FOOD ON THE FOOD

Mushroom Madness

So, while all of this medical shit was going down, there were mushrooms.  There was the first flush of oyster mushrooms back in May, as you might recall.  Then, there was a second flush.  And then a third.  But, as always, things didn’t quite go according to plan.

The plan, of course, was to eat the mushrooms.  But when the second flush appeared, as discovered by the 3YO, who seems to be developing a greenish- brown tinge to his thumbs, we were in the middle of making our getaway to the Cape for Memorial Day weekend and mushrooms were the furthest thing from our minds.  Still, I was delighted to note that there were four times as many mushrooms as before. 

A long weekend, however, was too long.  Upon our return, all of these mushrooms had curled up into sad little husks.  Damnit!  I went off and sulked.  The mushroom instructions mentioned nothing of a third flush, so I reluctantly moved on to other distractions.  A few days later, I noticed that these disgusting little wormy things were crawling all over the mushroom remains.  Whatever.  I figured they’d compost themselves and we’d try again next year.

Then came June and the rain.  And the rain and the rain and the rain.  The sun may have come out once in three weeks and, on that day, the 3YO checked on what he was now referring to as “his” mushrooms since he was doing all the work.  Look what he found among the shriveled remains of the last crop:

Whoa!  “His” mushrooms were HUGE, and instead of presenting as little individual umbrellas, as mine had, they were stacked and layered, seemingly clinging to the side of the bucket for dear life as the floods subsided.  Maybe two or three pounds worth, they were exactly what oyster mushrooms should look like (except for maybe the ass-shaped one). 

Wow, I thought to myself, this is my kind of crop!  The more you ignore it, the better the yields.  My mouth was watering.  I conjured up a mushroom risotto in my mind, something with brandy, beef stock, and thyme.  It would be the last meal I would prepare before my surgery, and it would be spectacular.

I could hardly wait to harvest them.  I got a paring knife and a paper bag at the ready and cut the top one off at its stem.  Right away, something didn’t look right.  Instead of the smooth, ivory texture I associate with mushrooms, the stem where I had cut it looked spongy inside, like bread.  I waved away a small cloud of bugs in annoyance.  And then some more bugs.  God, what’s with all the little flies, I thought?  Slowly, I turned the palm-sized mushroom cap over in my hand and saw it.  Every single one of the ribs housed at least one adult fly and large cluster of eggs.  On closer inspection, tiny mushroom-colored larvae were crawling out of every orifice.  What I held in my hand, I realized, wasn’t actually a mushroom at all but a mushroom-shaped conglomeration of squirming, miniature maggot-like worms.  I flung it to the ground.  It crawled away.  I passed out.

That picture doesn’t even do it justice.  In my semi-conscious state, I dreamt I got Monsanto corporate headquarters on the line: “Hello, Monsanto?  I take back what I said.  I need a case of Roundup, stat.”

At some point, Husband came around with the watering can to revive me.  Then, I faced the bucket once again, hand clamped over my mouth to contain the vomit.  I harvested the rest, one by one, to see if anything could be salvaged.  Not a single thing.  Total infestation.

God, this kind of thing can break your heart.  I wonder how farmers deal with the emotional effects of crop loss on a large scale?

I’m Going to LIVE!!!!

Well, at least for a little while.  After two agonizing months of waiting, the final pathology reports that the cancer is Stage 1.  That’s 1 out of 4 with 1 being the best.  Actually, negative cancer is the best, but we can’t be too picky, can we?  Stage 1 means things are still in the early stages and the lymph nodes are clear.  The prognosis is good, so I’ll probably ease up on the death posts.  Maybe. 

What I’ve learned through my extensive, exhaustive Internet research (and a few brief conversations with my doctors) is that there are two general types of breast cancer: invasive and non-invasive.  Obviously, the first kind is worse.  I’m lucky because although my tumor was alarming in size, the vast majority of it was a contained kind of cancer called ductal carcinoma in situ that generally stays within the milk ducts.  Sometimes, however, a tumor may start out contained, but then things get rowdy with the music and the keg stands and the action starts to spill outside the confines of the frat house.  That’s what mine did.  It had just recently blown a gasket (26 gaskets to be exact) and started to invade the surrounding tissue in a very shallow but aggressive fashion.  You know the type.  First base is simply not enough.  That’s invasive ductal carcinoma, the nasty stuff, and the leading cause of death in women of my age group (35-44) in the U.S.

