Cooking and Cancer

Tonight, for our dinner, I made a meal that was part of a food article in last Sunday’s New York Times Magazine: Pork chops with pecan and ginger sauce; polenta with goat cheese and rosemary, and apples grilled with Balsamic maple marinade.

I know, amazing combinations but even more amazing is that I shopped, prepped, cooked and served this lovely and delicious meal. This is something I could not possible have done 18 months ago.

I realized that this is another of the unintended and unexpected consequences of cancer: I had to learn to cook. Before John’s cancer I may have made a chicken breast—no not even that—I made –maybe—a casserole. Then with cancer and chemo we had a dilemma: He could not cook and if our friends did the cooking we would die of lasagna poisoning. So my dear friend Susan became my Cooking sponsor—teasing and gently nudging me toward making food from ingredients—yes other food items that are combined to create cooked food. We began with Bisquick—still a marvel—the “Magic Pie”. And then I tried a few other expereiments...some good and some edible and some just funny.

What shifted was the awareness that having ingredients on hand—it’s called a pantry—I learned that from my other dear friend Leslie—could lead to foods that tasted good.

Many more experiments later, last week I found myself reading a recipe—a complicated one that included glazing pecans and whisking dark brown sugar with Balsamic vinegar. And tonight voila! Dinner.

Let Them Help

Another conversation.

A friend wants to organize folks to prepare and deliver meals.

“Just one a week” she says. I’m stalling. I tell her, “He’s going to work, he’s OK.”
“This isn’t for him”, she says, “This is for you. You need the help.”
I am reluctant.

I keep thinking we’ll need food later, need more help later. I live as if there is a finite amount of help and I don’t want to use it up now while things are relatively manageable.
I think they are but “relatively” is key.
I am stressed and I know it. There is no downtime. I get angry in the car. I feel like every second of my life is scheduled and accounted for. I have a list on my desk and a list in my purse and a list on the passenger seat of my car. I can’t breathe.

John is tired. Yes, he is back to work but that’s all he can do.
I have my job, my writing and then all the errands.
Having some one else prepare a meal once a week would be great. It would cover two meals and cut down on shopping and cooking. John can’t help with those things because of the sensitivity to cold and the neuropathy. He can’t shop or cook.
But I am stalling.

Asking for help means something.
It means I cannot do this alone.
I want to be the one who takes care of him
And I can’t.
That feels really bad.