Tonight Is All About Mom

I spent the better part of today with my feet up in the air. And I'd appreciate if you'd get your mind out of that gutter. I sprained my right ankle yesterday afternoon, and the medical experts (i.e., WebMD) agree that the key to a speedy recovery is elevating my softball-sized ankle above my chest. Ice and ibuprofen are also recommended. Sauvignon blanc probably is, too, but I gave it up for Lent. Next year for Lent, I'm giving up spraining my ankle.

Nevertheless, I'm a mom, and as long as I still have my hands and senses about me, I'm in charge of everything that no one else wants to do. It also means I have the powers of prophecy. I can absolutely foretell that, in the next hour or so, someone's going to be bold enough to ask, "What's for dinner?"

Between you and me, it's lasagna.

For reasons that escape me, my kids aren't fans of lasagna. Sure, they manage when it's on the plate in front of them. I've even heard them choke out "thank you, that was good" when served lasagna at someone else's house. But at home, it's a dish that elicits an overly prolonged, overly vocal sigh. That single exhalation could inflate a small raft.

Too bad. I want lasagna. My ankle hurts, I can't have wine, the dog peed in the dining room and homemade lasagna's in the freezer. If the kids dare ask what we're eating tonight, I'm invoking "don't ask, don't tell."

I love lasagna and consider it a parental failing that the children don't share my enthusiasm. I learned to make it in college and still have an overblown sense of accomplishment when I sprinkle on that final layer of cheese. I bet you know what I'm talking about. Lasagna requires both culinary sensibility and architectural expertise. With 38 years of cooking and 10 years of Lego construction under my belt, I have both.

So lasagna it is. Lasagna -- and an ice pack.

No-Boil Lasagna With Sausage

Sauce

1 lb. sweet italian sausages, casings removed

1 large onion, diced

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 large carrots, grated

3 large cloves of garlic, minced

(1 zucchini, grated, optional)

2 teaspoons dried oregano

1 28-ounce can crushed tomatoes with puree

1 14-oz can diced tomatoes

1 cup water

1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

1/2 cup chopped fresh basil

Filling

1 10-ounce package frozen spinach, thawed and squeezed dry

2 15-ounce containers of ricotta cheese

3/4 cup fresh grated Parmesan cheese

2 large eggs, beaten slightly

salt, pepper, nutmeg and dried oregano

Lasagna

Sauce (see above)

Filling (see above)

12 uncooked lasagna noodles

1 cup fresh grated Parmesan

4 cups grated mozzarella (or 1 lb, sliced)

Make sauce. Saute onion and sausages in hot oil, using large spoon to break up the sausage. (I sometimes simply grill the sausage and slice them.) Continue browning, adding garlic, carrots, (zucchini, if using) and herbs. When all vegetables are soft, stir in remaining ingredients, bring to a boil and simmer at least 30 minutes. Salt and pepper to taste.

Make filling. Thoroughly mix all filling ingredients in a large bowl, using hands if necessary.

Preheat oven to 375.

Assemble lasagna. Spray a 13x9 inch baking dish with nonstick cooking spray. Spread 1 cup of sauce in bottom of dish. Arrange layer of 3 uncooked noodles on top. Spoon 1 1/2 cups of filling over noodles, spreading evenly. Sprinkle with 1 cup of mozzarella and 1/4 cup of Parmesan. Repeat layering two more times. Top with another layer of noodles, and spread remaining sauce on top. Sprinkle with remaining cheese. Spray a large piece of foil with nonstick spray and use it to cover lasagna.

Bake 40 minutes, remove foil, increase oven to 400 and bake another 20 minutes, or until noodles are tender and sauce is very bubbly. Let rest 15-20 minutes before serving.

One Dog's Life

A few weeks ago, we adopted a beautiful Brittany rescue dog, Josie.

She'd had a rough life prior to her arrival Chez Wiles. She'd had parvo, been starved nearly to death, and had never been in a house. So here's what she wants of us. To be loved. To be fed.

Here's what we want of her. To sit, stay, come and "go." To be docile and obedient. To not pee on the floor. To not pee on the rug. To not pee on the most expensive rug in the house. (This morning.) To not eat my 6th grader's course registration form. (Too late.) To not eat my 8th grader's French homework. (Again, too late.) To lie calmly at our feet. To zoom in circles around the coffee table. To jump up and catch treats in her mouth. To not jump up on us. To welcome our friends -- whom she doesn't know. To ward off strangers -- whom she doesn't know either. To play with the cat. To leave the @#%$!! cat the **&%^$@! alone.

And that's just Month One.

Not really a fair relationship, I guess. Sometimes, you can see in her eyes that's she's not 100% sure of us just yet. Still, it's somehow working.

