FOOD ON THE FOOD

Secret Garden

Here’s a story for you.  Last summer amid my health woes, my teenaged niece came to visit from Hawaii.  Her stay was pretty much the only ray of sunshine that whole summer.  She babysat the kids, helped out around the house, and generally entertained us with her perky self for two weeks.

While the summer as a whole is a big black hole in my memory, I remember lots of things about her visit: watching food TV and enjoying her wisecracks during that paper-thin window of time between when the kids went to bed and my own eyes involuntarily clamped shut.  Fishing at Spy Pond (mostly fishing lures out of trees at Spy Pond).  Me setting a good example for said niece by getting pulled over by the cops for a traffic violation. And then there was the tomato-picking.

You may recall last year’s widespread tomato blight.  Every farm in the area was hit and even people’s backyard plants were doomed to the same terrible fate.  I didn’t see a ripe local heirloom tomato all summer, which was very depressing indeed.  Until.  Somebody snuck me some classified information.  Apparently there was a stand of sungold cherry tomatoes on public property within the Waltham city limits that was entirely free of blight and ready to be harvested.  The woman who told me this said it so casually, I almost didn’t believe her.  Didn’t she realize this was THE BEST NEWS EVER? 

I didn’t ask any questions.  With no time to lose, I took another hit of my anti-nausea meds and pointed my niece and kids in the appropriate direction.  My niece, who spent most of her formative years on an organic garden bursting forth from fertile, volcanic island soil, patiently indulged me.  When we got to the building in question and walked around back, I didn’t see the garden anywhere.  I’d been tricked!  What kind of a person lies about tomatoes to a cancer patient?  As we turned around to trudge back, my niece noticed what looked to be a patch of kale.  Yes, that was definitely kale.  Well done, adolescent human!  What more dost thou youthful eyes behold? 

And there they were.  High up on a terrace of a south-facing slope were the tomato plants, golden orbs shining like treasure.  No wonder nobody had found them—they were growing ten feet above our heads.  You had to pass underneath several retaining walls, then walk up the far side of the hill to access them or even see them.  The garden was completely encircled by a sprawling edifice on one side and conservation land on the other, and, beyond that, train tracks, a cemetery, and the Charles River.  A more protected tomato fortress I cannot imagine.

I felt exhilarated—thrilled to encounter this pristine patch of perfect tomatoes, completely disease-free against all odds.  We got to work filling up two pint-sized containers with the taut, sun-burnished fruits, popping some into our mouths as we went.  Finally, the janitors in the building overlooking the garden started banging trashcans against the windows to put a stop to our small-scale looting.  It worked!  We scuttled away giggling, mouths full, tomato juice dribbling down our chins.

I bring this up for three reasons: 1) I miss my niece; 2) I’ve developed a relationship with this particular garden (a healthy one—more on this later); and 3) Sometimes beautiful little acts of disobedience are the best medicine. 

And I'm Going to Eat As Many Cookies As I Want

Maybe you already heard my megaphone announcement yesterday, but the results of my MRI came back with an A++ circled in red ink.  I know they typically grade these tests pass/fail, but since “pass” doesn’t even begin to convey my feelings on the matter, I went ahead and assigned an appropriate letter grade that corresponded to my emotional state, then handed it back to them for them to hand back to me.  “Pass,” you see, implies a potentially small margin of victory, and I prefer to think of it as a more definitive blowout. 

It’s one thing to go through cancer treatment on blind faith, just assuming that it's all going along just fine.  It’s another thing entirely to have hypersensitive imaging confirm it.  It feels like they’re letting me out of prison, finally, and giving me back all of my personal belongings, and right there next to my keys and pocket lint is a little thing called my life.  Here’s your life back, Ms. Donroe.  Don’t fuck it up.

The other milestone I reached this month is that reconstruction is done.  The cherry on top, if you will.  Things are still looking a little brutalized, but I’m told everything will heal up just fine.  I can’t feel anything over there, so it’s not really a problem.  I still have three more months of intravenous Herceptin and then they can take this port out of my neck and chest.  Then, I’ll really be done.  But the hard part is over, so I’m calling it done.

I should tell you that I wear the “survivor” badge cautiously.  I am aware that the cancer could come back.  I am aware that this is a possibility and, in fact, given my young age, it’s likely that someday it will.  But a stretch of time has been presented to me during which I don’t need to worry about that.  A one-year furlough from the anxiety of all of the end-of-life-related issues, fears, and logistics—subjects you can’t easily talk about at a dinner party or a casual morning coffee with your friend if you don’t want her going off and killing herself before work.  But these morbid thoughts are a mandatory part of coming to terms with the whole experience.  And that burden was much bigger than I realized it was.  Like driving around for a whole year with the gas light on. 

Now that it’s off my shoulders, I feel so light and airy.  Should I start jogging again?  I think I should start jogging again.  Swimming?  Yeah, definitely swimming.  Lacrosse?  YES!  I’m going to do all the sports!!!

I give it a month.

[Since cookies have defined this whole ordeal, let’s close it out with more cookies.  Check out the recipe for peanut butter pretzel cookies by Hilary Koloski of Cow and Crumb Baking up at How2Heroes.  Salty and sweet, soft with crunchy bits, yin and yang.  Delicious, like life.]

Motherload

I recently harvested a half-pound of shiitake mushrooms from my logs!  I sautéed them with butter, shallots, garlic, basil, parsley, chives, and cream, and served them over fettuccine.  They tasted divine.  Divine, I tell you.  Like a gift from the God of Fungus, whoever he might be.  Mycelius, maybe?  

I was going to ask you to guess what my family got me for Mother’s Day since I thought you were good at guessing games.  After all, you were right about the cold cellar.  But then you failed your last test across the board.  (For the correct answer to the Cabot’s ice cream quiz, scroll to the bottom of the comments on that post.)  So maybe I’ll just come right out and tell you what I got for Mother's Day. 

I got more mushroom spawn!! 

Most mothers prefer flowers for Mother’s Day, but I can’t cook with flowers.  At least not well.  Also, did you know that many types of mushrooms have amazing cancer-fighting health benefits?  I sure didn’t know this nor care at the time I inoculated my logs last spring, but now, exactly one year after my surprise cancer diagnosis, I care very much.  That combined with the fact that a couple of trees had to come down around our house, means it just makes good sense.  The birch logs will be recycled with oyster mushrooms.  And our next-door neighbors are donating some oak logs for additional shiitakes as well as maitake (hen of the woods).  And my four existing shiitake logs, two of which have started producing, should continue to fruit for several more years.

So it’s settled.  I’m building a mushroom garden! 

Hot Stacks

Oh my god, you guys, I have to tell you about this awesome place I discovered. They let you pick out books to borrow, as many as you want, FOR FREE. No kidding. I mean, assuming you return them on time or miniscule charges will accrue. It’s called a “public library” and there’s one pretty much everywhere. There are free slow computers with even slower Internet access, too. Why haven’t we heard anything about these “public libraries” before?

Now that we’ve cancelled our Netflix account, discontinued our magazine subscriptions, and slashed every area of our budget besides mortgage, utilities, and food, I’m starting to explore all of the areas of the public library, not just the book section. Like the public restrooms. Just kidding, but did you know that you can rent DVDs? It’s true! Cookbooks? Of course. Magazines. Well, you can at least flip through them on-site and write out your freelance ideas onto note cards that will later be formulated into query letters that will be systematically rejected by every one of those publications because everyone has cancelled their magazine subscriptions. Apparently, I’m shooting myself in the foot with this whole library thing, but that’s okay because the building has these large, low buttons that, if you aim your cane just right, activate these automatic doors that open right in front of you. AMAZING!

Anyway, I’ve been reading a lot of books lately. First, I read all of the breast cancer memoirs that have been published, both to help me sort out some of this emotional baggage that’s been packed away for six months, and also to see if all of the cancer-related writing that I diverted away from this blog and into a folder in the dank basement recesses of my hard drive could be turned into anything useful. Maybe something that might help somebody else. But no, according to my formal queries. Apparently, cancer’s not funny. Really? It’s not? Thanks for telling me. Also, it’s overpublished. Call us back when you have a more obscure, deadlier disease. Okay. I’ll keep my fingers crossed! Also, nobody reads essays anymore. Are you sure about that? Short-form writing is dead. (cough) Twitter.

But that’s okay. I didn’t want to write about cancer anyway. Cancer doesn’t deserve it. So I’m back to reading food books, and, my oh my, do I love them. Here are some of my favorites:

• Cod by Mark Kurlansky. Doesn’t this sound like the most boring read ever? About a fish. Well, it’s not. The history and plight of the cod are fascinating and still very important today. If only my high school social studies teachers were able to convey history so enjoyably. Kurlansky also wrote Salt about the humble mineral that changed the world.

• Farm City by Novella Carpenter. A UC Berkeley grad moves to Oakland and starts a small urban farm amid the gangs and crackhouses. First it’s just vegetables, but soon she’s raising poultry, bees, rabbits, and pigs. From dumpster-diving for pig chow to navigating the transition from life to their inevitable death, her writing is full of dry humor and a passionate love of food.

• A Platter of Figs by David Tanis. Written by the co-chef of Chez Panisse, this cookbook is full of relatively simple, seasonal menu ideas that will put your farm vegetables to good use. The photography is absolutely gorgeous and makes you yearn for in-season cherry tomato crostini with ricotta and Vietnamese cucumbers. The Preschooler was fascinated by this book and made me help him read the recipe names over and over and over again. I didn’t mind a bit.

• The Jungle Effect by Daphne Miller. Possibly my favorite so far (though I haven’t finished it), this book examines how certain indigenous diets evolved, from Mexico to Cameroon, and how they relate to low incidences of diabetes, cancer, and heart disease in those same populations. The idea is to examine how some of these concepts can be applied to our diet today to help counteract the negative impacts of a modern, industrialized diet. Fascinating stuff, I tell you. Very interesting psychological insights as well. There are a couple of copies available at the Lexington and Medfield libraries, if you’re interested (you can also request that a copy be sent to your own branch if you’re part of the Minuteman Library Network).

So, what else have you guys been reading lately?

But My Ribs Are Real

So everything went fine with my “procedure” last week, in case you were wondering. My expectations, admittedly, were pretty low. The initial conversation with the plastic surgeon went something like, "Can you just slap something up there that’s moderately convincing. Something that will stay put, instead of shimmying up and out of the neck hole of my shirt while I’m talking to my neighbors, Jesus Christ.”

But it turns out that the man has an artistic streak, a masterful grasp of subtlety and restraint that you don’t see too much evidence of on the market these days. It took me by surprise because I’m pretty sure we didn’t hit it off the first time we met. Probably because I just assumed he was surgically altering me with his eyes the minute he walked in the room, sowing potential seeds of self-doubt to ensure future business, causing me to become instantly hostile and defensive. Nevertheless, I’m willing to admit when I’m wrong and I may have been a little bit…you know, wrong about him. Maybe. Potentially.

Anyway, his good work isn't suitable for viewing, yet, so how about some ribs instead?

Sticky Asian Spareribs

Let marinate overnight for maximum flavor. Parboiling the ribs keeps the cooking time in the oven to under an hour.

3½ lbs. pork spareribs
½ cup hoisin sauce
3½ Tbsp. soy sauce
2 Tbsp. rice wine, white wine, or sake
1½ Tbsp. minced garlic
1½ Tbsp. minced fresh ginger
Pinch or two of dried red pepper flakes, more if you like them spicy
1 tsp. toasted sesame oil
½ Tbsp. sugar
2 Tbsp. sliced scallion greens

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. With a sharp knife or kitchen shears, separate the spareribs into 2½-inch-long pieces. Add the ribs to the pot and return to a boil. Reduce heat to medium and simmer 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, whisk together hoisin sauce, soy sauce, wine, garlic, ginger, red pepper flakes, sesame oil, and sugar. Remove the ribs, let cool slightly, then add to the marinade. Toss lightly to coat and cover with plastic wrap. Let the ribs marinate in the fridge for at least 3 hours or overnight.

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Place the spareribs and marinade on a sheet pan lined with foil, and bake for 30 minutes. Flip the ribs and bake them another 15 minutes or so until the meat is tender and the glaze is sticky but not burnt. Sprinkle with sliced scallions. Original recipe says to serve with roasted winter squash, which you can bake alongside the ribs on a separate pan, cut-side down, until tender. Serves 4-6.

Source: Adapted from A Spoonful of Ginger by Nina Simonds.

Local Ingredients:
Ribs: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA
Butternut squash: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA

Boooooooooobs!

It’s very convenient that breasts are food-related. That way, when I feel like talking about mine, which is pretty much never, I can do so without breaking theme. In fact, this blog could have been 100% boobs all the time and no one could convict me of exploiting the female form. I really feel I’ve missed out on an important marketing opportunity, not to mention a chance to really connect with my male readership.

I only bring this up because I go for reconstructive surgery tomorrow and posting may be spotty for the next week. In layman’s terms, that means boob job. Yes, I know I’ve made fun of boob jobs several times on this blog that I can recall. Have you noticed that every time I make a joke about something, I then have to go and eat my words in a very humbling fashion? It’s almost like somebody’s trying to teach me a lesson. But that somebody is going to be very distracted from their lesson-teaching when they get a load of my giant new boob!!!

Just kidding. It’s not going to be giant (despite Husband’s enthusiastic lobbying). What the hell am I going to do with one giant boob? Sounds like an awful lot of unwanted attention if you ask me. I know the jury is still out on the long-term health implications of breast implants, and I don’t really consider them to be a fabulous idea, but do you know what I like even less? The constant reminder of cancer. What can I say? Life is just a series of justifications for your hypocritical behavior.

So, to welcome my new bionic boob, I made cookies. Special, celebratory cookies.

The nipples, of course, are optional.

This is a great cookie recipe I pulled from Molly Wizenberg’s A Homemade Life. It’s easy enough for kids to make, it rolls out perfectly for cookie cutters of all shapes and sizes, and the resulting buttery, shortbread-like texture is quite satisfying for all ages. The cream cheese frosting is barely cherry-scented with kirsch, and two drops of red food coloring give it the palest hint of pink, making it perfect for Valentine’s Day. Or, if you’re not the frosting type, roll out the cookies thinner, and sandwich a layer of dulce de leche in between for Argentinian-style alfajores.

And in a few weeks, depending on how things go, I’m thinking I might enact that 100% Boobs All The Time policy on this blog. There will still be food, of course, just food in the vicinity of boobs. Boobs with biscuits. Boobs with soup. Boobs giving away the temperature of all the outdoor shots. I think I’m going to be getting a lot more compliments on my photography. Let the traffic spike begin!

Pink Cookies

You can flavor and color the frosting however you like. Don’t feel limited to the most hideous color known to man.

Dough
3 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup powdered sugar, sifted
3 cups all-purpose flour
½ tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla extract

Frosting
8 oz. cream cheese, room temperature
6 Tbsp. unsalted butter, room temperature
3 cups powdered sugar, sifted
1¼ tsp. kirsch, or more to taste
Red food coloring

For cookies, combine the butter and sifted powdered sugar in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment. Beat until light and fluffy, starting out very slowly so the sugar doesn’t fly everywhere, and gradually increasing speed. In a medium bowl, mix together the flour and salt. With the mixer on low, add the flour mixture to the butter mixture, beating until the flour is just absorbed. Add the vanilla and beat well to incorporate. Lay a large sheet of plastic wrap on the counter and turn the dough out onto it. Gather the dough into a ball and press into a thick disk. Wrap well and refrigerator for 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. On a clean, floured surface, roll the dough to a thickness of ¼- to ½-inch. (Breaking the dough into two pieces makes it easier to manage.) Cut shapes with cookie cutters or drinking glass. Place the cookies on prepared baking sheets, spacing them an inch apart. Bake one sheet at a time for 16-20 minutes, or until the cookies are pale golden at the edge. Do not allow them to brown. Transfer pan to wire rack and allow cookies to cool completely on pan.

To make the frosting, wash your mixer bowl and paddle. Combine cream cheese and butter in the bowl and beat with the paddle on medium speed until smooth. Add the powdered sugar and beat on low to fully incorporate, then raise speed to medium, beating until there are no lumps, scraping down the sides of the bowl with a rubber scraper as needed. Add the kirsch and a few drops of red food coloring and beat well. I like the frosting barely pink, but feel free to add more food coloring and kirsch to taste. Spread thickly over cookies. They will keep in the refrigerator for 3 days, and can be frozen. Makes about 2 dozen.

Source: Adapted from Jimmy’s recipe in A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg. I hope he would approve of my interpretation.

You’re All Invited

I’m looking ahead to 2010 with great anticipation, and it’s going to be very hard to keep me sober on the eve of it. To usher out this crap-tastic year and escort in something better (much better), I’m throwing a virtual New Year’s Eve party and you’re all invited. You don’t even have to cancel your existing plans as it all takes place right here in the all-you-can-eat banquet hall of your mind.

The theme is Fuck 2009! It would be potluck, of course, because I’m not actually very good at throwing parties, real or virtual, and everybody could bring a dish that symbolized their particular hard knocks of the year. Partaking in the feast would be like participating in a delicious, communal exorcism. I wouldn’t even force you to use local ingredients, though there might be something in it for you if you do. You never know.

We’d set up tents on one side of the hall and let the kids go all Lord of the Flies over there while we civilized adults engage in similarly vicious but slightly more veiled mind games having to do with who gets the last slice of chocolate chestnut torte and whether or not the person tasked with mixing drinks is making them strong enough. Have no fear, there will definitely be a fry-o-later and a grill on hand. This is my party after all. Oh, and we’ll need a good blues band. Maybe during their break, people could get up and tell funny stories about this calamitous year. Not me, though. Nothing makes me want to throw up more than public speaking, and I think I’ve already paid my dues in that respect.

Then we’d all boisterously count down the seconds until midnight (maybe sans Dick Clark, though—we’re trying not to be depressed, remember?), and then I’d kick everybody out five seconds later because I need my beauty rest. Sound like the awesomest time ever? I thought so.

RSVP ASAP with the dish you’re bringing. Some ideas:

“My Heat Got Shut Off” Vichyssoise
Laid-Off Deviled Eggs
Repo Potato Skins (potato skins stripped of their cheese, bacon, sour cream, chives, etc. by someone who shall remain nameless)
Kidney Stone Soup
Store-Brand Spaghetti with Blighted Tomato Sauce
Roasted Loin of Infected Swine with Sour Grape Conserve
Chapter 11-Bean Chili
90-Days-Late Sauerkraut (I have dibs on this one)
Foreclosure Flan
“At Least I Have My Health” Deep-Fried Snickers Bars

C’mon, clever readers. You can do better than this. Watcha got?

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving this year was less eventful than last year. However, that was only because the iron I left on while we were out of state for two days wasn’t close enough to anything flammable to set the house on fire, thank god. I guess I was too distracted by checking the oven 45 times before we left to make sure it was off to venture into the other rooms in the house. This is why I keep my ironing to a minimum.

Forty-eight hours earlier, far away from the blazing iron, Thanksgiving dinner with my dad and Nonni (now 91) was cozy and pleasant. This despite the very recent shadow of a rather significant death in the family from a rather significant disease (I’ll give you three guesses as to the culprit, but you won’t need that many). Still, the easy banter between Nonni and my dad remained more or less intact, like when my dad decided to do some of his laundry at Nonni’s house:

Her: You have some nerve.

Him: I’ll pay you for the water.

Her: The water’s free.

