Hitting The Books. Naming The Boat.

It's exam week Chez Wiles.

So instead of boating –our new favorite pastime -- everybody’s studying.

That doesn’t mean we’re laying low.  Far from it.  Studying Chez Wiles is no quiet, introspective restrained activity.  It’s aggressive, expansive and territorial -- more Alexander the Great than Henry David Thoreau. 

Each kid, naturally, staked out his or her own room first.  Then, Son took over the dining room table.  Daughter claimed the sunroom -- floor, futon and bookshelves -- and set up a whiteboard for math problems.  Son’s study materials sprawled from his bedroom floor, into his bathroom, and onto a corner of the kitchen table.  DD took over some of the stairs and a kitchen counter.  On occasion, she even taped notes to the glass shower door.  At this point, the only household surfaces not yet encrusted with index cards, review sheets, notebooks, textbooks and eraser crumbs are, mysteriously, their desks.  And the cat.

Not that I’m complaining.  To be sure, studying – in whatever form -- is better than the alternative, which in our house is watching Glee, Facebooking, playing the guitar, ripsticking, playing basketball, ripsticking while playing basketball, or putting the cat in the dryer.

Through it all, my role is to grease the track.  Make sure the laundry is done.  Make sure the pantry is stocked.  Make sure each of them gets to their various exams on time (and on the right day, which could be the greater challenge).  And make sure I don’t serve a single meal that could prompt the suspiciously asked, “What’s that?”

So -- no new recipes today.  Instead, we’re all about comfort food – family favorites like Not So Dirty Rice, Waffles of Insane Greatness, and the beloved Sausage Pasta.  Hmm.  Looks as if all three of these meals involve the kids' favorite food group -- sausage.  I'll have to try to do better.  But not this week.

Next week, though, game on.  Fish.  Vegetables.  Anti-oxidants.  Whole fiber.  And very likely, spinach parading as parsley.  Plus, we still have to name the boat.  And maybe, just maybe, learn to drive it!

For A Good Time, Just Add Water.

I opened a bank account yesterday. Kinda.

It’s out in the middle of Lake Wylie. Sorta.

Yep. It’s one of those “liquid” bank accounts – a hole in the water into which you pour money without hopes of ever making a withdrawal. I bought a boat.

I’d been pondering it for some time now. There’s nothing like the freedom and fun you can have out on the water. I grew up on the water, on the beach, on the docks, in the creeks – boating, skiing, cruising, fishing. To me, it feels like an essential part of childhood, and at ages 15 and 13, Son and Darling Daughter won’t be “kids” much longer. As rising 8th and 10th graders, they won’t even be with me much longer. (Son’s clearly-stated college choice is “away.” Followed by, “Do they have colleges in Colorado?")

Plus, it’s that time of year when it seems as if every commencement speaker on the nightly news is urging new graduates to “pursue their dreams.” True, I haven’t matriculated in over 25 years. Still, my dream has always been to use “matriculate” in a sentence. And to have a boat. So now I have one.

This, despite the face that there are at least three good reasons I shouldn’t have done it. First, I didn’t “buy” a boat. I went into debt for one. Second, the boating season isn’t all that long. I know, because I tried to justify the expense by dividing it by the number of times we could get on the water each summer before Darling Daughter graduates from high school in 2015. That kind of math never adds up. And third, well, the truth is, I don’t know how to drive a boat.

As Son’s seventh grade teacher would say, it’s time for me to man up.

It's also time to get cooking, because I can’t think of boating without thinking of food.

When I was a kid, we’d eat a PBJ on the bike ride to the Yacht Club (which is not at all what you think it is), knock on the bar window, put a can of Coke on Daddy’s tab, and think we were gourmands.

That’s one dream that has changed. Nowadays, I think icy beers, hunks of juicy watermelon and French bread and cool, refreshing salads – something like this Shrimp and Cucumber Salad with Dilled Yogurt Dressing.

But first, can someone show me how to run this thing? And what happens if you push that red button?

