HOW CANCER MADE ME A BETTER GARDNER (& COOK)

This is really stretching it, right? Pollyanna has nothing on me.  When undergoing treatment for cancer two years ago, I wanted to throttle or perhaps poison people who chirped, "Oh, having cancer made me such a better person--more devout, more spiritual, a better parent, a better driver (not)---"  Fill in the blank for whatever silver lining you'd like to insert.

But there is a truth here, which we can winkle out of the shell of treatment.  Here it is:  As I was transplanting lettuce and broccoli into the big veggie garden, I began to worry and fret: "God, I hope the damn rabbits don't get this. I hope the sun doesn't burn the seedlings. And don't let the deer jump over the fence!"  I almost succeeded in wrecking my joy in kneeling in the warm dirt and tucking it around the little plants.

Still mind-muttering, I then planted some carrot seeds in a shallow trench, noticing they came from an already-opened packet, possibly one-two years old.  "Well, hell?" I thought. "If it works, it works; if they don't germinate, I'll just plant more." No worries, babe. That killed the mind-muttering, I am glad to say.

Here's the lesson:  Those of us who have gone under the knife and had chemo know that nothing is forever and that there are no guarantees.  We are meant to know that anyway, but serious disease has a way of bringing this home.  You hope you will make it and maybe survive to 80 years, if you are lucky. You pray the treatment works, but if not, you know there are other options. 

And if they don't stop the cancer, then--we oversee our wills, tell our kids and friends how much we adore them, review the many gifts of our lives (and some of the sorrows, too), and think about Going Home. I plan on being near the beer and shrimp table, as Anne Lamott says, and not the cheese-whiz table.

This gives you a certain balance, a lack of desperation. Even if things don't turn out exactly as we would like, still the ending is good. As in, "All will be well, all will be well, and all manner of thing will be well," as Julian of Norwich put it.

You can see how this applies to gardening. And cooking. (Frankly, almost anything applies to cooking for me.) You kneel, groaning because your knees have become shockingly painful, fiddle the packet open, thrust your fingers into the warm earth, and participate in God's plan. Plant ye the seeds of the kingdom, share them with others, and help them to grow. Be fruitful and multiply!

I am not sure if God had almond/ricotta jam tart in mind when these words (paraphrased) were uttered, but she might have. 

Love can definitely take the form of a delicious tart, as well as new lettuce, broccoli, fennel, spring asparagus spears, French beans, and so much more. It is all good, all good.

So don't forget to kneel down and plant, or if you have big pots on a deck or a small rooftop garden, stick some seeds in, water them, and wait for utter abundance to happen. And if it isn't quite abundance but more like a skimpy harvest, no worries. That's why God created Farmer's Markets.

I will continue to cook and invent new recipes; dig new gardens; plant more than we could possibly eat; and thank God for life lessons so dearly earned.