Him: Okay, then go outside and wash my car.

So even though it’s been a rough year for everybody, it seems, there are still plenty of things to be thankful for: a nice meal, family, free water, shelter, life, etc.

Aunt Margaret Ann Donroe Bellafronto
1942-2009

Soup Season

It’s that time of year again when I live on soup. When I dig out the stored-up bones in the freezer from the spring and summer, and combine the resulting stock with local beans and late season vegetables like kale and sweet potatoes.

This recipe for Cuban black bean and sweet potato soup came from The Chopra Center Cookbook by Dr. Deepak Chopra, a practitioner of the Ayurvedic health traditions of India. I’ve been reading up on the different ways one might modify one’s lifestyle to reduce the risk of a cancer recurrence. You know, just to educate myself on the different philosophies in case I might be open to any lifestyle adjustments at all. It’s unclear at the moment. Especially if it means not eating so much Halloween candy.

But I’m always open to soup. Soup seemed, at the very least, an okay place to start. Except that I think we can use an entire tablespoon of oil for that whole big pot of soup, maybe two, instead of the meager 1 teaspoon called for in the recipe. Sheesh.

Cuban Black Bean and Sweet Potato Soup

It seems like a lot of black pepper, I know. I held back at first, but then I ended up adding all the rest of it in at the end. It works.

1 cup black beans, sorted, rinsed, and soaked overnight in water
2 bay leaves
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 cup leeks or onions, diced
1 cup celery, diced
2 Tbsp. soy sauce
1 tsp. black pepper
1 cup carrots, diced
1 large sweet potato, peeled, cut into ½-inch cubes
2 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. oregano
1 pinch red pepper flakes
1 cup diced tomatoes (from a can is fine)
4 cups chicken or vegetable stock
2 cups torn kale
½ cup cilantro, chopped
Salt and pepper to taste

Drain and rinse the soaked beans and place in a large pot. Cover with water by several inches, add the bay leaves, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until soft (about 1 hour for my beans). Reserve 1 cup of bean stock, then drain off the rest and set beans aside, discarding bay leaves.

In the same pot, heat the oil. Add the leeks, celery, soy sauce, and pepper, and simmer for about 3 minutes. Add the carrots, sweet potato, cumin, cinnamon, oregano, and red pepper flakes. Sauté for 5 minutes, letting mixture brown slightly. Add the beans and the tomatoes. Simmer a few more minutes, and then add the stock and reserved bean cooking liquid. Add water if the liquid doesn’t cover the contents of the pot. Simmer the soup until the sweet potatoes are soft. Add the greens and stir to wilt in the hot soup. Season with salt and pepper. Garnish with cilantro just before serving.

Local Sources:

Sweet potatoes, carrots, leeks: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA

Black beans: Baer’s Best (Moraine Farm), Beverly, MA (via Russo’s)

Chicken bones for stock: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA

One Local Meal

Are the leaves unusually spectacular this year or is it just me? Every time I turn a corner, the view is more spectacular than the last. It makes me want to drive around and around, maybe even get out of my car, which is good since this is the season to stock up on farm products while you still can.

I did manage to put together an all-local lunch yesterday in the spirit of the Eat Local Challenge: eggs over-easy atop garlicky kale, pan-fried breakfast sausages from Chestnut Farms, and buttery whole-grain sourdough toast with husk cherry-apple butter. I already had most of it in the house.

It was, admittedly, a little heavy on the protein. In the end, I only ate half the sausage so you don’t have to notify the Cancer Police. Some of the reading I’ve been doing lately is leading me to believe that the only meal that won’t kill me is one that has every last drop of everything I enjoy (meat, dairy, sugar, fat of every kind) sucked out of it. But then, I ask you, what kind of a life is that?

Local Sources:

Sausage: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA

Eggs: Drumlin Farm, Lincoln, MA

Kale, garlic: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA

Bread: Nashoba Brook Bakery, Concord, MA

Butter: Mendon Creamery, Mendon, MA

Husk cherry-apple butter: Local sources here

Apple cider: Carlson Orchards, Harvard, MA

Peach Fuzz

My hair is growing back!

Just barely, but there’s definitely a two o’clock shadow on the crown of my head, except soft and fuzzy rather than rough and sandpapery. This makes me happy because now I have visible, tangible proof that we might be wrapping things up cancer-wise, at least for the time being. Especially after watching all of my eyelashes suddenly disappear late last week.

This is not to say I’m throwing out my wigs anytime soon. I’ve grown very fond of them, actually. It’s their low-maintenance quality that I find most attractive, but also that they require virtually no care at all. Plus, they look nice most of the time, which is a marked improvement over the previous status quo. The blond one, I’ve noticed, seems to be especially popular with old men. So far, I’ve received several invitations to come over and watch People’s Court reruns over Steak-Umms and Klondike bars. I’m no fool. I’ve accepted them all.

Anyway, that’s my big news. Possible hair. Sorry to drag you all the way over here just for that.

Pancakes (and Parentheses)

I haven’t cooked that much this week due to a looming deadline I foolishly thought I’d be up for.  (Note to self: Get your life in order first.  You have all the time in the world for this kind of stuff later.  Maybe.) 

Happily, Husband made his famous Eat Local blueberry pancakes (along with Codman Farm bacon) for dinner last night, or “brinner” as the First Grader likes to call it.  I always find the act of eating pancakes to be not only delicious but therapeutic.  My ritual has been the same for as long as I can remember:

Place pat of butter on top of each warm pancake, preferably on a stack three high, to induce at least partial melting (soft, partially melted butter is always better than fully melted butter; cold, hard butter is unacceptable).  Pour maple syrup over the stack, making sure most of it drips down the sides forming pools for dipping.  Gravity has never let me down so far. (Over the years, I’ve settled on the dipping strategy because dry pancakes with the syrup already soaked in might as well have no syrup at all.  You can keep pouring more syrup on top, but it’s just going to keep soaking in.  How big is your maple syrup budget?  My rule of thumb is, if the piece of pancake I’m about to eat doesn’t shine with syrup, then there’s not enough syrup.  (Hence the dipping.)). 

One side of the stack at a time, cut off the edges, dip them, etc. (I tend to cut them into smaller pieces to make the process last as long as possible).  That leaves me with a square stack of interior pancakes soaked with maximum butter, which gets cut into four equal squares (NOT triangles) to mop up the syrup until it’s gone.  Add more syrup to finish off squares.  Note remaining syrup.  Get more pancakes to finish off syrup.  Repeat.  (Pancake-to-syrup ratio is similar to the milk-to-cereal ratio discussed in previous guest post.)