Shrimp and Cucumber Salad
The salad is easy to assemble, but you have to begin a couple of hours in advance, to allow time for straining the yogurt.
8 ounces plain Greek yogurt, strained
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons fresh chopped dill
2-3 tablespoons fresh minced chives
pinch of ground cayenne pepper
generous grinding of fresh black pepper
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 seedless cucumber, peeled, quartered lengthwise, sliced thickly
1 pound peeled, cooked shrimp, cut into bites and chilled
1 rib of celery, chopped fine and chilled
Leaves of Bibb or butter lettuce

To strain yogurt, line a sieve with a paper coffee filter. Spoon in yogurt and allow to stand for at least two hours, to drain off extra liquid. Remaining yogurt will be very thick and creamy. In large mixing bowl, stir yogurt, lemon juice, dill and peppers together and set aside. Put cucumber slices in sieve, sprinkle with kosher salt, and allow to drain about 30 minutes. (This keeps the salad from getting too watery.) Stir drained cucumber, shrimp and celery into yogurt dressing. Serve, chilled, over lettuce leaves.

Who's Afraid Of The Big, Bad 50?

I’m now 47 and a half. True, I’m still two and a half years away from 50, but I already know lots of people who actually are 50, and I’m not talking about my parents’ friends – I’m talking about mine.

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t want to be a kid again. But I’m not entirely crazy about getting older. I’m pretty darn happy where I am. And when I think about getting older, I worry. And me worrying is never a good thing.

I don’t worry about absolutely everything, though. For example, I don’t worry too much about wrinkles, although honest to Pete, we live in the 21st century, right? Don’t you think by now some smart little scientist would’ve whipped up a skin-shrinking-serum to tighten us up sans surgery – and make himself a bajillion dollars?

And I don’t worry a whole lot about the sagging “girls,” although I could very well be elected president of the “support” lingerie fan club.

Gray hairs don’t get my panties in a wad, either. Have I not mentioned my fabulous hair stylist, Crystal?

What I should worry about is falling and breaking my hip, which is a distinct possibility given that my sole source of daily calcium is a Starbucks venti, nonfat, no-foam chai tea latte. But I’m not even worried about skin cancer, which defies all reason, given that I spent the better part of my youth dunked in Johnson and Johnson Baby Oil, sprawled on towel at Folly Beach in a two-piece.

What I do worry about – what really consumes me – is losing my memory as I get older. This is the one thing I worry about constantly. Or at least when I remember.

Every time I misplace my keys, or forget to return an e-mail, or leave my grocery list at home, I worry. Every time I can’t seem to find a word that was on the tip of my tongue, or I forget the way to someone’s house or one of the kids says, “Remember when I told you [BLAH, BLAH, BLAH] last week,“ I worry.

I even do those little brain exercises that are supposed to keep a person mentally sharp. Crossword puzzles. Sudoku. Brushing my hair and my teeth using my left hand instead of my right.

But then I forget. And I worry.

I recently found a fabulous and fabulously easy chicken recipe in a magazine. I was so taken with it, that I left the magazine open, on my bathroom counter, for weeks. I wanted to make sure I saved the recipe. It was in Food and Wine magazine. Or Oprah. Or maybe Real Simple.

Honest. I have no idea. I went looking for it a few days ago and couldn’t find it. I must’ve flipped through dozens of magazines. (Nope. It wasn’t in the April issue of Money, either.) Convinced I’d seen the recipe in Food and Wine, I checked their website. Dead end. I googled “food wine magazine chicken recipe.” Well, that was stupid. I did another search, adding the word “pancetta.” No good.

WTH? What ? The? H?

Finally, I just came up with my own recipe. I knew the original called for pancetta, but I was out. It called for sage, but that’s not a hit with the kids. But what I came up with instead was really, really tasty. And it’s only got three ingredients, which makes it really, really easy to remember.

No worries. 


Bacon-Wrapped Chicken

Boneless skinless chicken breast halves (smaller sizes are best)
Four short slices of raw bacon per chicken breast
Fresh thyme
Kosher salt
Fresh ground pepper

On a 12-inch piece of plastic wrap, lay four strips of bacon, side by side, slightly overlapping to form a bacon “sheet.” Sprinkle generously with fresh thyme. Lay one boneless breast on bacon sheet, season well with salt and pepper. Now, tightly wrap and roll the chicken in the bacon, so bacon wraps snugly around the chicken. Wrap plastic wrap tightly around the chicken “sausage,” and place in fridge. Repeat with remaining chicken and bacon. Refrigerate chicken rolls several hours or overnight. Now, place chicken rolls in large, non-stick skillet, seam side down. Turn on heat to medium and slowly cook, turning until evenly browned on all side (20-30 minutes).

Remove chicken to a cutting board, and cut in thickish slices. Serve hot.