Put The Lime In The Coconut

We're in a funk here at the Wiles house, but it doesn't take a medical degree -- or even WebMD -- to diagnose the problem.  We've got a wicked case of vacation hangover.

Any mom would recognize the symptoms.  After a carefree vacation, the doldrums set in.  People who should know better start saying silly things like, "I'm bored."  Sorted laundry clutters the floor, awaiting a spin with Cheer.  Emptied suitcases cluster at the top of the stairs, because no one has the energy (or motivation) to haul them to the attic.  Odds and ends are strewn across the kitchen counter -- baggage claim tags, receipts, amusement park maps.

Lionel, our indoor cat who was left to his own devices and evil plans while we were gone, is both unusually affectionate and frantically plotting an escape to the backyard.  Josie, our rescue dog, who spent the better part of the week at "puppy camp," is again somewhat unsure of us and mysteriously, is shunning her usual food.  It's pretty good stuff, too.   I can't imagine what they were feeding her at the kennel -- some type of Top Chef kibble, perhaps?

Just as we begin to get a grip on reality, other symptoms pop up.  I'd hoped to watch last week's missed episode of American Idol while the kids were at their dad's last night.  The Simpsons, The Office and Scrubs were all recorded in our absence, but American Idol (the much-anticipated "country" episode, no less!) was not.  True, it could have been an operator-error, but it smells suspiciously of operator's-son-error.  What?  You think I watch The Simpsons?  (I've got to admit, The Simpsons ride at Universal Studios was hysterically fun -- if you're a 46-year-old mom, that is, not a jaded 14-year-old son.)

The fridge is oddly understocked.  We've got milk, but no eggs, grapes, but no lettuce, hamburger buns, but no bread.  All three of us are within a few days of scurvy, and we're somehow managing to perpetuate the situation.  I served up the beloved "sausage pasta" (see February 23, "Comfort Food") as a remedy, but the broccoli dodged their forks.  The kids, I guess, are determined to have a spring break completely devoid of nutrition.

I'll try again tonight -- with my version of grilled chicken, but if that doesn't work, I have one surefire cure.  The school bus arrives tomorrow at 7:20 a.m., and I know two kids who won't miss it.  And they'll both be packing lunch bags with fresh fruit, peanut butter and whole wheat bread.

Chicken Banzai Marinade

1/2 cup soy sauce

1/2 cup pineapple juice

1/4 vegetable oil

juice of 1-2 limes

1 scallion, finely sliced

1 "knob" ginger, grated or finely minced

2 cloves garlic, minced (optional)

freshly ground pepper

Mix marinade ingredients and pour over cut-up chicken (I use all thighs, but even boneless, skinless breasts are good) in plastic zipper bag.  Allow to marinate at least one hour, then grill over indirect heat until done.  (Poke with a skewer.  When juices run mostly clear, chicken is done.)  Delicious served with grilled slices of pineapple, and garnished with pineapple bits and fresh scallions.

What A Trip

I'm beat.  The kids and I spent the past three days spiraling out of control, spinning upside down, whirling in circles, plunging perilously close to the ground, and on occasion, emerging drenched to the skin.

Yep.  We were at Universal Studios Orlando.

It was an absolute memory-maker of a trip, and we couldn't have been any luckier.  Due to the divinely inspired Express Passes, lines were reasonable, if not non-existent.  Service was unfailingly pleasant, and Mother Nature provided perfect weather.  The food was fine, the parks hygienically clean, and the rides both thrilling and accessible.

Blah, blah, blah.  Honestly, it was all good.  And that's pretty astounding when you consider that I was seeking to please a relatively cautious 12-year-old girl, an absolutely incautious 14-year-old boy, and well, me.

We were lucky enough to be vacationing with several other families -- all with similarly-aged kids.  Every one of us rode the scariest rides as many times as we could stomach.  Not surprisingly, 14-year-old stomachs differ from those of 46-year-olds.

Even my daughter, for whom a plane ride is sufficiently adrenaline-churning (the taxi ride from the airport nearly did it for me!) took on the tallest, twirliest, zippiest, ear-popping, stomach-dropping, and undoubtedly, brain-swelling, ride -- the Incredible Hulk.  She also got to celebrate her (early) birthday perched on the bar of the Hard Rock Cafe, where she and another friend were saluted.  Is it too much to hope it was the last bar she's invited to dance on?

Even though this wasn't an "educational" trip -- no statues, artwork, memorials or history lectures for the kids -- I did squeeze out one essential lesson on this trip.  No woman should ever shop for a bathing suit on her own.

Holy Margaritaville.  How else to explain some of the, ahem, "bathing suits," I saw down by the pool?

Friends don't let friends drive drunk.  Likewise, no woman would ever let another woman walk out of a dressing room -- much less onto a pool deck -- in some of the ill-fitting get-ups I saw.

A friend would say, "Let's see what else they have."  Or, "That one really doesn't work to your best advantage."  Or, "You know, I think that runs a bit small.  Let me see if they've got it in another size -- or three -- up." 

Actually, I'd like to reconsider.  A friend might not get the job done.  A better choice might be a daughter.  Mine would never mince words.

"How do I look in this?"  "Do you think this fits right?"  "Does this color look good on me?"

There'd be no hesitation from my soon-to-be 12-year-old.

All I can figure is that the barely bikini-clad ladies at the pool don't have daughters.  Plainly, "gross," "disgusting," and "are you serious?" are the kinds of forthright comments they'd never heard.  

