Benedict, cherry-cardamom scones and lemon curd

Did y'all see that Benedict Cumberbatch was just found to be second cousin 16 times removed to King Richard III? As my friend Liz tells me, "You always knew he was royalty!"

Indeed. 

Related only geographically to birthplace of both Ben and Rich are the scones and lemon curd I made today. They made a fine lunch for the boys, a touch of dessert for me, and the curd served as a surrogate sunshine in today's sky of gray. 

All the good food in and out, an expression and a story

It is exceedingly chilly here. Stop it winter. You are pushing my buttons and making me tired. My grandmother -Nanny the great for those who don't yet know of her- had two older sisters, one of whom, Aunt Da, used to say of folks who irritated her, "(S)He makes me tired."

This was always my favorite of her expressions because it says so much in so few words. I mean, wouldn't you get me exactly if I said, "Suzanne Somers makes me tired." You would know clearly that I'm not thigh-mastering or wearing a shiny leotard that somehow doesn't go up my bum even though it is SO high-cut. No, you would understand that I am totally over Suzanne Somers and her charlatan claims about pretty much everything.

She makes me tired. So does Kim Kardashian, Kim Kardashian's ass, Ted Cruz and this infernal winter.

What to do in this case? Eat well and ignore Kim, Ted and Cold as best as possible.

Last night, before I awoke at 3am upon hearing Jack enter Oliver's room and wake him up to ask if he wanted to play Legos (to his credit, Oliver said, "NO Jack, go away. I am sleeping!" And then I took J downstairs for a lemonade date and ultimately we fell asleep together in his bed listening to a child's meditation CD which put me out like a light.), I cooked such a good meal.

Despite the utterly sub-par picture, this Aleppo pepper and yogurt chicken with lemons is to.die.for. These are kebabs at their very best.

To go alongside, I made a quinoa salad with apricots, lime, pistachios and mirin. 

Tonight, tired after my early morning escapade with sweet J, Mom and I went on a date to Macon Bistro over in Chevy Chase DC. You might remember my first trip there, last August with Tom. This place is such a great addition to the DC restaurant scene. I just love it. 

And it didn't disappoint this evening. Again, we perched at the bar and of course I started with the biscuits, honey butter and pepper jelly. Mom got the chicken liver mousse which is completely not my bag but does prompt another good story which I simply must, as an aside, share with you now. 

Mom has always loved liver. I, on the other hand, have always found organ meats positively repulsive. Liver is so thin and not a good color. Anyway, when I was about eight, Mom made liver and onions for dinner. She instructed Dad NOT to tell my sister and me what we were to eat.

As the story goes, I looked skeptically at the slab of liver and asked, "What kind of meat is this?" Mom said "Steak!!" with unnatural enthusiasm, and I cut a small bite. After chewing it maybe three times, I said, "Well let me tell you, there is something wrong with this steak!" At that point, Dad said, "IT'S LIVER, IT'S LIVER!" because he doesn't like it either. So we were all saved except for Mom who got to eat as much nasty liver as she wanted.

Tonight's chicken liver mousse was dressed with a liberal garnish of relish (a horrid concoction) and did ruin the mousse for Mom. Otherwise, dinner was great.

Look at my johnny cakes with deviled crab and fried capers!

Check out this spicy kale with fried grits and onions!

Mom's halibut with orange, chiles and greens was marvelous!

And now I am zonko tired and going to bed. Buona notte!

(Now comedic) family run-ins with law enforcement

Recently, I was cleaning Jack's room and came across troves of material from his policeman phase: heavy-duty handcuffs; badges; the hat; and photos taken with various law enforcement officers. We spent his fifth birthday at the Ward 3 police station here in DC, he in his light blue button-down, navy pants, belt, shoes, hat, badge and all belt-based accessories a policeman would need. The Ward 3 team was very accommodating and took him very seriously, answering his questions with well-masked amusement.

I did not, at that time, think that just eighteen months later, at the tender age of seven, Jack would lead his little brother on a pre-dawn mission to find pinecones nor that they would then be escorted home by two large FBI agents patrolling our neighborhood.

I myself was cared for by two large agents once. They were Emergency Rescue Squad members and came in the early morning hours because I called them. I did not remember calling them -it was an epic night of debauchery during senior year of college; I'd broken up with a guy and was feeling liberated- and when my roommate, clad in an oversized Tigger tee answered the door, she was as surprised as I was when they later entered my room.

"Ma'am, we hear there is an intoxicated female in the house."

My roommate: "Well yes there is. How did you know that?"

"Ma'am, she called us."

"What?? She's fine. She's asleep."

"Ma'am, since we came out, we have to make sure she is OK. Please show us her room."

Tigger showed them down the hall, and there I was, in a red, spaghetti-strap, thermal nightgown. I still had on all the jewelry I'd worn out that night, and I'm certain my make-up had seen better days.

"Ma'am, how are you feeling?"

Me: "What? I'm fine of course. Why are you here?"

"Ma'am, you called us. You said your stomach was hurting, that you'd had too much to drink and that you were concerned. We need to examine you and make sure you are OK."

"Don't touch me! What kind of a woman do you think I am?"

"Ma'am, we have to or we'll have to call your parents."

I'm not actually sure they could have because I was legally an adult but I was still a dependent, and that really snapped me to attention.

They determined that I was fine and then asked me to sign the release form.

Tigger said, "Do you need me to sign for you?"

And I replied, with ludicrous confidence, "Of course not, I can do it myself."

Apparently, the result was a loopy, swooshing script that covered the entire page. I know this because when I awoke the next morning, bejeweled and suffering a tremendous Irish flu -rather like some sort of Dynasty gal- I saw the carbon copy I'd signed.

I remember toddling out to the kitchen and seeing my roommates look at me with hilarious expressions: clearly they could not wait to fill me in on all I didn't recall.

The "Nichols calling 911 on herself" story spread like wildfire, and I dare say it upped my esteem in the eyes of many. At the very least, it soon started to make for a great story and continues to do to this day, more than fifteen years later. 

When the boys were brought home by the FBI that September morning a few years back, all I could then process was A) anger, B) relief, and C) shock at their attire. Jack had on glow-in-the-dark solar system pajamas, "night vision goggles" crafted from glow-in-the-dark wiki sticks ("because it was still dark outside, Mom.") and a pot-holder loop strapped to his head, and socks on his hands but nothing on his feet. Oliver, meanwhile, was sockless and in PJs too but also had on his Pull-Up which seemed to make the whole episode that much more ludicrous.

When I asked about the hand-socks, Oliver said, "Well, Jack weally didn't want to get pwicked by the pinecones." Erm, and what about y'alls feet as your traipsed down our back alley and along Mass Ave? No answer there.

We apologized profusely to the FBI agents who were in the neighborhood on regular duty as some government leader lives nearby and also expressed our unending gratitude before shutting the door, shell-shocked. Tom was still in his boxers for crying out loud. But this, too, today makes a fine story, and I began to wonder if there's something in our blood.

Does your family have tales of amusing run-ins with law enforcement too?