All posts by Annette

It was a dark and stormy night

Literary license, that: it is not quite dark just yet. But it’s getting there, and it is stormy, and writers tell half-truths anyway, so it’s as accurate as anything else that springs from a fevered imagination.

I’m sitting here having the first (small) bowl of ice cream I’ve had in a couple of months. It tastes like…well, nothing much at all. At a minimum, I suppose I should be thankful that it doesn’t taste truly awful, as other things do since the gallbladder surgery. A friend of the family, who happens to be a nurse, says that’s likely the result of the anesthesia, and should pass at some point. The story of my life: this will pass. That will pass. With time, it will get better. I must admit, I’m getting pretty sick of hearing that refrain over and over, especially since progress, such as it is, is so minute that it can barely be measured.

But I will finish the ice cream. Calories have to come from somewhere, and at least this has the semblance of normalcy, unlike the routine of pouring a cup of formula down the tube, followed by a cup or so of water. There is reason behind this, too: today’s weigh-in at the doctor’s office was 104 pounds. I’m surprised that I only lost two pounds while stuck in the hospital, but still, that weight is – as my family constantly reminds me – not enough. Sometimes I wonder just what target weight they have in mind for me.

I’m continuing to heal form the gallbladder surgery. Coughing still hurts, and if I move too quickly on my right side – if, for instance, I pump my fist after a particular good play by the Jaguars defense at a Monday night football game against the Steelers – it can be rather painful. As everyone tells me, though, this will pass and I’ll be as good as new. Or as good as new is when your body has been wracked by rounds of fighting cancer.

And I must admit to feeling quite uninspired about things of late. No doubt all the crap that’s been happening in the past year and a half is starting to catch up here. But I thought today that perhaps it’s time to rattle some of those pots and pans again, at least, and get some people fed. Sunday, the Jaguars are away at Indianapolis, and a smoking session – of the meat variety – may be just the ticket. Food, friends, family, football: even if it doesn’t break me out of the funk, it will at least be a diversion. Now just to figure out what to feed the vegetarians amongst us, who have some unfathomable idea that a big ol’ slab of ribs isn’t something suitable for eating…

You have won a fun-filled trip!

To the emergency room of your local hospital! