What I Do Best: Worry. And Then, Cook.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. Darling Daughter’s eyes were bloodshot, her cough sounded like that of a smoker with a 60-year-habit, and her forehead was eerily akin to a baked potato fresh from a 400 degree oven. No doubt about it.  She was sick. As I rubbed her back, she attempted a weak smile, but ended up in a puddle of tears.  Within minutes, she collapsed into a deep, damp sleep.

I snuggled her favorite pale pink jersey blanket against her cheek, smoothed the sticky tendrils of silken hair off her forehead and tiptoed downstairs.

What a relief. 

An hour later, I tiptoed up to check on her.  Just in case.  Yep.  Still sleeping.

Another, somewhat more anxious, hour passed.  I checked again.  Yep.  Still dozing.  I turned to leave.  But wait.  Had I seen her chest rising and falling?  I spin back around, fighting back ridiculous worries.  Yep.  Definitely breathing. 

Or was she?  I inched closer.  I couldn’t tell.  The blanket was moving, wasn’t it?  Or were my eyes are playing tricks on me?

I chastised myself for being so paranoid.  But what if … ?  I’d never forgive myself.

I edged closer.  I considered getting a mirror.  In old movies, that’s what they do.  If the person is breathing, even slightly, their breath fogs the mirror. 

Have mercy.  What was I thinking?  Was I thinking at all?  I’d never seen that in a movie.  I’d only heard about it.

So.  Breathing or not?

I edged closer still.  I couldn’t decide.  Time to panic?  Or time to tiptoe my crazy butt and crazier thoughts back down the stairs?

Then, without warning, DD shifted her legs.  Slightly.  I recoiled as if struck.  My heart felt as if it were trying to exit my body.  Yep.  Definitely breathing.  Humiliated, I slinked downstairs while DD slumbered on, blissfully unaware of the preposterous thoughts of the woman who gave birth to her.

When our kids are babies, we parents can scarcely stop worrying about them.  But so far as I can tell, as the kids get older, those worries don’t cease.  The scene I just described is from last week, when 12-year-old DD had the flu.  The only difference between my parental worries now and when she was a baby is that maybe I don’t show my panic as much now.  Maybe.

Worrying is what we parents do best.  We worry when they’re sick.  We worry when they might get sick.  We worry when they’re with a sitter.  We worry when they’re so old they don’t need a sitter. We worry when they don’t eat.  We worry that they eat too much junk.  We worry when they don’t get perfect grades.  We worry that they’re working too hard to get perfect grades.  We worry when they’re “out.”  We worry when they’re "in" and everyone else is "out."  We worry when they worry. We worry they don’t worry enough.

It’s exhausting.

It’s been a week since DD was sick, and although she still has a lingering cough, I feel like I’m also recovering, trying to make sure she gets ample rest, hydration, and of course, nutrition.

As her appetite returned, we started back with bland food.  But “bland” doesn’t mean “tasteless.”  Even something as basic as rice can be something special.  And when I prepared this Thyme-Scented Lemon Rice last week, I got a genuine smile from DD -- and no tears.

Plainly, we’re both well on the road to recovery.  Wonder what I'll worry about next.

Thyme-Scented Lemon Rice

1 cup raw rice

2 cups chicken broth

1 lemon, zested
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

2-3 springs of fresh thyme

juice of ½ a lemon

1 tablespoon butter

Combine rice, broth, lemon zest, salt and thyme in a 2-quart, lidded saucepan.  With lid off, bring to a boil.  Once boiling, turn heat down to low, put lid on and cook (without stirring) 13 minutes.  When rice is done, remove thyme springs, fluff gently with a fork, and stir in lemon juice and butter.  Serve hot.

The Power of the Network. And Darling Daughter. And Scotch.

Yesterday afternoon, I made one of those absolutely necessary, but embarrassingly-infrequent circuits of the house, checking the exterior paint, security lights, gutters, etc.  (Really, which kid do you suppose penciled in a monster face on the wood siding?  And when?)

As my inspection reached that side of the house least seen (and every house has one, right?), I saw that a towering pyracanthas bush against the fence had been tethered to our home by a ropey, six-foot strand of spider silk.  It tickled me to think that this favorite shrub, which I rely on year 'round for foliage cuttings, floral filler and seasonally decorative berries, had been assimilated into our actual home.  The bush was now, officially, Chez Wiles.

That night, hours after my completed inspection, I was on the phone with a Charleston friend who likes to be referred to as Cougar Bait (CB).  (Honest.  He's 23 days younger than me.  This is just the beginning of things not fabricated in this blog post.) As I babbled about my day, Darling Daughter (DD), who'd been upstairs getting ready for bed, came down to notify me that the lights were on in my car.  It was 9:30 at night and raining.  I was irritated that I had to go outside and see which door was ajar, so I could get the lights off.

Long story short, I disrupted a car break-in in progress.

First, no worries.  We are fine.

Second, it turns out that 12-year-old girls are pretty darn powerful because what happened next was like a scene from a horror movie.  Still on the phone, I went outside, opened the driver's side door and was ticked off to see the glove compartment door gaping wide.  At the same time, DD, who is home with the flu, was watching me from an upstairs window and saw a man ("no hair, about 30, red shirt, red umbrella, about as tall as my mom," as she later told the police) crouching on the other side of the car.  Despite being nearly voice-less a few hours earlier, DD summoned the energy to frantically and loudly alert me, scaring off the perpetrator.

Terrifying?  Well, let's say I may have found yet another target market for Depends adult diapers.  And not just 47-year-old female crime victims.  Thirty-something-year-old crime suspects, as well.  In the words of Mr. T, "I pity the fool" who crosses a pre-teen who thinks her mom is in danger.  DD's siren-like warning penetrated that second-story, double-paned glass and sent the would-be burglar scrambling.

That's when the strands of my network began revealing themselves.  I quickly hung up on CB to call 911.  Unbeknownst to me, CB -- who'd heard DD's shrieks over the phone (did I mention she was loud?) -- quickly called Dear Friends (DF) who live nearby.  At my request, DD called CB to assure him that we were OK.  DF pulled into the driveway minutes later.  Two police cruisers followed shortly thereafter.  DD and I each gave our statements.  With police escorts, we inspected the property -- just as I had earlier in the day.  And then, a mere 35 minutes after the break-in, DD and I were on our way to DF's for a sleepover.

Thirty-five minutes.  No fabrication.

As news spread over the next 12 hours, my network continued to emerge. Friends, family and neighbors supported us -- offering advice, cell phone numbers, resources for improved security, unrelenting love and lavish praise for DD's quick thinking.

Our network turned into a virtual "net"  -- a comfy hammock holding, supporting, comforting and cradling us -- something we very much needed, even though we were perfectly fine.

DD took a five-hour nap this afternoon, recuperating, I think, as much from the flu, as the night before.  I've answered countless e-mails and phone calls and even shed a few tears out of sheer gratefulness.  I've also offered my undying gratitude and assorted favors to Cougar Bait and Dear Friends -- the starter strands of last night's network.

I can't say I've got much in the way of a recipe right now.  Between the flu and the napping and the network, DD and I haven't broken bread together today.  The most memorable thing I had last night was a stiff Scotch while unwinding at DF's last night.  Talk about an easy recipe.

But first, how lucky am I?  Yep.  The answer is "amazingly" -- thanks to DD and our powerful network.

Scotch On The Rocks

As served by DF and as consumed while on a late night call to CB.

One hefty, cut-crystal double-old-fashioned glass

An abundance of crushed ice

Lovely, fragrant, smooth, calming 15-year-old single-malt Scotch (I prefer Dalwhinnie, which, serendipitously, can be found in DF's liquor cabinet)

Water

Fill glass to rim with crushed ice.  Pour Dalwhinnie over ice until glass is 1/2 full.  (Really, it's not that much when you think about it. Remember, ice is frozen water, which makes it an ingredient.  When you think of it that way, Scotch is only the second of three ingredients.)  Splash some non-frozen water (the third ingredient) on top.  Sip slowly as you recount the tale of your evening.  Decline, when offered, a second Scotch (and Dear Friends always offer a second).  Sleep well, knowing your network is stronger than any spider's web.

Stormy Weather. Just Couldn't Get My Poor Self Together.

Twenty years ago today, I called a client in Richmond, Virginia to explain that I might miss a deadline.

“The electricity's out, but I’m sure it will be back up in a couple of hours.  No problem.”