Maybe I shouldn't be focusing so much on what we want of her, but instead, on what she does for us. She's the best alarm clock I've ever owned. Just the threat of me unleashing the "canine clock," makes both sleepy-eyed kids pop up like life-size jack-in the-boxes. She's a grueling personal trainer for our cat, Lionel. Jillian, from The Biggest Loser, would be shamed by the intense workouts that Josie gives. Best of all, though, she's helping us happily re-define our post-divorce family, making us feel more complete.

For all she does, maybe I should be doing more for her. I may have to start researching some dog biscuit recipes. Until I figure out a canine version, though, I bet Josie won't mind these a bit.

Buttermilk Biscuits

2 cups flour ("soft" Southern flour, like Red Band or White Lily, really is best)

1 tablespoon sugar (I know most Southern cooks don't include it, but I think it makes the dough more tender)

1 teaspoon salt

3 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

6 tablespoons shortening (chilled, cut in small cubes)

2 tablespoons unsalted butter (chilled, cut in small cubes)

3/4 - 1 cup buttermilk

Preheat oven to 425. Blend together dry ingredients. Using pastry cutter or two forks, cut in shortening and butter until mixture is crumbly and mealy. Quickly blend in 3/4 cup of the buttermilk. Dough should be soft and sticky; if needed, stir in remaining 1/4 cup buttermilk. Scrape dough onto well-floured board or counter. It will not (and should not) be as elastic or dry as bread dough. Using floured hands, gently pat out dough, and fold it over itself several times (patting, not kneading). Pat dough out to 3/4 inch thickness. Cut out biscuits, placing on ungreased cookie sheet. Repeat with remaining dough scraps. Bake until very lightly golden -- about 10-12 minutes.

Talking 'Bout My Generation

To the dismay of my 14-year-old-son, it turns out that Facebook is chockfull of 40-something moms.  Bummer.  For him.  The way I see it, FB was practically  invented for us.

Think about it.  Kids FB to communicate with the very same people they see all day long.  Adults, on the other hand, FB to keep up with scarcely seen friends, co-workers, former neighbors, old classmates, and your 6th grade boyfriend from Harborview Middle School, who along with you, was named "Most Likely To Succeed."  Hah.  Go ahead and toss that crystal ball in the trash.  But back to the story at hand.

As much as I embrace the idea of letter-writing, if my out-of-town family ever got a handwritten note from me, hand-delivered by the US Postal Service, they'd understandably expect the worst -- either I was communicating from beyond the grave or sending a request for ongoing financial support.  Neither bodes well for me.  Facebook is a far better means of reaching out and touching them -- if not as lucrative.

Facebook isn't the only takeover target for us acquisitive middle-aged moms.  Years ago, our kids claimed Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix and Bruce Springsteen, so I have no qualms about embracing Coldplay, Maroon 5 and Five For Fighting.  And you know, I don't think (lead singers) Chris Martin or Adam Levine mind one bit.  Who do you suppose can better afford their concert tickets -- me or my babysitting kids?  True, as childcare providers, the kids earn ridiculous money, but it's an easy win for me.  They can't drive.

And how about blue jeans?  I truly felt for dear Jessica Simpson when she wore those absurd high-waisted jeans.  Anyone from the Fort Johnson High School graduating class of 1980 could have told her that even the bendiest pipecleaner of a girl would find those things unflattering, uncomfortable and just plain stupid-looking. Why do you suppose we moms practically stampeded to buy the low-rider jeans of today's generation?  We couldn't wear our maternity jeans (with their comfy, stretchy, jersey front panels) forever.  Low-rider jeans are the new "mom" jeans.  Leave those silly high-waisted things to the young and ahem, visually- or at least, fashion-impaired.

Sure, the younger generation fights back.  I hear that there's a renewed interest in some of the more budget-minded food we ate growing up.  They can have it.  But I've got to ask, why resort to canned cream of mushroom soup, when you can make a version of tuna and noodles that could be voted most likely to succeed any night of the week?

Not Your Mama's Tuna and Noodles

3/4 pound angel hair pasta, broken into 3" - 4" pieces and cooked al dente

1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil (maybe more)

1/2 onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced fine

2 cans tuna, packed in oil (not drained)

1 small can black olives, drained and sliced

2 tablespoons capers, drained

1 lemon, juiced and zested

red pepper flakes

handful of parsley, minced

salt and pepper

1/2 - 1 cup of chicken broth

After noodles have cooked, drain well.  Heat olive oil in hot pan, saute chopped onion until soft and stir in garlic until fragrant.  When onion and garlic are soft, stir in tuna (undrained) olives, capers and lemon zest.  Heat through, and gently stir in hot, drained pasta.  Season with red pepper flakes, parsley, salt and pepper.  Stir in reserved lemon juice, and enough chicken broth so that pasta is loose.  Serve carefully, making sure everyone gets plenty of the "good stuff" left at the bottom of the pan.