If You're Early, You're On Time. If You're On Time, You're Late. And If You're Late, Who Knows What's For Dinner?

I don’t like to be late. I don’t like to be late and I don’t like to be on time.

I like to be early.

Son and Darling Daughter are well aware of this quirk. It rears its head every morning, when, in my role as master-calendar-keeper, household-chauffeur and bossy-mom-extraordinaire, I go over who has to be where and when for the next 24 hours and how that affects everything they are compelled and would like to do and what colleges they may get into as a result.

Today, for example, Son had (yet another) orthodontist appointment. This one, though, was unusually important, because, unbeknownst to him, Son was having his braces removed. Over breakfast, I reminded him that I’d be picking him up later at school. I also coordinated what he’d be doing after school, DD’s afternoon with friends, the upcoming weekend plans, other doctors’ appointments on the horizon, and how our plans might change in the event of rain. (Yes, in addition to being early, I like being thorough.)

The appointment was at 9:00 a.m. Since it takes 15 or 20 minutes, with traffic, to get there, I planned to leave at 8:30 a.m. According to Wiles Mean Time, I’d be there right on time -- 10 minutes early. Perfect.

Kinda. Sure, I’d be there 10 minutes early – but without Son. Oopsy daisy. Must’ve been a hole in the schedule.

No need for suspense. Yes, I was late. And I hated it. I was late picking up Son at school. We both hated that. But by then, there was nothing to be done. We could’ve fumed and stressed. We could’ve yelled at the stupid cars that were driving 10 miles below the speed limit in the passing lane. (OK. We kinda did, but they deserved it.) And Son really could’ve yelled at me -- understandably. But mostly, we laughed. We listened to the radio and laughed all the way to the appointment. And I was grateful.

Yes, we were late -- really late -- getting to the orthodontist. But, as is so often the case, it worked out. The kids’ orthodontist is famously accommodating.

Son’s braces are being removed as I type.

And look. There he is. I am dazzled. For the second time today.

I’m still a planner, though, which is why I came up with this recipe for Slowcooker Chicken in Peanut-Ginger Sauce. Somebody has to be thinking ahead. And somebody has to be accommodating.

In my family, I’m blessed to have it all.

Slowcooker Chicken In Peanut-Ginger Sauce

When I first came up with this recipe, I tried it with bone-in, skin-on thighs, but the result is too fatty and too much work. This version is super simple and very flavorful. The thighs stay moist and tender, and I cook plenty of them, so I can use the leftover chicken in salad or Chicken in Saffron Rice.

10-12 boneless, skinless chicken thighs, excess fat removed
½ cup creamy peanut butter
¼ cup soy sauce
½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil
1 ½ tablespoons fresh grated ginger

1 red bell pepper, cored, cut in thick strips, then cut in half
8 ounces sliced mushrooms
6 peeled garlic cloves

Fresh lime wedges

Quickly sear chicken in a nonstick skillet, over high heat. Put in slowcooker. In a large measuring cup, gradually stir soy sauce into peanut butter. Stir in red pepper flakes, sesame oil and ginger. Scrape mixture into slowcooker and toss with chicken. Scatter bell pepper, mushrooms and garlic on top of chicken. Cook for 3-4 hours on high, or 6 hours on low. Gently pull chicken into bitesize pieces and serve over hot lo mein noodles, or linguini or rice.  Squeeze a bit of lime juice over, for extra flavor.

The Difference Between Dim and Dimwitted? Sunglasses.

What a dingbat.

Earlier today, I’d been doing the usual SAHM (stay-at-home-mom) runaround, eventually landing, ahead of schedule, at the orthodontist’s office.  While Son went back to be serviced and await the predictable "just-a-few-more-weeks news," I cracked open my beloved MacBook to tap out a few notes.

Weird.  I could hardly read the screen.  Why was it so dim?  I squinted, but not for long, because I don’t want to admit that my opthalmologist was right in saying I’ll soon need glasses.

Hmm.  Even squinting, still dim.  Fine.  I tilted, and then, re-tilted the screen.  Surely it was a matter of finding the just right angle.  Just a few degrees.  Maybe 79 degrees.  Maybe while squinting.

I bobbed my head, birdlike.  Left.  Left.  Right.  Forward.  Forward.  Whoa.  Better stop that before someone in the waiting room thinks I’m trying out for a Bojangles commercial.

I was still befuddled when Son and his orthodontist came out to deliver the dreaded and expected just-a-few-more-weeks news.  Oddly, they both regarded me very curiously – as if they’d been privy to the short-sighted chicken act.

I scheduled Son’s next appointment, we exited the office, and I instinctively reached up to pull my sunglasses into place.  Duh.  What a dingbat.  I’d been wearing my sunglasses in the orthodontist’s office.  That computer screen wasn’t dim.  The computer operator; however, was dimwitted.

Why didn’t someone tell me? 

No girlfriend would let me walk around like that.  Even 12-year-old Darling Daughter knows that membership in the “girlfriend network” is unconditional.  It’s our obligation to tell another “girlfriend” when her tag is hanging out, when her bicuspid is coated in spinach, when her zipper’s gapping and revealing those cute pink panties, or when toilet paper trails her stiletto.

This past weekend, I found myself with an abundance of past-their-prime bananas.  I used Twitter to issue the call to “the network.”  The girlfriends – most of whom I’ve yet to meet – responded quickly.  Suggestions – for freezing and smoothies – flowed.  Recipes – for cobbler, for banana pudding – were tweeted just as quickly.  Rebecca, of Chow And Chatter, immediately shared her recipe for luscious Banana Brownie Cake, which I'll include in a future blog.  And Barb, of The Ambient Chef, shared a banana bread recipe that turned out to be the best I've ever made – moist, crusty and super simple to make.

