushrooms.  Serve hot, with buttered noodles or rice.

I Can't Name Names, But I Can Cook. Oh My.

Snarky Son wants to change his name.

More precisely, he no longer wants to be “Snarky.”

When I first started blogging, I deliberately chose not to use the kids' names in Feminine Wiles.  I can’t put my finger on the risk, but it seemed dicey.  And it didn’t seem fair to the kids – particularly considering that their dirty laundry is one of my favorite topics.  (I’m thinking now of when I was declared Worst.  Mom.  Ever.  WME.) 

Plus, I promised my “ex” I wouldn’t name names.  And while we didn’t exactly put it in the custody agreement, he is exactly a lawyer.  Know what I’m saying?  Exactly. 

Voilà the inception of “Darling Daughter” and “Snarky Son.”

But Son doesn’t want to be “Snarky.”  Alliteration-lover that I am, I’ve offered several alternatives, “Super Son.” “Sweet Son.” “Studly Son.”  (OK.  That last was a joke.  Exactly.)  Turns out, it’s not the adjective that SS finds irksome.  He just wants to go by his name.  He’s nearly 15 and doesn’t want to be regarded as cute or sly or clever.  SS just wants to be – himself. 

He's really growing up.  I can see that.  I respect that.  I admire that.  Tough noogies.  I can’t name names.  Not yet.

This protective mama bear isn’t quite ready to release her taller-and-quicker-than-me cub out into the real world.  ‘Cause there’s more than bears out there, you know.  There’s lions.  And tigers.  And Cougars.  Oh my.

Dangers abound.  Here’s another one:  The National Safety Council reported this week that 28% of car crashes can be attributed to drivers using their cell phones (calling or texting).  Twenty-eight percent.  Twenty-eight percent!

The kids and I have become experts at identifying texting drivers.  The conversation in our car usually goes something like this:  “No.  They can’t be drunk.  It’s 7:30 in the morning.  I bet they think they’re driving perfectly fine.  Isn’t that against the law?  Yep.  But there’s no policeman here right now.  Let’s just drop back and let them go on …”

This, just weeks before SS is eligible to earn his driver’s permit.  To use the word that springs to mind, I am a “wreck.”

Lions and tigers and texting drivers.  Oh my. 

Letting go is hard.  But cooking?  That’s easy.  That, I can do.  I can’t come up with an acceptable nickname for SS.  I can't ward off stupid, texting drivers.  I can’t even fend off potential Cougars.  (However, Cougars beware: I work out. I've got a lot of fight in me.)

What I can do is keep the lines of communication open.  I can keep looking for those “teachable” moments.  (“See the light from a cell phone lighting up that driver’s face?  Does he really think we don’t know he’s texting?)"  I can cook.  And maybe I can come up with an acceptable alternative to “Snarky Son.”  Ideas?

Tzatziki (Cucumber Yogurt) Sauce

I’m one of those people who always orders “extra” tzatziki, and occasionally, buys it at the store to eat it with a spoon.  It’s ”dee-lish” (as DD would say) on Lamb and Spinach Meatballs, or even on toasted pita, but it’s best if you make it yourself. Note that this recipe must be begun two hours in advance.

16 oz. plain Greek yogurt, strained

½ English cucumber, peeled, grated or chopped fine, all moisture pressed out

½ teaspoon kosher salt

1 clove garlic, minced fine

½ teaspoon Tabasco sauce

2 teaspoons fresh dill, minced

2 teaspoons fresh mint, minced

2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

Strain yogurt by spooning into a coffee filter set in a mesh strainer set over a bowl.  Allow two hours for extra liquid to drain out.  Discard extra liquid.  (I know it's a pain, but it makes your tzatziki nice and creamy instead of thin and runny.)  Stir together remaining ingredients in a medium bowl.  Chill and serve.