Living with Scleroderma

Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

cooking

A-Peeling

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Prepping vegetables for meals is one of those tasks that I often find challenging. I need to wear latex gloves when I cook so I don’t infect my finger ulcers, and this makes handling food difficult, because my fingers have been shortened by both resorption and surgery, so the tips of the gloves always flop around and get in the way. Onions, in particular, are tricky, and my lack of tears from Sjogren’s can make slicing them extremely uncomfortable.

Then there is garlic. I use a lot of garlic in recipes, but it is a beast to peel. I can’t do the trick with slamming the flat side of a chef’s knife on a clove, because I need to protect my hands. So I end up trimming the top and bottom with a paring knife and then slowly picking away the papery skin. Very, very tedious.

That is, until today, when I tried out my new silicon garlic peeler. At least a year ago, a good friend who is an excellent cook introduced me to this little gadget, which I thought was ingenious but never got around to buying—that is, until I had to order some new potholders last week to replace old stained ones that had attracted a mouse. As long as I was finally replacing those gross potholders, why not get the garlic peeler, too?

Here’s how it works: The inside of the tube is covered with bumps to create friction. You place the clove inside, then press down on the tube with the heel of your hand and roll it back and forth a few times. Presto! It neatly removes the skin and leaves you with a perfectly clean garlic clove! Rinse out the tube, and you’re good to go.

Whoever the genius is who invented this handy (literally), inexpensive tool, my heartfelt thanks. Now, if anyone knows of a good tool for easily peeling and slicing onions that won’t make me cry dry tears, I’m all ears.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

Soup’s On!

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This past weekend here in New England was bitter cold. As in negative teens, even before the windchill factor. Not my kind of weather, not by a long shot. Fortunately, it passed quickly. But winter, regardless of an unwelcome Arctic vortex, is time for soup in our home. So, Dear Reader, here are two wonderful soup recipes I recently discovered from New York Times Cooking, as well as a delicious bean stew:

Golden Leek and Potato Soup by Melissa Clark
The best recipe with leeks and potatoes that I have ever found. I left out the heavy cream, because I don’t do lactose, but it’s fine and rich without.

Roasted Carrot, Parsnip and Potato Soup by Martha Rose Shulman
Recipe calls for a blender, but I just pureed it in my old Cuisinart, and it worked fine. Easy to make.

Rosemary White Beans with Frizzled Onions and Tomato by Melissa Clark
I never knew that onions sauteed until they caramelize are “frizzled,” but whatever you call them, they are yummy! This is also an easy recipe and just so, so good, especially on a cold winter day.

Bon appetite, and if you have links to favorite soup recipes (especially vegetarian) to share, please do!

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

Image:  Dexter McQueen

Baking Bread

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As of today, I am two-thirds of the way through my HBO treatments: 20 dives down, 10 to go. Last week’s mishegas about another potential infection was doused effectively with medical grade bleach soaks for the recalcitrant graft and a visit to Dr. S, who reassured me that the finger looked fine. Thank goodness!

Meanwhile, I continue to make more progress. Each day, the edges of the grafts pull a little farther away from surrounding skin, which is what they are supposed to do as new skin forms beneath. My fingers feel more able, despite missing tips and odd shapes.

I didn’t cook Thanksgiving dinner (Al’s department—and very good it was, too), but I did make the stuffing that we baked separately in the oven (main course was pecan-crusted salmon). This is one of the first times in about six months that I could tolerate stirring contents of a hot pan. Previously, the rising heat and steam were very painful to my exposed, over-sensitive wounds. Not to mention, I couldn’t hold the spoon.

My biggest accomplishment in the kitchen, however, was finally being able to bake bread again. It has been my practice for years to bake fresh challah for our Friday night Shabbat meal. I have a great recipe from a cookbook that my sister gave me nearly 30 years ago, and I’ve been making it since Mindi was a toddler who relished punching down the risen dough each week.

It’s the highlight of our Shabbat dinner, as well as a source of pleasure and pride for me to provide my family and friends with delicious homemade bread. But my hand debacle has made this favorite, meditative task an impossibility since summer. Al took over baking after my surgery and has become quite adept. Still, I missed doing it myself.