Harsh? Sure.  But I'd far rather hear the soul-searing truth in a dressing room, than see it on the faces of hundreds of poolside strangers -- particularly on a deck laden with plenty of perfect bodies flaunting perfect suits.

I'm one of the lucky ones, though.  I do have a daughter to help me out -- and she loves to share her critiques of me as freely as she loves to shop.

Before heading to the mall, though, I've got a a little section around my midriff to address.  I see a lot of salads in my future, including this favorite green salad, with lots of green ingredients and lots of textures and bright flavors.

Green, Green Salad

Dressing

3-4 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil

1/2 teaspoon sea salt

freshly ground pepper

Salad

1 Granny Smith apple, unpeeled, diced

1 rib celery, diced

1 scallion, sliced thin

1/4 cup green olives, sliced (no pimentos)

1 avocado, diced

2 stalks hearts of palm, sliced (optional)

1 bag of prewashed baby salad greens (butter and Bibb are good)

4 ounces good blue cheese, crumbled (optional)

Whisk together dressing ingredients.  Stir in apple, celery, scallion, olives and hearts of palm.  Gently fold in avocado (don't mash).  Spoon dressed ingredients over individual servings of salad greens.  Season with more salt and pepper, if needed, and serve immediately with crumbled blue cheese, if using.

 

(Very) Misty, Watercolored Memories

I've long maintained that my decreasing ability to remember things is due to the fact that I have an ever-increasing number of things to remember.

Think about it. At age 46, I have 33 more years of classmates, co-workers and neighbors, dinners, vacations and parties, phone numbers, e-mails and gift ideas to remember than my kids have. I may not remember what we had for dinner last night (or whether we had dinner last night), but I do remember what I ate the night of the Fort Johnson High School Junior-Senior Prom, 1980. We splurged at the Cork and Cleaver, and I had a whole artichoke with lemon butter, mushrooms sauteed in wine, medium-rare filet mignon, and cheesecake. The cheesecake wasn't very good.

I could be wrong about that, though.

Last week, 60 Minutes aired a story about the fallibility of our memories. Apparently, when it comes to recall, "crystal clear" can be Cooper River murky. In the report, we meet a woman who, based on her unwavering, eyewitness identification of the rapist in a lineup, helped convict a man to life in prison. Even when she saw the actual rapist, she didn't recognize him. Twenty years later, DNA evidence proved that the convicted man wasn't guilty, and he was released from prison.

My own memory lapses don't have such life-altering implications, but after only a month or so on Facebook, I'm finding more and more examples of how we remember things differently.

Our recollections can be small, single events or larger, longer-lasting ones. According to the posts I've read, some of the musings of Fort Johnson High School alums include: Remember when you had your wisdom teeth out? Remember that night at Big John's? Remember the (very painful) last Fort Johnson-James Island football game? Remember that week at Folly Beach our senior year? (OK. I admit that there could have been some contributing factors to our collective memory loss that week.)

On the Facebook discussion board, "You Know You Went To Fort Johnson If ..." several alums fondly remember our French teacher as the hottest teacher at school.

Really? I've got to admit, I had to do a double-take there. Then again, I was pretty naive in high school. OK, now that I look back, I can see where kids may have thought that, but back then, it never, ever occurred to me. Ick. (This, despite the fact that she was, in the vernacular of the day, built like a brickhouse. By the way, you know you went to Fort Johnson if you're now singing, "she's mighty, mighty, just letting it all hang out" under your breath.)

Particularly shocking in my Facebook communications to this point is how people claim to remember me: "always smiling," "energetic," and "witty."

Here's how I remember me: awkward, uncomfortable, inappropriate.

Sadly, no one remembers me as having "great hair," "glowing skin" and "fabulous clothes." Rightly so. Nobody's memory is that inaccurate.

Is it always this way? Is there always a vast divide between one person's perception and another person's reality?

Seems like this was once the discussion of a philosophy class I took in college -- but to be honest, I can't remember.

Here's what I can remember: to pick the kids up on time, to make sure the dog is fed and to take care of teachers' gifts. I can remember that my son likes extra cheese on his nachos but no cheese on this tacos. I can remember that my daughter likes potstickers, but only if they're panfried, not steamed. I remember what it felt like to become a mom. And I remember that being a mom is the most important job I could ever have.

And about that prom night cheesecake -- it may have been great. Maybe my memory was tarnished, though, by this recipe, which I acquired a few years later and is truly the best cheesecake ever -- dense, creamy, sweet and slightly tart. (And I'm pretty certain about that, as I've "refreshed" my memory many times in the 20 years I've been making it.)

David's Mom's Cheesecake
Crust

1 cup graham cracker crumbs

1/4 cup melted butter

1/4 cup sugar

Filling

2, 8-ounce packages of cream cheese, at room temperature

3 eggs

1/2 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

Topping

2 cups sour cream

1/4 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 375. Mix crust ingredients together (will be crumbly) and press into a 9" springform pan.

For filling, beat cream cheese until fluffy. Gradually add sugar. Beat in eggs, one at a time. Finally, stir in vanilla. Pour filling into crust. Back 20 minutes (no longer) and remove from oven. Cool 15 minutes.

While cheesecake is cooling, increase oven temperature to 475. Mix topping ingredients together and carefully spread on cheesecake. Return to oven and bake and additional 10 minutes.

Cool completely, and then, refrigerate before serving. If you must top with something, sliced fresh kiwi is ideal.