You could analyze this all sorts of different ways, about saving the best for last or trying to exert some control over one’s environment, but I think it’s just that I really like butter and maple syrup.  Needless to say, my manner of pancake consumption drives Husband crazy.  For me, it’s comforting because it reminds me of who I am.  This becomes increasingly important the less physically recognizable I become.  And, who I am, apparently, is someone who likes to subject herself to alternately stressful and euphoric manic writing binges with unreasonable deadlines. 

(And pancakes.)

 

Blueberry Whole Wheat Pancakes

I’m reprising this recipe from a post a few years ago, it’s such a favorite.

4 eggs
2 cups milk
¼ cup vegetable oil
6 Tbsp. butter, melted
1¼ cup whole wheat flour
1¼ cup all-purpose flour
2 Tbsp. baking powder
2 Tbsp. maple sugar
1 tsp. salt
1½ cups frozen blueberries, defrosted

Beat eggs in a large bowl until light and foamy.  Add milk, oil, and butter, and whisk to blend.  Sift dry ingredients over wet ingredients in bowl, and whisk until combined.

Heat nonstick frying pan over medium heat until hot (test by flicking some water into the pan; the water droplets should sizzle vigorously and disappear).  Pour batter into pan in the size you prefer, and sprinkle blueberries over the batter.  Let the pancakes get some color, then flip.  Repeat with remaining batter.  Apply butter and maple syrup, and you’re good to go.

Local Sources:

Eggs, bacon: Codman Farm, Lincoln, MA

Milk: Stonyfield Farm, Londonderry, NH

Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT

Whole wheat flour: Wood Prairie Farm, Bridgewater, ME (mail order)

Maple sugar: The Warren Farm & Sugarhouse, North Brookfield, MA (Waltham Farmer’s Market)

Blueberries: Wyman’s, Milbridge, ME

Maple syrup: Butternut Mountain Farm, Morrisville, VT

Ch-Ch-Changes

My birthday was on Saturday and the best present ever, in addition to this decadent chocolate cake my BFF made me, is feeling like a real person again, not the hollowed-out husk of a human being I was a month ago.

Last week saw me back on my bike, pedaling through crispy leaves over to my kid’s school where I’m now a volunteer librarian.  I can run up my stairs again instead of crawling.  Literally crawling.  Precious, hydrating spring water no longer tastes like the dregs of the Charles River.  I’ve ceased to approach my meals like an entire pack of hungry wolves, desperate to fill the gaping void in my stomach and my soul.  (Oh, who am I kidding?  I still do that.) 

Other changes: the children aren’t required to talk in whispers and sign language anymore (I foolishly lifted the ban on screaming only to promptly reinstate it).  Scrolling down a web page doesn’t make me nauseous.  Everything else doesn’t make me nauseous.  The vomiting has stopped, except for the other day when I suddenly threw up for no apparent reason right as I was walking out the door (what was up with that?), but then I felt better.  Normal everyday activities don’t seem like impossible, monumental chores.  Except for vacuuming and cleaning the bathrooms, which always seem like impossible, monumental chores. 

But how I really knew things were taking a turn for the better was a few mornings ago when it was time to get up, but I refused, and Husband laid his arm across me and started applying gentle but unmistakable pressure about the bladder area.  Then, when I protested and rolled over, he lovingly placed his foot in the small of my back and slooowwwwwly extended his leg all the way out until I slumped onto the floor.

Yup, things must be getting back to normal around here!

Details, Details

Back when I bought my wigs, the nice lady who was helping me explained how to care for them, including a laundry list of things I shouldn’t do while wearing said wigs, like blow-drying (no worries, why start now?), glass-blowing, blacksmithing, and cooking.  The way she said the last one reminded me of when I was pregnant and my doctor instructed me to avoid marathon-training, heroin, the clap, and all soft cheeses, to which I replied, “Let’s not be ridiculous.” 

Now, as then, we needed a little question and answer period:

Me: Okay, so how close can I get to the flames before the wig actually ignites?

Her: Just don’t put your head in the oven.

Me: So this is more of just a common sense warning.

Her: Exactly.

Me: And the soft cheeses?

Her: Totally fine.

I think what she actually meant to say was don’t get your plastic hair anywhere near boiling hot steam at any cost unless you want your previously natural-looking bangs to look like some teased and hair-sprayed nightmare circa 1986.

Oh, well.  They say the eighties are coming back, right?  God help us all.

Sunshine

I still haven’t rebounded from that final chemo hit, yet, but even through the hazy glare of the drugs, and the drugs for the drugs, and the drugs for the drugs for the drugs, I’m starting to see the sunshine again, and it’s a nice, cool, dry kind of sunshine, not the sticky, gross kind that makes you want to throw up.  So Amen.

A variety of emotions keep rolling through here, like turbulent Midwestern weather, but mostly what I’m feeling right now is immense gratitude.  For all of the usual people in my life who kept on doing the usual things in their usual gracious ways so reliably, and then did a whole bunch more things on top of that.  I have you all to thank more personally and I will.  It may take the better part of the next decade to do it right, but I have plans. 

I also want to thank you, my readers, because even though I can’t see most of you, every once in a while someone will come up to me and introduce themselves, maybe give me a big hug, and it’s a little bit like magic.  Like we share a little secret garden between us (except you’re the one doing all the weeding while I sneak around stealing carrots and nibbling on the basil plants).  It’s given me a lot to think about in terms of the importance of community in our lives and the changing ways we define it.  So, thanks for sticking it out through the messy stuff, including, but not limited to, The Constipation Series, Parts One Through Infinity.

Anyway, my treatment continues for another year, but I expect I’m through the worst of it.  I’m very much looking forward to the day when cancer doesn’t show up in every post I write.  My doctors tell me it won’t always define me, but I suspect that it will for a little while.  I still have a few more things to say about it, but I hope to regain my focus over the coming weeks on what has been, and will likely continue to be, such an important part of the recovery process: good food.  Because, when all is said and done, all that vomiting really works up an appetite.

Cheers!

Chemo, Part 4

My plan was to leave this post blank.  An empty post that would convey, I hoped, that I had nothing good to say about Tuesday's wrath and so I shouldn’t say anything at all.  But then Husband thought everyone would think I was dead.  That didn’t seem fair.  I’m nearly dead, but not quite.

Then, Husband suggested posting the meatloaf recipe my mom made tonight because it’s delicious and, get a load of this, food-related.  That would have meant typing up a recipe, though.  Also, it would have detracted from the misery theme I was going for.  So that’s why I’m song-poisoning you with this ditty that’s been running through my head all day instead. 

Forgive me.

Snap. Crackle. Poop.