So this post-Thanksgiving Friday, as I was hanging out in the kitchen with my two visiting daughters, I decided to see if I could once again slip my fingers into a pair of de rigueur disposable rubber gloves, essential for any handling of raw ingredients—and, voila, to my amazement, they fit over my bandages without any discomfort! I proceeded to proof the yeast, pour flour, sugar, salt, oil and eggs, plus the yeast and warm water, into our old Cuisinart, mix the dough and pull it out onto the floured bread board.

And, as my daughters gave approval and encouragement, I kneaded the dough by hand. This is my favorite part of baking bread. There is something so magical and satisfying about feeling the dough transform from a sticky mass to a smooth, soft, elastic whole. My hands had not lost too much strength or touch. Into the oiled bowl the dough went, covered with a clean towel, to rise.

I punched it down for the first rising, but Mindi was getting organized to drive back to Boston by the time the dough had doubled in size a second time. “Do you want to punch it down?” I asked. “It was a little hard for me because my fingers don’t bend quite right.” She smiled, then proceeded to expertly punch all the air out of the dough. Still a special moment to share.

Later, when the challah came out of the oven, I sent her a text with a photo.

“Ta-da!” I wrote.

“Very nice!” she responded.

Yes, very nice, indeed.

P.S. This post is my 300th entry in this blog, When I began writing in January 2012, I had no idea where what has become an online journal of my life with scleroderma—and just life, which is really the point—would take me. More than 200,000 words later, I’m still discovering. Thank you, Dear Reader, for sharing the journey, and for your encouraging and thoughtful comments along the way, which keep me going.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com.

While the Soup Simmers

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I’m writing on Sunday night, as the Egyptian potato soup simmers on the stove and our community radio station plays a Middle Eastern mix. I’ve been cooking all day for our Monday night Passover seder, and I’m feeling good. A lot better than I anticipated this morning, when I woke with pain in my ulcers, an aching foot and one thought: How am I going to get through the cooking marathon today?

I groused at Al. I rubbed my temples. I studied the long list of fruits and vegetables that I needed to buy before lunch and realized I’d forgotten to ask Al to pick up one key ingredient from the kosher market in Brookline (an hour’s drive from home) several weeks ago.

He suggested checking the Passover aisle at our local supermarket, just in case they had those kosher-for-Passover hearts of palm. I agreed, then thought of an alternative in case they didn’t. I knew Al stood ready to serve as sous-chef, as need, for all the chopping and peeling ahead. Time to dive in.

To my astonishment, when I got to the store, the Passover aisle was still well-stocked, including hearts of palm—three cans, even. I moved on to the second supermarket and filled my cart with fresh strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, bananas, a mango, avocados, cauliflowers, leeks, romaine lettuce, potatoes, beets, onions, garlic, celery, parsley, asparagus, baby spinach, eggplants. At the check-out, the cashier admired my choices and told me how much he loves vegetables (except eggplants). I told him how to enjoy beets in a salad (add gorgonzola and toasted walnuts).

By the time I got back home, Al had switched over our kitchen to all of our Passover dishes—the culmination of several days of cleaning and preparation. We went out for a quick lunch, and then I began cooking in earnest. The night before, I’d already started the pickled salmon, which marinates for a couple of days. Next up was curried eggplant. I was able to do all the peeling and chopping myself while Al worked on the yard.

Then came the Egyptian haroset, a mixture of dates, golden raisins, ground almonds and sugar syrup. Only one problem: when I placed the mixture in my little Passover food processor, it wouldn’t turn on. I tried another electrical outlet. No go. I asked Al to try it. Maybe I hadn’t aligned it properly. Zip. Four o’clock in the afternoon, and it was time for another run to Target.

I opted for an immersion blender and picked up a few other cooking items to make life easier for the rest of the week. Before we left for dinner, the haroset was well blended, cooked to perfection and chilling in the refrigerator.

By 7:30, I was back in the kitchen, separating nine eggs for the apricot sponge cake and cursing at the little pieces of eggshell that had dropped into the whites. But I persisted. Al helped me fold the meringue into the batter, the one part of the recipe I can no longer do.