So, due to the small but vigorous areas of invasiveness, I’ll be doing chemo July through September followed by a year of Herceptin.  Because if you pass out neon condoms at a frat party at 10 p.m. and take an aerial photograph round about 2 a.m., you never know exactly where on campus you’re going to see the blinking.

Have you done a self breast exam recently?  Once or twice a year is better than nothing.  Mammograms aren’t effective screening tools for women under 40 because our breast tissue is too dense.  We’re on our own.

Breasts (of Chicken)

This is sure to be my most tasteful post ever.

Quick update.  My drains are out, I’m showered, and dressed in real clothes that aren’t designed for post-ops.  Finally, I’m of a suitable appearance for blogging.    (I didn’t think there was a minimum requirement for one’s appearance when it came to blogging, but as blogging is reflective of one’s state of mind and/or body at that moment, it would be wise to note the correlation.  “If I’m incapable of dressing myself, then I’m unlikely to be fit for blogging” is a good rule of thumb.) 

I weaned myself off of the Percocets last week on Day 1 of my period so you can imagine what a laugh a minute that was.  It was kind of an emergency situation, though, as I alluded to in my previous post.  Husband had been so kind as to purchase some Senna early on to facilitate certain things (turns out the much-lauded Senokot had been conveniently pulled off the shelves for some reason, but luckily he found a guerilla generic brand).  Then, my mom arrived with every other weapon outlined in the comment section.  So, you see, your comments really can make a difference!  I can’t tell you what worked or what didn’t work, but the 12-day standoff recently resolved itself in a series of skirmishes that began and ended within 24 hours, so let’s leave it at that.

Hungry?

So, let’s talk about something else.  And let’s have that something else not be my breasts, either, for a refreshing change of pace.  Here’s what one of our wonderful neighbors brought for dinner the other night.  A big platter of breaded chicken cutlets (with marinara sauce), which seemed highly appropriate not to mention delicious.  This is how you know you moved into the right neighborhood!

Breaded Chicken Cutlets

8 boneless chicken breast halves
6 large eggs
2 Tbsp. milk or water
¾ cup Parmigiano-Reggiano or Romano cheese, divided
¾ cup all-purpose flour
3 cups plain dried bread crumbs
3 Tbsp. olive oil (or more)
3 Tbsp. butter (or more)
1½ cups marinara sauce (see recipe below)
1½ cups mozzarella cheese, if desired

Rinse chicken breasts under cold running water, pat dry with paper towels, and trim.  Holding the knife parallel to the cutting board, cut breasts in half to thin them out.  With meat between parchment or wax paper, pound gently with a meat mallet to reach an even ¼-inch thickness.  Season with salt and pepper.

In a medium bowl, beat the eggs, water, and ½ cup of the cheese.  One at a time, dredge the flattened chicken breasts in flour, then the egg mixture, then the bread crumbs.  Refrigerate breaded cutlets for 30 minutes to set.

Line a baking sheet with paper towels.  Place a large skillet over medium-high heat.  Warm 1 Tbsp. of butter and 1 Tbsp. of olive oil until hot.  Add cutlets, a few at a time, until bottom is golden-brown and crusty.  Turn and cook the other side.  Remove and drain on paper towels.

Serve topped with marinara sauce and extra cheese or, for Chicken Parmesan, preheat oven to 350°F.  Add a thin layer of marinara sauce to the bottom of a large pan.  Place cutlets on top, spoon another thin layer of sauce on top, and sprinkle with cheese.  Heat in the oven 10 minutes until cheese has melted.

Marinara Sauce

2 28-ounce cans whole Italian plum tomatoes and their juices
3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced (about 1 Tbsp.)
6 leaves fresh basil, sliced
¼ tsp. freshly ground pepper
½ tsp. salt
1 tsp. sugar (if needed)

Coarsely chop the tomatoes into ¼-inch dice by hand or food processor.  In a large skillet, heat 2 Tbsp. olive oil until shimmering.  Add garlic and stir until it just turns golden, about 2 minutes.  Without letting the garlic burn, quickly add the tomatoes and their juices, half the basil, and the pepper.  Cook uncovered on medium heat for about 1½ hours, stirring every 5 to 10 minutes so sauce doesn’t scorch.  Sauce is done when you drag a spoon across the center of the pan and no liquid seeps back into the trail.  Add remaining 1 Tbsp. olive oil, season with additional salt and pepper (and sugar, if necessary), and add remaining basil leaves.

Source: Adapted from Cooking with Grace by Grace Pilato.  Thanks, Linda!