Recently, Husband came home from the store with this:

My first thought, in my chemo-weakened state, was that he was breaking up with me.  That maybe this was a Dear John letter in cereal form, fortified with extra vitamins and minerals to help me cope with the news.  Things have been getting a little too weird around here and maybe we should just be friends.  “Good” friends.  But only friends.

Then I looked more closely at the box.

Just look at her face.  They’re clearly not just friends.  Not even “good” friends.  They’re most definitely friendly enough to be enjoying breakfast together the next morning, and most likely breakfast in the vicinity of an event that nearly BLEW THEIR MINDS.  It wasn’t the cereal that blew their minds.  That I can tell you with certainty. 

But what sort of event would that be?  Perhaps the insanely happy expression on their faces has something to do with second chances and unexpectedly finding new love in later life.  (I’m guessing that they’re newly entangled because couples who’ve been married for 40 years do not wear that particular expression on their faces except for very special occasions.  And breakfast is not one of them.)  So it could be the love thing, but it’s not.  Could it be the residual glow of unspeakable carnal pleasures that took place between two people who bring a combined 80 years of experience (at least) to the table (or wherever)?  Tempting to assume, but, again, you would be wrong.  It’s something much, much more than that.   Something that can only be had after waiting a really, really long time for something really, really big.  And I think you know what I’m talking about. 

Dumps. 

Maybe simultaneous dumps.

That is the only explanation for the look on their faces.

“Good Friends” promises 50% fiber and my guess, based on the picture alone, is that it delivers.  I really hope so.  I’m still waiting.  Many important friendships depend on it.

Chemo, Part 3

As I was writhing around in bed waiting for the vomit to come, I started negotiating with the powers that be about my future.  God tends to be mum about these things, and I can hardly blame him what with my constant snubbing.  But the Devil’s been too goddamned busy to take my calls, lately, so I decided to bring my grievances before the inside of the toilet bowl.  It’s as good an altar as any, especially these days.

Me: So, how many years is this really buying me?

(The dry heaves begin, and then subside)

Me: It better not be five.  Five years is shit.  Five years is like why did I bother finding the tumor at all?

(More dry heaving)

Me: I don’t need 50 years.  Fifty years would put me at, I don’t know, 85?  Does anyone have a calculator?  I don’t have a lot of confidence in what this country is going to look like when I’m 85.  Will there still be farms?  What about jobs of any kind?  I can’t still be turning tricks at that age.  My heart won’t be in it.  And we all know that retirement is out of the question.

(Dry heaves turn to wet)

Me: What about 30 years?  Does 2039 sound like a good year for wine?  I mean, I know this conversation is moot because I could be struck by lightening at any time, no discussion.  And then there are all those crazy Boston drivers out there, myself included.  Not to mention how accident-prone I am on solid ground.  Okay, so forget 30.  Not going to happen.

(Vomiting.  More vomiting.)

Me: Fifteen.  I’ve definitely earned 15 with the throwing up alone, and that was before chemo.  In 15 years, the kids will be through high school.  Or they better be.  They’ll be off to college and they’ll still probably need me but at least they’ll pretend they don’t.  I won’t settle for less than 15, so don’t be an asshole.

(Vomit, etc., etc.)

Me: Make it 20.

After studying the pattern of the chunks in the vomit, trying to read my fortune like so many tea leaves, I gave up.  No way to know.  No point in trying.

Marking the Halfway Point

Tomorrow is my third treatment, which means I’m halfway done with chemo.  Boy, that sure went by fast.  For you.

To mark this important milestone, I brought out the crock for a quick fermentation project.  One that will hopefully be ready to eat by the time I come up for air around Saturday.  The goal: half-sour pickles.  You know, the kind you find in really good delis.  Because one kind of pickle in the house isn't enough. 

I’ve always called half-sour pickles saltwater pickles because that’s what they taste like and I never knew their real name.  Turns out they’re just cucumbers fermented briefly in, um, salt water.  So I was right.  Anyway, I’ve never made them before, which means the first time should be the charm and then I’ll spend the next year trying to duplicate it.  That’s fine.  I’ll take whatever successes I can get at this point. 

So that I don’t forget what I did, this is what I did:

6 cukes, scrubbed, ends trimmed
1 head garlic, cloves separated, lightly crushed, peeled
1 serrano chile, stemmed, poked with a fork
10 cups water shaken up with
4 Tbsp. sea salt until dissolved

Pack everything into a crock.  Set a clean plate on top and weigh it down with a clean jug of water or what have you so the brine rises above the plate by an inch or two.  Cover with a cloth and secure with rubber band.  Check each day, Tammy.  Each day or have you learned nothing from past failures?  Skim off any foam/ mold.  After 4-6 days they should be ready to eat.  Transfer to jars, brine and all, and keep in the fridge for up to six weeks.

As always, I’ll keep you informed of the outcome.  They smell delightfully briny at this point.  I can only imagine what I’ll think of that smell in approximately 24 hours.

Dill and Repose

Do you know what’s really good for cancer patients?  Spending time on a farm.  Snipping flowers.  Picking yellow, green, and purple beans.  Falling asleep amid the scented, feathery fronds of dill blowing in the breeze.  (Just kidding.  I wasn’t really asleep.  Just resting.)

Here’s a great recipe that will use up the rest of that big bunch of dill you don’t know what to do with.  After all, one can’t live on pickles alone (at least if you want to keep your red cell counts up).  This easy curry dresses up a can of beans from the pantry, which means you won’t use up the day’s energy making lunch.  And if you do, well, I know a nice, cozy spot where you can spend the rest of the afternoon.  Just watch out for tractors.

Quick Chickpea Curry with Dill

The original recipe calls for two whole bunches of dill, but that seems a little extreme.  One suits me just fine.

2 Tbsp. canola oil
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1-2 cloves garlic, minced
1-inch piece of ginger, minced
1 tsp. ground coriander
½ tsp. turmeric
¼ tsp. cayenne (or more to taste)
1 medium tomato, finely chopped
1 cup chopped fresh dill (or more)
1 15-oz. can chickpeas, drained (I like Goya)
¼ cup water
1 tsp. salt

Heat oil in medium saucepan over medium heat.  Sauté onion until softened, about 5 minutes.  Add the garlic, ginger, coriander, turmeric, and cayenne, and stir for 3 minutes or so.  Mix in the tomato and cook until soft, about 5 minutes.  Add the dill, chickpeas, water, and salt, and simmer until the dill is tender, maybe 5 minutes more.  Serve warm or at room temperature.

Source: Adapted from 5 Spices, 50 Dishes by Ruta Kahate.