Now the sponge cake rests upside down in its tube pan, cooling overnight. The asparagus are happily plumped with water, standing tall in their pan until it’s time to steam them tomorrow afternoon. The potatoes and leeks and celery and garlic and turmeric, salt, pepper, bay leaf and water have finished simmering in the time it took me to write, and the lovely mix is now cooling in the 70-year-old white enamelware that was once my mother-in-law’s Passover soup pot. Just need to add the fresh lemon juice before serving.

All that’s left for tomorrow are the spinach-cheese patties, the avocado-tomato-hearts-of-palm-pesto salad, the roasted cauliflower, the boiled eggs and the seder plate. That’s the easy stuff.

The prospect of cooking for Passover, with my once-a-year set of dishes, the crazy schedule, and the inevitable stuff that goes wrong, always overwhelms—especially because the holiday falls in the spring, when my ulcers are at their worst. But somehow, it always works out. And tastes great. And provides a beautiful setting for our seder. This year, more than ever, I am grateful that I can still make a splendid feast for family and friends, and focus on what really matters: what it means to be free.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com.

Skirmishes

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Dear people, do you know of the battle of the vegetables?
All is put before you.
The tomato rises up from the center:
“My food is famous, better than the eggplant!”

The eggplant responds:
“Be quiet, tomato.
You are not worth a penny.
Two days in the basket,
you are ready for the garbage!” . . . 

—from Si Savesh La Buena Djente (Dear People, Do You Know of the Battle of the Vegetables?)

A lot of vegetables will be clamoring for attention at our seder this Tuesday night. We host the second night of Passover, and there will be both tomatoes and eggplants featured—but not in the same dish, so no fighting at the table.

On Sunday afternoon, I set out to buy the freshest vegetables (and fruit, too) that I could find before the holiday. The weather was warming, the air pleasant. I backed out of the garage. Ca-chunk!  Not sure what that was about, I tested my brakes. All seemed fine, and on I drove.

That is, until the tire pressure gauge lit up about a mile down the road. I pulled over. Sure enough, I had a very flat tire. I drove carefully into a nearby parking lot, called AAA, then called home.

There was a time, long ago, when I might have tried to change it myself. In grad school, I once spent a very cold afternoon in a garage with one of my classmates, who taught me how to tune up my old Chevelle. It was fun. My hands froze, but this was long before I knew I had any medical issues.

Much as I wished I could have saved time, there was no way I would now attempt to change the tire with my hands so damaged by scleroderma. Instead, Al came to the rescue, traded cars with me and waited for AAA to arrive, while I headed off to the market.

Already behind schedule, I got there about 1:30. Never go shopping for vegetables at a Wegman’s on a Sunday afternoon, especially before a holiday week. The produce section was mobbed. Mesmerized shoppers wandered amidst rainbow mounds of fresh vegetables and fruits, sniffing and squeezing, checking for ripeness and price, with many near misses between shopping carts. “Pick me, pick me!” cried the delectable produce from their artful displays—all except the organic strawberries, on special, which had been snatched up long before I arrived.

Fortunately, the eggplants were piled at one end of the produce section and the tomatoes, at the other. I assume the produce staff are well aware of their rivalry and keep them separate.

I resolutely stuck to my list—except for picking up a bag of lovely, multicolored fingerling potatoes. One more easy side dish of roasted veggies certainly won’t be a hassle, right?

On my way to check-out, a seductive display of fresh plum tomatoes nearly broke my resolve. But I reminded myself that it would be so much more hand work to peel and seed them for the Prassa Yahnisi (Turkish Braised Leeks and Tomatoes), rather than use the Kosher for Passover canned variety that Al had already bought for me. Plus, I didn’t trust them to be sweet enough this time of year, no matter where their place of origin.

Yes, yes, I know. Sorry tomatoes, I’m afraid the fresh eggplants won this round. Maybe next year.

But . . . did you have anything to do with that flat tire?

Note: You can read the entire translated Ladino poem, Si Savesh La Buena Djente—and find wonderful vegetarian recipes for Passover and year-round—in Olive Trees and Honey: A Treasury of Vegetarian Recipes from Jewish Communities Around the World, by Gil Marks (Wiley Publishing: 2005).

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com