My Appetite is Back

Well, that didn’t take long. 

It’s awfully hard not to get hungry when a parade of friends brings you lasagna and casseroles and enchiladas and Café Fresh bagels with lox and Taza chocolate and my first CSA pickup of the season from Waltham Fields and a quart of fresh-picked strawberries from Drumlin Farm and cookies and cupcakes and fruit smoothies and banana bread and, oh my god, I’m not allowed to joke about having no friends ever again.  Also, going forward, it will be harder to disrespect Husband, the best nursemaid the world has ever seen, but I’m sure I’ll figure out a way.

The surgery was a “success,” as they say.  My reaction to the battle scars was an odd mix of horror and relief.  Apparently, my healthy lifestyle enabled the tumor to achieve quite a robust size.  You’re welcome, you fucker.  Since fleeing the hospital, I’ve been spending my days ambling about in Percocet-induced partial numbness, which has been exacerbated by the eerie quiet of the children being well-taken-care-of far away on the Cape.  It’s a very strange space I’ve been occupying these days where I can sleep ‘til noon and read vampire books on the porch for hours, admiring my pretty feet because my best friend came to the hospital and painted my toenails to give an ounce of credence to the idea of Spa Day.  My only immediate concern has been whether or not my intestines ever plan on waking up from the anesthesia.  Is this guilt I’m feeling?  Or just constipation?

Anyway, the kids are back and the quiet is over but the parade of food continues.  I may do a few posts on the stuff people are bringing me.  I wonder how long I can milk this?

Spa Day

That’s what Husband and I have been calling surgery this week.  A day at the spa.  It’s a little trick we came up with to keep my feet pointed towards the hospital instead of anywhere else.  Like, say, the Aquarium. 

I can see it now: Me, barefoot in my johnny admiring the penguins, paper cone of Sel de la Terre fries in hand, when the men in white coats spot me and descend.  I fling my fries and holler, “You have to catch me first,” then sprint bare-assed up the ramp along the shark tanks as fast as I can, which isn’t fast at all, by the way, but I had a head start so they wouldn’t reach me until they got all the way to the top.  There I’d be, perched on the edge of the shark tank, dizzy and winded from, I imagine, the cancer, pausing because, after all that, the dramatic death-by-shark ending I was envisioning seemed, ultimately, way more gruesome than just losing a body part.  Also, technically, I think that still would have counted as a win for cancer.

So let me send my sincerest thanks to all of you for your comments, e-mails, and pigeon-o-grams that have done a lot to keep me from teetering into dark places.  What I’ve taken away from them is that anybody who’s anybody has a grandma that’s beaten breast cancer, so if I die, I’d better have a pretty good excuse.  No pressure.  Everyone who’s been through this, and I’ve spoken to quite a few by now, tells me that this is the worst part.  Weeks and weeks of waiting for surgery, waiting for a more comprehensive diagnosis, waiting for the final treatment plan.  Once you know what lies ahead and you accept it, while things may be rough physically for a stretch, emotionally it becomes a little easier to take.  All I know is if I’m going to be hanging out in the geriatric ward, I guess I should start working out.  (Cue Rocky theme song).  I hear it’s worse than prison over there.

And thus concludes Cancer Week.  It’s time to evict that evil gremlin before he takes gigantic dumps all over my vital organs.  Lord knows my immune system isn’t up to the task.  WAKE UP, Immune System.  Can’t you see what’s going on?  There’s a war to be waged and you’re just sitting around smoking cigarettes.  DO SOMETHING!!!!  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a hot date with a surgeon from Dana-Farber.  Dear God, I hope he slips me a roofie.

Why I Didn’t Show Up For Work That Day

It so happened that I got my diagnosis five minutes before I was set to report for a day of volunteer work.  In fact, one of the first things that flew out of my mouth in the doctor’s office was that this really wasn’t the best time to have cancer because several people were awaiting my chopping skills at that very moment.  In the car, I rationalized that cancer doesn’t affect one’s chopping skills, at least not in the early stages when you feel completely fine, and so I should still go.  It wasn’t until I almost crashed into the car in front of me for no good reason that I decided it would probably be wise to back out before the inevitable wreckage ensued, emotional or otherwise.  I mean, if there were ever a good excuse, this was it.  Still, I hate reneging on a commitment, and trying to figure out the best way to extricate myself was a welcome distraction from the larger issue.

Me: You’re already late.  You need to call them.

Me: And tell them what?  That I can’t come, I have cancer?

