On A Roll -- And You Can Help.

It’s a wonder I ever get on a plane.

It’s not that I have a fear of flying. Well, at least not a travel-altering fear of flying.  I can endure a little knuckle-whitening to arrive at a destination where a single layer of clothing -- or less --  is the only one required and the only salt on the road is spilled by the Morton Salt Umbrella Girl.  And it’s not those ubiquitous Cinnabon shops. I adore cinnamon -- adore it --  but the gooey over-sized yeast rolls have never held much allure for me.

What stops me in my tracks -- every single time -- is those danged “Find A Word” books in airport bookshops. Even though I've never actually bought one, I can't walk past one, either. Because believe me, I can flat out find a word. What I can’t do is not find a word. And while I’ll resist actually picking up the book (which would almost surely result in a missed flight), I can’t stop myself from finding and mentally circling every word or close-to-word on the front cover.

For a while, The Charlotte Observer ran an amusing little series featuring two seemingly identical pictures, side-by-side. The reader’s challenge was to find the maddeningly slight, doctored-up differences between the two. Let’s just say it was a good thing the series didn’t run when the kids were babies requiring every-other-hour-feedings, or at least one of them might still be suffering from malnutrition.

Which is all to say that you know there’s no way I could pass up this challenge:  To raise awareness of breast cancer and the importance of mammograms, Charlotte Radiology has placed pink tires in front of businesses around Charlotte. Our mission? To find the tires and post pictures on Facebook. For every photo posted, a dollar will be donated to Ann’s Fund, which helps underprivileged women get mammograms.

Are you kidding me?

Who would even have to think about this?  What could be easier?  Smarter?  Or more fun?

I spotted one of the tires before I even knew what this was all about.  And let me tell you, those tires are some kind of pink.  And, thanks to modern technology, every single one of us has a camera with us at all times.  Although I'll be the first to admit that it's my kids who remind me, "Mom, why don't you just use your phone to take a picture?"

What a great cause.  Won't you help?  C'mon.  Pull out that iPhone. 

I wish I had a "pink" recipe to share, but since I'm well over the age of eight, those recipes are in short supply.

What I do have, though, is Darling Daughter's "Blueberry Lemonade."  It's a repeat of a recipe I used over a year ago, when DD wanted to make Pink Lemonade.

In fact, I think I'll dedicate this post to DD -- and the many other young women who will work to make sure that every woman in need gets the mammogram she deserves.

DD’s Blueberry Lemonade

(serves two)

2 large lemons, juiced

1/ 1/2 cups water

1/3 cup sugar

a dozen blueberries, pressed through a fine sieve

additional blueberries for garnish

Pour the lemon juice, water and sugar into a pitcher. Stir, vigorously, until sugar is dissolved. Stir in strained blueberries. Pour over ice. Garnish with whole blueberries. Drink while dancing.

A Snow Day By Any Other Name -- A Very Good Day.

Today was a good day.

I’m not normally a fan of “snow days.” Yes, I get the whole "winter wonderland" thing.  And as a born and bred South Carolinian, I know full well how uncommon snow days are in the South.  Here in Charlotte, we only get snow once or twice a year.  I'll concede that it is pretty, and even "magical."  And the kids have a blast.

They know all kinds of tricks to “make” it snow. Wear your pajamas backwards. Wear your pajamas inside out. Sleep with a (silver) spoon under your pillow. Flush ice cubes down the toilet. However, through the years, even as they’ve plotted, schemed and followed the intricacies of these “rules,” I’ve tried to summon counter-curses, because, as a mom, I know the mess that Old Man Winter brings.

I cringe as the first few flakes flutter down.  Yes, they're charming, but I know what's really coming. Piles of laundry. Slushy, muddy floors. Gloves, scarves, hats and boots hung and strung around the kitchen to “dry out.” A clammy pile of “et cetera,” meaning, “I didn’t know what else to do with it, Mom, so I just left it there on the floor for you to clean up.” Cold, wet dog. And the inevitable cold, wet dog smell.

Still, as we racked up an impressive 4-5 inches here in Charlotte today, I’ve got to admit: This was a good day.

I cooked and cooked and cooked. Potato Soup. Lentil Soup with Spinach. Ginger Spice Cookies. And the piecè de resistance? “Brinner.” Breakfast for dinner. Which included “Waffles of Insane Greatness,” the very first recipe I ever posted on Feminine Wiles.

