A Return To Femininity, Blogging and Chicken.

Son and Darling Daughter returned to school a month ago, and I don’t believe I’ve ever blogged so much.

In my own little head, of course.

No joke.  These past few weeks, I’ve been teeming with what I hoped were carefully-composed sentences, clever turns-of-phrase, and tidy little anecdotes.  Nonetheless, my last Feminine Wiles post was over a month ago.

My own fault, really.  Way back at the end of August, surveying the month ahead, I honestly thought, finally, some time to myself.

At least, I hope I “thought” it.  I hope I didn’t actually say it out loud, because even the bats in my attic could see that September was booked before it began.  It is, after all, September, and not January, marking the beginning of a student’s “new” year.   Thirty days hath September, and each of ours was packed – with middle school and varsity cross country meets, Scout meetings, school dances, Homecoming, school football games, daily cross country practices, a return to Sunday School, the obligatory back-to-school meetings, orientations, and shopping – not to mention my own school commitments and the usual, unusual rounds of Charlotte medical professionals.  (Son’s early season injuries have prompted countless appointments.  The only medical advice we haven’t yet sought is from voodoo practitioners.  But that’s because none have yet recommended by name.)

So September has been crammed with scheduling, scheduling, scheduling, meeting, meeting, meeting, transporting, transporting, transporting,.  Then, my trusty and beloved iMac crashed.  (I know, I know.  “Every hard drive will fail.”  Use me as your case study.)  One morning, after the kids boarded the bus, with the click, click, click of a darkened screen, all my scheduling and meeting and transporting vanished.  Poof.

As Darling Darling would say, “WTF?”  (“Why the face?”  Don’t you love it?)  Gone were financial records, photos, iTunes purchases, my freshly compiled book fair list, and then, more cash than I care to confess just to get us back on our computing feet.

Perfect.  (Sarcasm.)  I could've used that extra cash, because anyone knows that all these back-to-school activities also mean “back-to-Chick-Fil-A.”  And Bojangles.  And, on occasion, KFC.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love chicken.  But I don’t know that I can face another “no-butter-extra-pickles-Chick-Fil-A-sandwich.”

In the midst of all the “busy-ness,” though, I’m reminded of another, easily prepared and easily adored chicken dish – one that can be cooked up in a snap and fits in some vegetables.  Or -- between you and me -- lots.

Son and Darling Daughter have long been fans of chicken lettuce wraps, and one harried evening around Labor Day, I had to wonder, why don’t we just make some?

Finally, in these 30 days of September – success.  Chicken lettuce wraps are now a weekly fixture Chez Wiles – inspiring me, perhaps, to finish working out my recipe for East-Meets-West Mu Shu Pork.

In October. 

You know, when I have some time to myself.

Chicken Lettuce Wraps

1 teaspoon toasted (or dark) sesame oil

2 ribs celery, finely chopped

10-12 baby carrots, finely chopped

1/2 red bell pepper, finely chopped

2 cloves garlic, grated or finely chopped

2 tablespooons freshly grated ginger

1 pound ground chicken 

1 can whole water chestnuts, drained, finely chopped

2 tablespoons prepared Chinese plum sauce

2 tablespoons soy sauce

2 tablespoons rice vinegar

1 teaspoon chili oil (or hot pepper oil)

Large leaf lettuce, Bibb lettuce or iceberg lettuce leaves

In very large, nonstick skillet, heat sesame oil over medium high heat until smoking.  Stir in celery, carrots and bell pepper.  Sauté 5-6 minutes, or until vegetables are softened and slightly browned.  Stir in garlic, ginger and chicken, and cook, stirring, until chicken is cooked and slightly browned.  Stir in water chestnuts, plum sauce, soy sauce, rice vinegar and chili oil until well combined and heated through.  Serve hot, a few tablespoons at a time, rolled up in lettuce leaves.  Holy cow.  Or chicken.  This stuff is good.

I'm A Listmaker. Not That There's Anything Wrong With That.

A few days ago, one of the kids’ friends asked whether I intended to buy the new iPhone 4G. 

Nope. There’s absolutely no reason to trade in my 3G, I insisted. Furthermore, exactly how crazy do I look? Do I look as if I’m made of money? (OK. I didn’t actually say that last bit. But my kids knew I was thinking it.)

Twelve hours later, my 3G hit the road – literally – one too many times. And there it was. The unalterably-blank screen. I now had a reason – an overwhelming one -- to trade in my 3G.

Sigh. Off to the always-mobbed Apple Store at Southpark Mall, where, upon crossing the threshold, you have to wade through the masses to track down the blue-shirted master-list-keeper, so you can get on the proper waiting list to have one of the blue-shirted product-keepers help you buy something – anything – which in this case, was a 4G.

Still, the next day, as we drove down to the lake, I told the kids and Cougar Bait that it hadn't been all that bad. I’d qualified for the “upgrade,” so I didn’t have to pay full ticket. All my emails, text messages, contacts, songs, games and photos were synced to my Mac, so no problem there. My only real concern was that I’d lost my lists.