A Pickle A Day

It should come as no surprise that chemo isn’t sitting well with me.  I’ve heard of people who hold down full-time jobs during chemo.  Who go to the gym during chemo.  Who have sex during chemo.  Possibly.  To all of you out there, I salute you.  You are made of stronger stuff than I.  Chemo is my kryptonite, and my superpowers are suspect as it is.

Many of the side effects of chemo remind me of the first trimester of pregnancy, although the killing of cells rather than the nurturing of them gives the process an altogether different patina.  There’s the nausea, of course.  The fatigue.  Heartburn that feels like a chemical spill from your diaphragm right up to your chin.  The aversions to certain tastes and smells.  And weird cravings for things like pickles.

Luckily, though, it’s cucumber season and we’re getting them in our CSA by the bushel.  If you, too, are going through chemo, are pregnant, or just happen to love pickles, do I have the recipe for you.  Bread and butter pickles: an oldie but goodie.  Quick and easy refrigerator pickles that are perfect for burgers, sandwiches, or snacking.  And unlike some of the other pickles I’ve made this year (I’m looking at you, butternut squash), these will not languish in the fridge for months on end, tying up a perfectly good jar.  No, these will be eaten in a flash.

Bread and Butter Pickles

These can theoretically hold in the fridge for at least a month, but please don’t insult the pickles like that.  Dig right in and pretty soon you’ll be putting them on everything. 

3 lbs. pickling cucumbers
2 medium onions, peeled
3 Tbsp. kosher or sea salt
3 cups cider vinegar
2½ cups brown sugar
1 Tbsp. yellow mustard seed
1 tsp. celery seed
1 tsp. turmeric
¼ tsp. allspice (optional)

Trim thin slices off both ends of the cucumbers.  Cut cucumbers and onions into ¼-inch thick rounds.  Toss them with salt in a non-reactive bowl, cover, and refrigerate 1-2 hours.  Drain well, rinse, drain again, and set aside.

In a nonreactive pot, combine vinegar, brown sugar, and spices, and bring to boil over high heat, stirring occasionally to dissolve sugar.  Reduce heat to low, simmer for 3 minutes, and then pour hot liquid directly over cucumbers and onions.  Let cool to room temperature, then jar and refrigerate.  Makes 8 cups.

Source: Adapted from Quick Pickles by Chris Schlesinger, John Willoughby, and Dan George.

Chemo, Part 2

One of the side effects of chemo that I wasn’t prepared for (or maybe it’s the anti-nausea meds) is the firestorm in my brain at night.  I wake up at 2 in the morning, my mind racing, and I can’t get back to sleep for all the static cluttering up my brain.  Me, who can sleep anywhere, anytime.  I don’t have much experience with mind-altering drugs, but it seems a lot like speed.  Or perhaps a mild panic attack.  I’ll just be lying there trying to relax and within moments I’ve levitated three inches off the bed, making a whirring sound like a crazed but paralyzed moth.

Husband: (half-asleep) Go take an Ativan.  That’s what they’re for.

Me: No.  Everything’s fine.

Brain: Beepbeepbwopmmmmbwopbeepboopboopbeepbeepboop...

Me: (Toss.  Turn.  Reposition.)

Brain: Bizzbuzzbuzzbizzbizzbizzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…crackle…

Me: Shhhhh.  Quiet.  I’m trying to sleep.

Brain: I’m going to get you.

Me: Pipe down.

Brain: I’m going to geeeeeeeettttt yoooouuuuuuu….

Me: In that ridiculous getup? 

Brain: BOOM!!  CRASH.  SLAMMMMMM.   SSSSSSSSS…

Me: My, what sharp, needle-y feelers you suddenly have.

Brain: Hisssssssss…spit…spit…hisssssssss…….

Me: You don’t scare me with your thousands of eyes and hairy mouthparts...

Brain: (weird licking sounds)….SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCH…

Me: Mommy!

Ixnay on the oxicitytay

Hair Day

Last week, my BFF and I went shopping for a wig.  Because even though I hate shopping, I was a little bit worried about how the children might react when I suddenly go bald.  Also, how I might react.  I mean, we all know my hair and I haven’t always been on the best of terms, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to sever all ties.  Surely we could work out a mutually agreeable arrangement. 

No?

Anyway, I already have a few bandanas I got at Target for the really hot days when having no hair is an actual blessing.  But not every occasion lends itself to a bandana.  Like all of the fancy wine tastings I never go to.  Also, events at exclusive country clubs I’m not a member of.  Job interviews I don’t get.  Prom invitations that never materialize.  I need to be prepared. 

So we went and I tried to keep an open mind, she who has never dyed her hair in her life nor changed her hairstyle in 15 years.  The wig lady showed us lots of options.  There were dark chocolate bobs and pixie-ish cuts the color of flax seed.  There were sleek cascades of mahogany with cherry highlights, and mad tangles of curls in strawberry blonde.  I thought I wanted a black blunt cut à la Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, but I wasn’t sure I would have the intensity to pull that off.  I never win in staring contests.  Especially not dancing, staring contests.  And certainly not dancing, staring contests with murder lurking in the air. 

Husband had put in a vote for the pink wig that Natalie Portman wore in Closer.  I did try on the pink wig.  I did, but there were about 100 reasons why that wasn’t going to work, starting with the pink color.  If you ever want to look like death warmed over, put on a neon pink wig.  Sorry, Natalie, but I don’t need any more help in that department, and, frankly, your luminousness is a long shot for anyone on a good day.

Believe it or not, trying on all those wigs was not depressing at all, and, in fact, was quite fun.  Like I could just up and decide to be anybody I wanted.  It made me fantasize about being a spy in a really, really non-dangerous type of situation.  Like if my client, let’s call him Charlie, very badly needed to know what Jon Hamm of Mad Men orders when he goes out to eat.  Then I would be your woman.  I might be very interested in such an assignment, actually, which would be fine with Husband because he would be over at the bar courting January Jones, and whatever happens in the restaurant bathroom stays in the restaurant bathroom, no questions asked.

In the end, I couldn’t decide, so I got two: one short, cropped wig in my regular chestnut brown and one shoulder-length blonde one.  Well, not blonde so much as straw-colored (but on me it looks BLONDE!).  Does it look ridiculous?  Kinda.  But, guess what, I don’t care.  I’ve always heard that blondes have more fun and now’s my chance to find out.  Of course, there are probably more boobs involved in that equation normally.  And less vomiting.  But I’ve been wrong about stuff before.

So, this recipe goes out to all my blonde friends (and one particular red-head).  We’ll compare notes later.