The best part, though, was that the kids were involved. No. Not in the soup-making. That, indeed, would be “insane.” Nope. They had their own culinary adventures. Son made tiny grilled cheese sandwiches using sliced bagettes and slivers of Gruyere cheese. Darling Daughter and friend made Snow Cream. And then they made Snow Cream. And -- wait for it -- more Snow Cream. Et cetera.

The first version followed a Paula Deene recipe calling for sweetened condensed milk. Not a winner, according to the palates of discerning 8th graders. The second version went over better – a more traditional “vanilla” version. Then the gloves came off. Peppermint. Grape jelly. (Shudder.)  And Son made Snow Coke, with two secret ingredients that you probably could guess.

Yep.  Today was a good day.  A very good day.  Now back to laundry.  And snow shoveling.  And wearing our pajamas the right way.

Peppermint Snow Cream

1 large bowl of clean snow

1 cup of sugar

1/2 teaspoon peppermint extract

About two cups of milk

Stir sugar and peppermint extract into snow.  Splash in about a cup of milk.  Continue stirring.  Add more milk as needed, to make a spoonable consistency.  Add a drop or two of red food coloring, if desired.  Devour.  Complain about how cold you are.  Do it all over again.

Forecasters Call For Snow. I Call For Panic.

Lionel, our "indoor" cat, making his way through snow earlier this season.

Just two days ago, the gas gauge on my beloved Honda Pilot (there’s no seat like a heated seat, there’s no seat like a heated seat) hovered perilously close to “E.”*  Yesterday, on the way to Darling Daughter’s basketball game (where, by the way, she had the game of her life), the gauge pointed squarely to “E.” And this morning? Well, let’s just say it could only have been faith that got us to church and back, because fumes were in short supply.

No problem. This evening, I made a quick trip out to “fill ‘er up.” And what to my wondering eyes should appear but … a line? At our neighborhood gas station? Why yes, Virginia. There was a veritable crush of cars snaking around, backing in askew, with drivers leaning out their windows to kindly correct and traffic-direct others.

All that, for the privilege of paying $3.05 a gallon.

It’s January here in Charlotte, so the signs could only point to one thing: Snow’s in the forecast.  But silly me, I still wanted to stop by the grocery store. I know my neighborhood Harris Teeter like the inside of my own pantry, and I only wanted three things -- hamburger buns (for BBQ tonight), Italian sausage (for marinara sauce tomorrow) and grapefruit (for me). Easy peasy. Unfortunately, I also know the parking lot like the inside of my own pantry – and even better now after circling it for far too long to locate a space for the beloved Pilot. (Hey – that wasn’t agression, I really was there before that Highlander.)

Inside the Teeter, I saw everyone I know. Or at least that’s how it felt. And while everyone I know was there, nothing I know was on the shelves. Truly. It’s not that I needed bananas. Or lettuce. Or spinach.

But who did? I need to know. What were people doing? What were they planning to cook? I could understand the disappearance of milk. (Hot chocolate. Duh.) Or diapers. (There is no substitute.) Or pinto beans. (Who doesn’t want a pot of chili steaming on their back burner during a snow storm?)

But spinach? What are people making? Oysters Rockefeller?  Spanakopita?  Gingered Spinach and Mushroom Soup?

I was all but twitching. What was I missing out on? Did we need spinach Chez Wiles? Is it possible I’d be up in the middle of the storm, whipping up a spinach-artichoke casserole? Should I be looking to find a fix at another grocery store?

Nah. I was already confused enough.  Time to get home. Besides, I already had what I needed to weather a storm. A gas grill. Gloves. Beer.

And look. In the back of the fridge, I've got some fresh spinach -- perfect for one of my favorite salads.

Tomorrow, though -- chili!

Spinach Salad with Hearts of Palm, Cranberries and Blue Cheese
Salad

One bag baby spinach (6-8 ounces)
1 can hearts of palm, sliced
1/2 cup dried cranberries
4 ounces blue cheese, crumbled
1/3 cup salted sunflower seeds
1 orange, peeled and cut in sections

Dressing
1/4 cup canola oil
1/4 cup raspberry vinegar
1/4 orange juice
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon kosher salt
healthy grinding of black pepper

Toss salad ingredients in a large bowl. Whisk together dressing ingredients and toss -- lightly -- with salad. Serve immediately.

*As an aside, I never look at the “E” and “F” symbols on the gas gauge without recalling my Dad’s observation when I was a kid: “’E’ is for ‘Edna.’ ‘F’ is for ‘Fountain.’” “Edna,” of course, is my mom. “Fountain” is my maiden name. And still, they were married for nearly 20 years.