Over the years, I explained, I’ve kept all kinds of lists on my phones. To-do’s. Gift ideas. (A ceiling fan? Really?) Bumper stickers. (“Unlike the hellbound demon spawn in your car, my children are saved.”) Unexpected sightings (an African-American man wearing a t-shirt reading, I’m the white man who’s been keeping you down.) Stuff my kids say, which I can post on my “Overheard At My House” page on Facebook. (Son, describing one of his sister’s textbooks, “If the Devil wrote a bible, this would be it.”)

Oh – and let’s not forget my list of words that can be typed using every single finger, but each only once.

Cripes. Should’ve stopped with the “Overheard At My House” list. But maybe I didn’t mention that last list out loud. The car, after all, was oddly quiet. But wait for it.  Thirty seconds later, the three of them, in unison, said, “You do WHAT?”

Whatever. I’m Cheri and I’m a listmaker. A few years ago, I realized that typing the word “pleasing” requires using every finger once.  So it became a personal little quest. And to keep track, I keep a list.  So what?

C’mon. It could be worse. Way worse. Just think of the things that other people write in emails. Or put in text messages (Tiger Woods). Or say on tape (Mel Gibson). ‘Nuff said.

My little list, albeit quirky, is fairly harmless. Besides, thanks to MobileMe, my list was restored later that day – which allows me to boast that my current list includes 15 words – if you include proper nouns and the occasional oddity.  Which I do.

Is “replanks” a word?  On my list, yes.  Yes indeed.

Speaking of quirky and harmless, you’ve got to try these sautéed chickpeas. They’re not a side dish, really (although I guess they could be). And as far as hors d’oeuvres go, they’re a bit messy – kind of like olives. Plus, you can change the seasoning up any way you like. I’m showing them here with cumin and chili powder, but you can also try them with fresh minced rosemary and lemon zest. And, oh my, are they tasty.

“Pleasing,” in fact, is the word that comes to mind. P-L-E-A-S-I-N-G.

Sautéed Chickpeas

1 can chickpeas (garbanzo beans), drained, rinsed, patted dry
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon chili powder
½ teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

Heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat. When oil begins to ripple, stir in remaining ingredients, shaking and stirring occasionally, until chickpeas begin to brown slightly (about 10 minutes). Drain on a paper towel, check for seasonings (salt), and munch away.

Even A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day Can Get Worse.

Yesterday, in the words of one of my favorite children’s books*, was a “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.” 

I was unsettled.  Out of kilter.  Overwhelmed.  Under-able.  I was so awash in pity that the lyrics to Jimmy Buffet’s song, “My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink, and I Don’t Love Jesus” kept running through my mind.

The house needs painting, the laundry needs washing, the kids need to be more helpful, the bills need to be paid, I need to be do more volunteer work, the cat needs to go to the vet, the plants need to be watered, I’m not sure how to manage a few financial hurdles, I have no sangria, and I’m struggling with subject-verb agreement.

I wasn’t awash in pity.  I was wallowing in it.  Bathing in it.

In my head, I was chanting the lyrics to an old childhood song, “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I’m gonna eat some worms.”  And then, sure enough, things got worse.

A few days earlier, when the kids and I returned from Reunion Weekend, we’d noticed an “off” smell in the house.  So “off,” in fact, that the kids refused to hang out downstairs.  It was foul.  It was pervasive.  It was an “unwelcome” mat.  After a good bit of head-scratching, cautious-tiptoeing, hesitant-door-opening and reluctant pantry-sniffing.  I found the culprit – a decomposed, liquefied potato.

I tossed it immediately.  The smell, however, lingered.  Indeed, it worsened.

For the next couple of days, I burned candles, sprayed Febreze, ran the fans, and “aired” out the house – in 97 degree heat.

The funk remained.

Combined with my own foul mood, that stench made misery for everyone.  I typically turn to cooking to lift my mood, so I began making up a batch of Darling Daughter’s favorite macaroni and cheese for supper and chopping the ingredients needed to re-stock the basement freezer with marinara sauce.

Um.  Did I say “freezer”?

Dammit.  (Sorry, Mom.)   My super-sleuthing and super-sniffing hadn’t extended to the basement.  Dammit.  So now, cracking the basement door was akin to opening the gates of Hell.  Poets write of hell reeking of sulfur and brimstone, but I’d say Hell is a personal matter.  For me, Hell smells like 30 pounds of putrefied, decomposing chicken, oozing out a freezer door.

Shap.**

Trust me, I could be far more graphic – describing, for example, how the various plastic zippered bags holding far-from-frozen poultry were either inflated like balloons, or had already burst, releasing foul, black used-to-be-chicken sludge – but really, who wants to hear about that?

So just like that, my pity party was over.  I had to get to work.  No time for self-indulgent navel gazing.  Time to put on those big girl panties.  I had to scoop poultry residue from a fridge.

And then, come up with something decidedly “not poultry” for lunch.  Something like this cool, refreshing cucumber salad.

Hold the worms.

Creamy Cucumber Salad

¼ cup sour cream

2 tablespoons chopped fresh chives

1 very small clove of garlic, minced, then mashed to a paste with 3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

1 seedless (hothouse) cucumber, peeled, cut in quarters lengthwise, then sliced

Combine first five ingredients, to make a dressing.  Toss in cucumber slices.  Chill slightly and serve.

*Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, Judith Viorst

** That’s “crap.”  With an “s-h.”