What's Opera Chez Wiles?

I was born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina, a gorgeous, coastal city with the well-deserved reputation of being charming, historic and cultured.

When new friends realize where I’m from, they inevitably ask:

• “Do you know [well-heeled, well-connected person]?”

• “Did you go to [privileged, pricey, private school]?”

• “Did you live in one of those [expensive-to-restore, expensive-to-heat, just-plain-expensive] houses downtown?”

Um. Sorry. I’m not from "that" Charleston.

Although our postal address was "Charleston," I lived on James Island, which lies just across The Harbor, and while it may not be as high-falutin’ fancy as The Holy City proper, it isn’t exactly some backwoods backwater populated by rednecks, either. At least, not all the time.

Still, I did grow up in plain view of one of the most cultured cities in America, and then, lived in the venerable grand dames of Boston and Richmond. Somehow, though, I made it to age 47 without ever going to the opera.

Nope.  Not once.  Never even missed it.

So I wasn’t sure what to do when I was offered tickets to Opera Carolina’s Carmen last week. If it had been Bugs Bunny’s Barber of Seville, of course, I wouldn’t have hesitated a single sixteenth note. Who doesn't love watching Bugs make fruit salad on Elmer’s head?

But when Cougar Bait, who's a lot closer to being from "that" Charleston than I am, offered to go with me, I gratefully accepted the chance for an evening out.  And as it turns out, “real” opera was both less and more than what I’d expected.

• Less difficult to understand. Thanks to English supertitles projected on an overhead screen, I had no problem understanding the plot. Reading the words also proved for me that every musical genre uses word repetition in lyrics, and repeated words look silly when read instead of sung. Carmen sings, I am thinking of a certain officer, I am thinking of a certain officer, Who loves me and whom in turn, yes whom in turn, I could really love. Mick Jagger sings, I can’t get no satisfaction, I can’t get no satisfaction, ‘cause I try and I try and I try and I try, I can’t get no, I can’t get no. No, no, no. Elmer sings, Kiww the wabbit, kiww the wabbit, kiww the wabbit.

• Less cleavage. I’d expected (again, drawing on my over-familiarity with Bugs Bunny in What’s Opera) that the performers would be, ahem, ample. Remember Brunhilde?  But no, even Kirstin Chavez as Carmen was only appropriately voluptuous.

• More than “vocal” talent on display. Shame on me for expecting less than stellar “acting,” too. All of the performers – through body language and tone and movement as much as singing – helped me understand their characters and the plot. The dancers, too, could really dance.

• Less attitude. The audience wasn’t nearly as stuffy as I’d worried. Not in the slightest. Although I can be paranoid to the first-degree (I honestly believed there were cameras in my house when I was a kid, watching my every move – 40 years ago), I never wondered whether anyone could identify me as the “opera virgin.”


• More familiar.  Yes, the language (French) was foreign, but the music wasn't.  I was pleasantly surprised -- and grateful -- that, in 47 years, I'd actually heard a good bit of the music.  Heck, I think I even played some of on the piano as a kid.  Somehow, that link made me feel more involved, more connected.

• More cleavage. Let's be honest.  I'm a girl, so of course I worried about what to wear.  I kinda figured that there wouldn't be a lot of black ties on display, but what I didn't figure was the gracious amount of cleavage that would be, ahem, on display.  I don’t know whether it was officially “breast night at the opera," but there was an eye-popping abundance. Not on stage.  In the audience.  Holy Jiggle-Oly.  Guess I didn’t get the memo.

• More fun. Turns out, opera wasn’t so much “good for me” as “good.” Who’d have guessed?

So much for stereotypes. Even though I’m not from “that” Charleston, I can now say I enjoy opera. And although Carmen certainly didn’t inspire me to stretch my vocal chords (for which my kids should be profoundly grateful), it did inspire a new, “gussied up” version of the simple grilled fish we had nearly every Sunday night growing up in Charleston. 

Ahem.  Not “that” Charleston, of course.

Grilled Swordfish with Lentil and Olive Salsa

Several, thick swordfish steaks
Kosher salt
Fresh ground pepper
Olive oil

1 ½ cups precooked black pearl lentils, drained
½ cups chopped green olives with pimentos
2-3 tablespoons fresh, minced parsley
1 scallion, thinly sliced (optional)
2 tablespoons olive oil
1-2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice
¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes

Brush swordfish with olive oil and season generously. Grill over medium-high heat, about 5 minutes per side, or until done. Set aside and allow to rest five minutes before serving. While fish is grilling, combine remaining ingredients, tasting and adjusting for seasoning (will likely need about ½ teaspoon kosher salt). Top rested swordfish with room temperature lentil salsa and serve.

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.