We're The Class of 1980

We’re the best, ain’t no maybe.  We’re the Class of 1980.

My 30^th high school reunion is this weekend.

Do you suppose it would be possible, in the next three days, for me to:

•  Lose 15 pounds?  10?  Nine?  Truth be told, I’d be happy with one.  And a half.

•  Run a marathon?  A half marathon?  A wildly successful and innovative computing empire known as “Apple”?

•  Find in my driveway, free of monthly payments, the Jaguar (eight-cylinder) I always swore I’d have when I grew up?  (Forty-seven is "grown up," is it not?)

•  Publish a novel?  My memoirs?  A three-paragraph post on momswhodrinkandswear.com?  (Who am I kidding?  As instructed by my high school English teacher, Mrs. Evelyn Hall, I can’t write anything in fewer than five paragraphs.  I can, however, drink and swear, something I did not learn from Mrs. Hall.  I swear.)

But wait.  Surely my former classmates --  the Mighty, Mighty Trojans of Fort Johnson High School -- aren't so shallow and competitive.  Besides, I’m a Mom!  I'm not limited to bragging about my own accomplishments!  Perhaps I can:

•  Arrange Son’s early admission to Harvard.  (Yes, he’s only 15 and admittedly unmotivated, but wouldn’t that qualify him as “unique” and therefore, “desirable” to the selection committee?)

•  Persuade 13-year-old and admittedly squeamish Darling Daughter to donate a kidney.  To a newborn.  In a third world country.

•  Train Josie, our highstrung rescue dog who won't fetch so much as a tennis ball, to retrieve meals for an elderly person.  Who’s visually impaired.  And in any other circumstance, suffers from life-threatening canine allergies.

•  Persuade Lionel, the 13-pound feline of the house to ...  What?  Snub us?  Really, what other skill does he possess?

Sigh.  The truth is, there are only two days before I head to home to Charleston, and like Popeye, “I yam what I yam.”  And despite it all, what I “yam” is pretty “yam” happy.

As much as I’ve dreaded the upcoming reunion, in many ways, I’m actually looking forward to it.  Cougar Bait (again, only 23 days younger than me) has agreed to be my arm candy.  He's also agreed to, as the need arises, serve as parking attendant and bouncer/strong arm for those beloved classmates who haven’t yet submitted their reunion checks to me.  (Have I not mentioned that I’m the one organizing the Reunion?  How uncharacteristically non-bitchy of me!)

Moreover, my former classmates -- those who have paid their $55 fee and even those who have not --have been incredibly appreciative and supportive.  They've also been forthcoming with their stories and “scoop.”  (Hoo boy.  I do love me some “scoop.”)

And as a bonus, dear friends have retrieved their not-altogether accurate memories of me.  In some ways, it’s ridiculously flattering.  One friend, in fact, remembered that I often made “Lemon Chicken” back in middle school. 

The recipe, at that time, wasn’t truly my favorite.  I like the idea, but the skin was woefully soggy.  The seasoning came largely from lemon-pepper seasoning.  And overcooked?  Well, considering that the recipe called for it to be cooked FOREVER, why yes,  it may have been.

This version, I think, is much more simple, flavorful and juicy -- with crispy skin, to boot.

If only it could help me lose 15 pounds before Saturday.  Or even one.  And a half.

Go Trojans!

Pan Roasted Lemon Chicken

1 chicken, cut up

Zest and juice of two lemons

1 lemon, quartered

2 tablespoons olive oil

4 cloves garlic, smashed and peeled

1 teaspoon minced fresh rosemary

1 teaspoon kosher salt

½ teaspoon fresh ground pepper

3 strips bacon,  finely diced (optional)

Toss all ingredients – except bacon, salt and pepper -- together in a large roasting or broiler pan.  Allow to rest 15-20 minutes (taking the "chill" off the chicken before cooking). Preheat oven to 450.  (If you have a convection oven, now’s the time to use it.)  Arrange chicken in pan, so pieces are not touching, skin side up.  Sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Scatter raw bacon (if using) over top.  Roast for 20 minutes or until slightly browned.  Check, and, using tongs, squeeze roasted lemon chunks over chicken.  (Don't turn chicken.)  Return to oven and continue roasting until crispy brown and done (about 20-25 minutes).  Allow to rest 10-15 minutes before serving.

What Darling Daughter Missed More Than Me.

She’s baaaaacccck!

Yep.  After four weeks at her shoreline Shangri-La (Camp Seafarer), Darling Daughter is Chez Wiles. 

And hoo boy, she’s an entirely different creature.

As you’d expect, she’s an altogether different shade – more tobacco than tan.  But that’ll happen to even the most diligent 50+SPF sunscreen appliers (of which, she’s one) who spend four weeks at the beach.  And yes, she’s taller – practically my height – but that’s to be expected of a girl her age.

Nope. It’s not physical.  It’s harder to recognize than that. Maybe she’s more composed.  Maybe more confident.  Maybe that most prized of all Chez Wiles’ attributes -- maybe she’s funnier.  Hard to say.  I just know that I’m happy to be around her.

While at camp, DD wrote diligently – for which I owe her at least $14, given my promise to pay her $1 for every “well-written” letter.  I hungrily read and re-read everything she wrote, but my favorites were, without question, the ones where she wrote of missing my cooking.  (She also missed her bed and hot showers, but truly, she mentioned my cooking the most.)

Oh, honey.  You missed my cooking?  Those words are more magical than "abracadabra," "alakazzam," and "I need to see your ID, ma'am"  combined.

I knew exactly what DD would want:  Chicken Cavatappi, Beer Butt Chicken, Caesar Salad with Chicken and Uncle Nick’s Grilled Greek Wings.  In anticipation, I crammed the basement freezer with poultry.  I was ready.