And I feel sure that neither she, nor Rebecca, nor AprillWrites or StepfordLife or CookingVirgin would ever have let me wander around that orthodontist’s office with my sunglasses on.

Or trailing a few squares of Charmin.  I’m just sayin’.

The Ambient Chef’s Mom’s Best Banana Bread

2 very ripe bananas, mashed

1 teaspoon lemon juice

2 cups sifted flour

½ teaspoon salt

3 teaspoons baking powder

1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg

1 stick butter, room temperature

1 cup sugar

2 eggs

Preheat oven to 350.  Grease a loaf pan, well.  Mash bananas with lemon juice.  Set aside.  In a small bowl, stir or sift together flour, salt, baking powder and nutmeg.  Set aside.  In a large mixing bowl, cream together butter and sugar.  When well combined, beat in eggs, one at a time.  Stir in mashed bananas to combine well.  Stir in dry ingredients until combined.  Pour into prepared pan.  Bake 1 – 1 ¼ hours, or until loaf tests done.  Cool 10 minutes in pan on rack, then remove to rack to cool completely.  

Remembering the Important Stuff -- 15 Years Later.

I can't remember what I had for dinner last night.

I can't remember to call the gutter guy.  I can't remember to return Reid It and Weep's* MacBook charger, which I've held hostage now for nearly a week.  And for the life of me, I can't remember to buy more soy sauce -- which is absurd, not only because, on average, I visit my local Harris Teeter, oh, every single day, but because, in a typical week I use so much soy sauce that I'm practically an honorary Asian.

What I can remember, however, is where I was exactly 15 years ago today.  Because today, March 5, 2010, is Son's 15th birthday.

Eight pounds, 15 ounces now tips the scale at 135 pounds.  Twenty inches has stretched to nearly 70.  Just like that, my "Little Man" has become a young man -- and in my not-at-all-humble opinion, a fine one at that.  He's babysitting and shaving and learning to drive.  He's dating and taking subjects I never dared to tackle in high school and becoming the kind of writer I'd like to be when I grow up.

Fifteen years ago, Son entered the world with a splash.  After a Big Dinner Out (a.k.a., "The Last Supper"), followed by a Big Heartburn In, and a late night watching most of The Godfather (back in the days of videotape), my then-husband crawled into bed, my water splattered all over the freshly tiled bathroom floor, and we were off to the hospital.  Wait. Rewind.  Actually, about a half mile into our trip, we turned around and went back home, briefly, to fetch some Pepto Bismol for the father-to-be, and then, off to the maternity ward.  For real.

Thirteen hours later, I had a son.

At the time, I remember thinking I could never love anyone so intensely as I loved Son.  I remember thinking that it was inconceivable that my own parents could have felt the same way about me.  I remember eventually realizing that Son could only comprehend the depth of my emotion when he, himself, becomes a parent.  (Which, given that he's only 15, should be many, many, many years from now.  M-A-N-Y. Many.)

When Son was tiny, I spent hours imagining the person he'd become.  A paleontologist?  Entirely possible, as he memorized the name of every dinosaur in every book ever written by time he was five.  (Did you know there's no such thing as a brontosaurus?)  An architect?  Surely there was a reason for the hours, days, weeks he spent with Legos.  A fireman?  Well, given that it was his preferred costume for three consecutive Halloweens, I reckon it was either a fireman or a founding member of his generation's Village People.

Now that Son's 15, I can see that all my ruminating got me nowhere.  I have no idea what he'll become.  What I do know, though, is that Son has already become more than I could have imagined.  And rather than guessing, I can hardly wait to see what the days and years to come will reveal.

I wish I could now give you a recipe for Son's favorite cake, which I'd bake for his birthday.  But it turns out, I've got a kid who doesn't really care about cake.  Who could've predicted?  What he does enjoy though, in addition to the perennially-requested Sausage Pasta with Broccoli, is Osso Buco.  It's comfort food Chez Wiles.

And if we'd had Osso Buco for dinner last night, I'm sure I would've remembered it.

*If you're an American Idol fan, you've got to check out Reid It and Weep's blog.  And if you could toss a spare MacBook charger her way, that'd get me out of a mess of trouble, too.

Osso Buco

Serves four.

4 large, meaty veal shanks, at least 2 1/2 inches thick
Approximately 1/2 cup flour
1/4 cup olive oil

1 carrot, peeled and finely diced
1 rib of celery, finely diced
1 small onion, finely diced
zest of one lemon
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup dry white wine (I use sauvignon blanc)
1 cup chicken stock
1 sprig rosemary
1 bay leaf
1 clove garlic

Season veal shanks well with salt and pepper.  Wrap each shank tightly with twine.  Dredge each tied shank in flour, shake off excess, and then, in a large skillet (with a lid for later) heat olive oil until rippling, over medium high heat.  Lightly brown each shank and set aside.  In same skillet, lightly brown carrot, celery and onion until onion is translucent.  Stir in lemon zest, salt, wine, stock, rosemary, bay leaf and garlic clove.  Bring to a boil.  Return shanks to skillet, reduce heat to low, and put lid in place.  Allow to simmer for 1 1/2 - 2 hours or until so tender that meat is nearly falling off the bone.   Remove twive, serve with hot noodles or rice, as well as gremolata, made by combining 1 clove garlic (finely minced with 1 teaspoon kosher salt), 1/2 cup minced parsley, and zest of two lemons.