Oops.  That was my first mistake.  That was no simple storm that had blown through the night before.  It was full-forced Hurricane Hugo, downing trees, snapping power lines and severely debilitating Charlotte for days and weeks to come.

I’d known Hugo was making landfall, of course.  Just not here.  Indeed, I’d been urging my Charleston family to come to my new home in Charlotte -- which we'd owned for less than a month -- and “be safe.”  Not one of them would consider it. So I spent the entire night worrying.  It never occurred to any of us that Hugo could come so far inland.  As the storm raged and transformers blew and oaks the size of bridge pilings tumbled like blocks, crushing homes and cars, I peered out the windows, thinking, “Wouldn’t you know it.  We bought one of those houses where you hear every single drop of rain.  Damn.”

I was still in denial as the sun came up.  Alongside our neighbors, we lurched like zombies, still in robes and pajamas, surveying the aftermath, climbing over fallen trees and mystified by the thick green confetti (leaf shreds) and swarming yellow jackets (apparently, they nest in the roots of trees -- who knew?)   "Well," I thought, “it can’t be like this everywhere.”

That was my second mistake.  Of course ours wasn't the only neighborhood hit.  We weren't the only ones who couldn't get their cars out of their driveways.  Even if we could, there was nowhere to go.  All – and I mean all – the streets were blocked.  (Miraculously though, as we stood outside, dazed, the delivery guy from The Charlotte Observer swashed a path through the neighborhood, tossing the day's paper in our driveways.

Just the day before, I'd stood in line at The Fresh Market.  I'm a Charlestonian, so with a storm abrewing I knew it was time to stock up on the basics -- milk, bread, beer.  Duh.

The woman ahead of me bought 10 pounds of shrimp (on sale!), and I remember thinking:  She's not in her right mind.  Southern storms often bring power outages.  What would she do if her freezer thawed?

I thought about that woman for days.  Maybe she just wanted to cook to settle her nerves.  Lord knows I did.  But post-Hugo, without a stove or oven or refrigerator, there was little I could do.  Yes, we grilled.  And grilled and grilled.  (Grilled coffee became a specialty of the house, as were scrambled eggs with almost anything tossed in, and grilled meat four or five times a day.)  In all, we were without power for about 10 days.  Faced with rapidly defrosting freezers we gorged on steak and shrimp (and one neighbor's venison).  We sipped warm beer.  Yuck.  We piled clothes in and around the hamper, in anticipation of an eventual laundry day.  Once some of the streets were cleared, one neighbor ventured out of town and returned with a bag of ice for us.  Upon receiving it, I kid you not:  I cried.  But most of my time was spent scheming about what I would cook when electricity once again graced our home.

Truly.  When power finally returned (and the Harris Teeter re-stocked and re-opened), I had all four burners going -- with chili, my favorite pasta sauce (the way I like it -- with peppers and mushrooms -- because I didn't have any kids to please), soup, you name it.  I was filling my stomach, filling the freezer and filling the house with comforting aromas.  I was like Scarlett O'Hara -- I would never go hungry again.

And that was my third mistake.  It wasn't bread or milk or even beer that I should've stocked up on before the storm.  Non-perishable, savory food would've been wiser.  Next time I'll know better.  As the next storm takes a turn, I'll be taking my first batch of Super Savory Cereal Mix out of the oven.  And stocking up on ice.  Warm beer is the pits.

Super Savory Cereal Mix

This is your basic "chex mix," but amped up.  I like mine much more flavor-filled than most recipes allow.  This is a particularly zesty version -- with lots of nuts, but no peanuts.  And it keeps for weeks.

3 cloves garlic, peeled and each impaled on a toothpick

1 stick of butter (not margarine)

1/3 cup worcestershire sauce

1/3 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice

1/2 teaspoon Tabasco sauce

1, 12-ounce box of Crispix cereal

1, 6.6 ounce bag of Goldfish snack crackers

1, 2-pound jar of deluxe mixed nuts (no peanuts)

1-2 teaspoons kosher salt

Preheat oven to 250.  In a very large roasting dish with high sides, stir in first five ingredients.  Put pan in oven until butter melts -- about five minutes.

Once butter has melted, gently stir in Crispix, Goldfish and nuts.  Bake for one hour, stirring (gently) at 15 minute intervals.

Remove from oven, and while still hot, sprinkle with kosher salt to taste.

Allow to cool and serve.