But then, a heckuva storm knocked out that freezer.  All those chicken wings and boneless breasts and thighs defrosted and had to be tossed.  (Puh-leeze.  I can’t bear to come up with a more graphic description than “lukewarm, squishy, funky and leaky.”  Get the picture?)

Which, although a huge waste of money, turned out to be OK, because upon her return from camp, DD declared she’d had more than her fill of chicken – not to mention potatoes and salad.

As I said, she’d changed.  Out with the leaky, sticky chicken, and in with other comfort foods – Tuna Sandwiches, Sausage Pasta – and for the first dinner home, Buttermilk Pancakes.

Of course, I’d worked on a new – and easy – grilled chicken tender with peanut sauce recipe while she was gone and had been eager to make it once she got home  But that can wait.  Until then, I can handle one more round of Pork Fried Rice.  And simply be grateful for that oft-repeated line in her letters, “I miss your cooking” – now my four most favorite words.

Grilled Chicken Tenders With Peanut Sauce

Wooden skewers, soaked in water for at least one hour

1 pound boneless, raw chicken tenders

4 tablespoons ponzu sauce (a citrus-soy sauce)

1 tablespoon toasted (or dark) sesame oil

1 teaspoon fresh grated ginger

Combine all ingredients (except skewers, of course) and allow to marinate about 30 minutes (or several hours in the refrigerator).

Thread marinated chicken on skewers and grill over indirect heat.  Should take only a few minutes on each side.  Do not overcook, or chicken will dry out.  Serve with peanut sauce.

Peanut Sauce

¼ cup ponzu sauce

¼ cup water

¼ cup rice vinegar

½ teaspoon red pepper flakes

1 teaspoon fresh grated ginger

fresh ground pepper

¼ cup smooth peanut butter

In large, microwavable cup, combine all ingredients except peanut butter, and heat to boiling.  Gradually stir hot liquid into peanut butter.  At first, peanut butter will “melt,” and then will thicken the sauce.  When well combined, serve with grilled chicken.

Read All About It! Worst Mom Ever Falls Down And Goes Boom.

I never flinch when one of my beloved offspring declares me the “Worst Mom Ever,” because to be honest, they don’t know the half of it.

C’mon. It’s not that I’m deliberately “bad.” Indeed, the tears I’ve shed, the books I’ve read, and the committees I head, I think, all give testimony to my devotion to “good” parenting.

There are times, though, with seemingly little effort -- ba-dow! – I squarely reclaim the title.

Take, for example, when the kids are sick or hurt. Let me be clear, in instances like those, I’d always gladly, desperately, prefer to take their places and bear their pains. Still, there’s something perversely satisfying, after deciding the situation calls for a professional, in hearing a doctor announce, “It’s strep.” Or, “Yes, Ms. Wiles, it looks like he needs stitches.” Or, “Hmm. I think we need to see a specialist.”

At moments like those, it’s all I can do to suppress my true feelings, which run along the lines of, “Yes! I knew it! I knew we needed to go to the doctor! I knew this was a real medical situation! I was right!”

Not exactly banner parenting. Far from it. Still it’s not just the kids who are subject to this “I was right!” behavior. I do it to myself.

Yesterday, Son and I went for a run. (OK. His was a “run,” and let’s just say that mine was something less.) At the last minute, we decided to take Josie, the high-strung rescue dog, so she could “unstring” a bit.

She loved it. Loved, loved, loved it. Son ran (far) ahead of us. As I trudged – and Josie cantored -- through our first mile (have I mentioned that my 30th high school reunion is in fewer than four weeks?), a bicyclist pedaled up behind us. Josie (have I mentioned that she’s high-strung?) got spooked. Mid-stride, I tripped, and then, flipped over her, landing on my palms, my knees, my top lip and my left elbow.

As my nephew would say, “Crap! With an S-H.”

I reckon that would be “shap.”

I finished the run, er, trudge, with a split lip, blackened and blued palms, bloodied and gravel-embedded knees, and a keen pain in my elbow.

Returning from his three-mile sprint, Son hardly noticed. “You need a towel,” he noted. “You’re sweating a lot.”

When we returned home, Son played video games, I began dinner (grilled sausage and grits, asparagus in lemon and butter sauce), and Josie? She ran away.

Three hours later, Son recovered her, and by then, my elbow was really bothering me. I tossed and turned all night. Should I go to the doctor? Won’t he just tell me I’m old? What if he says it’s just a bruise? Still, after a sleepless night, I made the call.

Doc found nothing broken. Yes, I was injured, but there was nothing to garner real sympathy. All I could really tell people was that I fell down and went boom.  Still, Doc sent me on to the orthopedist, just to be sure, who, praise the Lord, took x-rays from a slightly different angle, allowing me to now triumphantly say, “I have a fractured elbow! I knew it!”

Shap. I'm still a mom, though, which means someone's about to pose the dreaded "What's for dinner" question.  Time for Plan B.

So tonight, instead of grilled salmon, it’s delivery pizza. Well, that, Celebrex, hydrocodone and this light little radish salad.

Of course the kids don't like radishes.  Yet another way for me to regain the title, "Worst Mom Ever."

Radish & Chive Salad

This refreshing and crisp salad is super simple -- no real measuring required!

One bunch of radishes, cleaned and sliced as thinly as possible

One small bunch of chives (bunch should be no heftier than your pinkie finger), minced

2-3 tablespoons of rice wine vinegar

Generous sprinkling (about 1/2 teaspoon) of kosher salt

Toss all ingredients together.  Chill about 30 minutes and serve.