Blondies

For maximum fun, make a pan of these and a pan of your favorite dark chocolate brownies and let your guests duke it out over which is better and why.  That always gets the party started.

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
2 cups brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
2 cups flour
½ tsp. baking soda
½ tsp. kosher salt
1 cup chocolate chips
½ cup butterscotch chips
1 cup chopped pecans
Sea salt for sprinkling

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Butter a 9”x13” pan and line with parchment paper.

Cream butter and sugar with an electric mixer until smooth.  Add eggs, beating well after each addition.  Add vanilla and mix again.  In a separate bowl, mix flour, baking soda, and salt.  Add dry ingredients and mix on low until just combined.  Stir in chips and nuts.  Spread in prepared pan and sprinkle top with a few pinches of sea salt.  Bake for about 30 minutes, until top is golden brown and the middle yields slightly to gentle pressure.

Chemo, Part I

You may be wondering how Husband was able to drag me to my first chemo appointment yesterday.  Because it’s hard to psyche yourself up for a good poisoning.  It’s the polar opposite of the Eat Local Challenge.  Well, except for the local part.  And the challenge.  Perhaps I’ll rename it the Eat Local Poison Challenge.  Tasty, tasty poisons.  Naturally, Husband had his work cut out for him, so he pulled out the big guns:

Him: Put on something nice.  I’m taking you out to dinner.

Me: Shut up, you are not.

Him: Yes, I am.  Now hurry up and get ready.  Our reservation’s in less than an hour.

Me: But it’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

Him: The chef makes his own hours.

Me: Really?  Is it like an underground supper club or something?

Him: …Yes.  Yes it is. 

Me: Oooooooo.  But there’s booze, right?  No BYO?

Him: He definitely mentioned something about special cocktails. 

Me: Weeeeeeeeeeee.  Really?  Crap, what am I going to wear.

Him: Find something fast.  You have five minutes.

After 20 minutes of yelling and swearing at the contents of my closet, I’m looking stupid in the stupid outfit I picked out and we’re finally in the car heading towards the city. 

Me: So what kind of food is it?  Are we talking French or Indian or something with weird foams and shit?

Him: Interesting you should ask.  He’s doing this innovative thing where you inject the food directly into your bloodstream.  Ruth Reichl was raving about it on NPR.

Me: Ruth Reichl?  Are you sure?

Him: Yeah, she said it’s all the rage in certain New York circles.

Me: What circles?  Junky circles?  Where’s the fun in that?  How do you taste anything?

Him: She said that instead of the flavors expressing themselves on your taste buds, you feel the sensations…other places. 

Me: Other places?  Like where?  Like (leaning in, whispering) down there?

Him: Maybe there.  Wherever.  The chef personalizes the meal for each diner so everyone gets a unique experience.

Me: (fanning myself)

We get off the Pike at the Pru and I assume we’re going to the South End, but then he keeps missing all the turns, I’m noticing.  Probably because he’s so used to driving me all the way to Longwood for my goddamned appointments.  Wait a minute.

Me: Where are we going again?

Him: I said it’s a surprise.

And that’s when we pulled up to the Dana-Farber building and Husband was exposed as the traitorous traitor he really is.  Needless to say, I didn’t get the chemorgasm I was promised.  (I faked it so the chef wouldn't feel bad, though.)  Next time, I’ll wear a better outfit.

I’m Baaa-aaaaack

We really were on vacation, by the way.  That wasn’t just code for chemo.  Chemo starts tomorrow.  Hip hip horraaaaaaaayyhackhackhhhhuuuuurrrrllll.  I hope you liked the guest posters because there may be a few more of those coming up (if anyone would like to write something, just let me know).

Our trip, during which we rent a cottage on Cape Cod for a week each summer, had been planned since February and there was no way I was going to let cancer fuck it up.  Because I think you can guess when chemo was scheduled to start.  Vacation week.  Of course it was.  Until I told them I’d rather die of cancer than spoil our family vacation with chemo.  They didn’t find that as funny as I thought they would, but they did agree to change it, so that’s what counts. 

Last week was a much-needed eye in the proverbial storm.  The weather, in case you didn’t notice, was amazing.  Could it have been more perfect? No, I think not.  We waded in tidal pools and built sandcastles and fished. 

We collected and freed polliwogs. 

We saw seals in the waters off beautiful Nauset, where it pours bean green over blue.  (Which Husband refused to harpoon.) 

We mini-golfed and majorly gorged on ice cream.  We barbecued and went out to eat at the Brewster Fish House and got fried fish at Arnold’s and lobster rolls from Maurice’s. 

I took 45 outdoor showers.  I read books and decoded many a quote from Einstein and Descartes out of the cryptogram book Husband gave me.  Because I’m a cryptogram addict.  Forget sudoku.  Sure, there’s logic to sudoku, but there’s no art.  If Scrabble is the apple pie of word games then cryptograms are pot brownie sundaes with hot heroin sauce, whipped amphetamines, sprinkled with crack-nuts, and topped with a bourbon-soaked cherry.  I love them so.  Decode this: DYV UEDIORYP PDQQRGO UD RYWDYV ZED CGAYLO HV UEAO OIYPRV PIGAYL MEVHD.

One of the days during vacation, I managed to work bacon into every meal.  Bacon and eggs for breakfast, BLTs for lunch, grilled bluefish for dinner with a tomato and bacon vinaigrette as seen in the Boston Globe Sunday Magazine.  Yes, that’s right, we even bought a newspaper.  There was no Internet connection, you see.  Not that I didn’t try to hijack one, as I wandered around the perimeter of the yard with my laptop, holding it over the fence into the surrounding properties.  Whatever.  The point is: it was a fabulous vacation.  I forgot my troubles and my troubles forgot me.  Now I feel as though I’m ready for absolutely anything, though I would never dare say such a thing.  That would be stupid.

Our 4th

Who would have thought that only three weeks after my mastectomy, I’d be up and about, doing all my usual things, almost as good as new?  (Almost.)  The human body is as amazing as it is disgusting. 

I’m very grateful for this stretch of time after recovering from surgery and before chemo starts where things feel normal again.  Where we can have a barbecue with our neighbors on the porch just like old times and the ribs taste just as sweet, if not sweeter, thanks to Neighbor Husband’s secret recipe and his way with a grill.

And I managed to fry up the hush puppies only five minutes late, and even though I broke the corn and cayenne mayonnaise twice, it did finally come together with a third yolk and a whisk.

And the coleslaw didn’t suck.

And the neighbors brought the best grilled beans on the planet.

And there was blueberry cobbler left over from the night before, so nobody had to worry about making dessert.

It felt good to be cooking again.  Really good.  Worthy of fireworks, even.

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.