Grits and Determination

Excuse me for just a moment while I open up a can of caffeine and let out a mighty yawn...much better. I was up late last night reading Paula Deen's memoirs, It Ain't All About the Cookin'. Paula is one of my favorite people on the face of this earth and my wonderfully thoughtful husband grabbed her book for me this weekend. He probably regrets it because I pretty much tuned him out after Ains(ley) got in bed last night. I couldn't help it; Paula and her cooking helped get me through a tough time a few years back, and I eat up (ha!) anything that woman publishes.

When I started chemo for my lymphoma 4 years ago, Fran, my angel of a nurse, told me to treat food as though it were medicine and to make myself eat even when I didn't feel like it so that I would stay strong. I never thought anyone would ever have to tell me to eat; I love food and until very recently was one of those lucky people who could indulge in whatever I wanted without worrying about my waistline. I had my chemotherapy treatments every other Wednesday, and immediately after that first infusion I wanted to eat. It was a good sign. On Thursday after my first treatment, I was hungry, too. Fabulous! But Friday...well, Friday was the beginning of some bad days. Zofran, that unbelievable medicine that actually goes to your brain to turn off your body's vomiting response, kept me from ever throwing up but didn't do much for the all-encompassing nausea I felt as my body reacted to the poisons that were, ironically, saving my life.

And then there was the taste. Words fail me in describing the bitter, metallic taste many cancer patients develop from the drugs. My lunch buddy and fellow survivor says it best: "It's as if you've just licked the hood of your car." Not that we really know what the hood of a car tastes like, but if you can imagine hot metal and road dirt on your tongue...well, that's pretty close. I first noticed that taste the Friday after my first chemo and nothing I ate or drank that day tasted close to right. The fatigue finally hit that day, too, and it took serious effort to go into the kitchen and put something on a plate. I decided to stick to Gatorade and Snickers bars for the remainder of my treatment regimen.

Saturday morning as I tried to dissolve into our recliner so that I would never have to eat again I caught my first episode of a Food Network show called, Paula's Home Cooking. I had heard of this Paula; my mom, a certifiable Food Network junkie, told me about the beautiful, bubbly lady from the deep south who fixed chicken and dumplins that looked just like my mamaw's. Now, my mom is a helluva southern cook herself, and we all agree that my mamaw was just about the best cook that ever was, so I had been on the lookout for this mythical person whose dumplins could impress my mom.

As I watched Paula fix her famous "The Lady's Mac and Cheese", a strange thing happened--my stomach growled. Despite the piquant flavor of hot car roof still lingering in my mouth, I could almost taste that dish of cheesy goodness. And it tasted good. The more she fried and baked and buttered that episode, the more my stomach told me it might just be ready for something more substantial than soda crackers. I pulled myself off the recliner and announced to my surprised husband, "Hey, let's go get a sandwich somewhere. I'm starving." And by God, that was the best reuben I've ever had in my life.

I wouldn't have had the guts (literally) to hit Schlotzky's Deli that day if it hadn't been for Paula Deen. I wouldn't have known that it is possible for a chemo patient to eat normally. Every Saturday saw me tuning in to Paula's show, figuring out what might taste good to me that week. I baked her mac and cheese, and when it turned out better that any attempt I had ever made at homemade comfort food, I was hooked on her recipes.

People we knew from Jason's work were wonderful about cooking for us while I was sick. One weekend, though, I decided to cook dinner for one of those couples when they came to visit. I made Paula's pot roast, and that one act, cooking dinner for friends, made me feel normal. It was as though I hadn't lost my hair, or wasn't fighting for my life. I was just me having fun on a Saturday night. Food, and southern food in particular, is comfort. Paula's food is a soft, warm blanket on a cold, rainy day.

Paula Deen recipes are a staple in my house even now that I'm well. About once a week I pull out one of her cookbooks (I have all of them) and feed our souls. If you're invited for dinner at my house, chances are you'll be having either her lasagna or baked spaghetti with one of her gooey butter cake variations for dessert. When Jason's mom found herself in the hospital on Easter Sunday with some health problems of her own, I sent Jason with a plate of leftovers from our dinner--ham, country green beans, and Paula's broccoli casserole. She called an hour later after devouring everything on her plate to thank us and to say in particular how much she liked the broccoli casserole. I already fancied myself a pretty good chicken fryer (at least of the boneless, skinless variety) but I've really mastered the art now that I follow her example. And the "Is It Really Better Than Sex?" cake? Yes. Yes, it is.

Reading her memoir and seeing the hard road she herself has travelled is very inspiring. Here is a woman who battled crippling agoraphobia to become one of the most successful and best-loved business women in America. I've never met her, but she's on my list of people I would most like to sit down and have a margarita with. Watching her shows, and now reading her memoir, I feel like I already know her. And though I really enjoy cooking her food myself, I can't help but wonder what a batch of chicken and dumplins from her own kitchen would taste like. Heaven in a bowl, I would imagine.

Food is medicine--it can help your body heal. Good food, prepared with love (and generous amounts of butter, pork fat, and cheese) can heal your soul.