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.

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.