Me: Yes.

Me: I can’t do that.  They barely know me.  What are they going to say?

Me: They’ll say something nice and get off the phone as quickly as possible, which will work out well for everyone.

Me: But they’re not going to believe me.

Me: Nobody uses cancer to get out of stuff.

Me: I make shit up all the time.  Everybody knows that.

Me: Okay, well, if lies are your medium of choice then you’d better outdo yourself this time because you’re totally screwing them over.

Me: Not me.  Cancer.

Me: Whatever.

Me: Think the flat tire bit will work?

Me: Lame.

Me: Car accident?

Me: No, too many follow-up questions.

Me: One of the kids is sick?

Me: Do not involve the children in your lies.

Me: Okay.  How about this?  I was on my way to the location when things weren’t right intestine-wise.

Me: So far, so good.

Me: I pulled over to the side of the road and ran out to throw up when somebody jumped in and stole my car.  Of course, my cell phone wasn’t charged as usual and nobody wants to pick up a vomiting hitchhiker, so I had to walk all the way to the police station.  But they found my behavior suspicious, what with the early morning vomiting and my inability to walk in a straight line while vomiting, and arrested me for DUI right after I filed my missing vehicle report.  So that’s why I can’t volunteer today.  I mean, unless you have $5000 bail.

Me: Perfect!

Lumpy Cookies

Here’s something I wrote in between appointments before my diagnosis, back before all of your wonderful comments and hopeful stories, when my only exposure to cancer was its unforgiving side.  I haven’t edited it since.

Nothing makes you ponder the meaning of Mother’s Day quite like finding a lump where there shouldn’t be one.  And then hearing post-mammogram murmurs that include words like “curious” and “needs further investigation,” followed shortly thereafter by a deep-tissue biopsy.  And even though I knew it would turn out to be nothing, that there was no need to be alarmist, there was also that teeny tiny possibility, however small, that this could potentially signal the end of the road for me.

Me: Okay, calm down, Tammy.  We’re going to be just fine.

Me: That’s what everybody says, but then how do you explain all these people with cancer?

Me: But we’re still young.  Sort of.  Mom doesn’t have cancer.  Neither of our grandmothers had cancer.  Everyone lives to be 90.

Me: Yeah, that’s what they want you to believe.  That you have aaaaaallll the time in the world before they cut you down in the prime of your life.

Me: Who’s they?

Me: I don’t know.  Secret government agencies?  Terrorists?  Monsanto?  Whoever gives out cancer.

And then there were all the nagging questions.  Questions like: Was it the meat that did it?  My lack of religion?  Will my kids even remember me if I die now?  My face, I mean, not just a nebulous source of yelling.  They’re still so little.  Who will cook for them?  What if they go back through the old digital photos someday and find more pictures of my meals than pictures of them and think I loved my dumb blog more than them.  What if they grow up sad and bitter with the world instead of gradually easing into the sadness and bitterness of the world?  What if they stop laughing?

What about Husband?  Will he recover?  What if he refuses to fall in love ever again?  What if that refusal has nothing to do with me dying?  What if he does fall in love again and remarries a bombshell?  A bombshell with housekeeping skills.  Will my spirit be mad?

What if nobody comes to my funeral?  What if nobody can think of anything to say during the eulogy: “She was…a girl.”  God, that would be awkward.  I’m glad I won’t be there to see it. 

What if people decide it’s less painful to forget me than to remember me?  And five years down the road people are afraid to even bring up my name.  I’ll be the unnamed dead person no one wants to talk about.  What if you can’t donate your organs if you have cancer?  What if no one remembers that I want to be cremated instead of buried and that I want my ashes sprinkled in two specific places and that I want my funeral at another specific place that’s not a church but I never write them down so no one knows what they are?  What if it doesn’t matter?

What if my Dad stops believing in God?  What if my Mom loses hope?  What if Nonni outlives me?  It would kill her.  But at least then I’d have some company up there.  Well, unless I go down there, instead.  Hmmmmmm.  Maybe God would let her write letters of a non-flammable sort?  Sent by carrier pigeon so I can have lunch, too?

What if there’s nothing but blackness?

…

Well, that was fun!  This is the part where I was supposed to say that the results came back fine.  That I totally wasn’t worried.  That the lumps were just raisins and, by the way, here’s a recipe for oatmeal cookies.  (This is why you shouldn’t write your posts before real-life events unfold.)  But at least now I’m off the hook for typing up the recipe because, really, are you hungry for cookies right now?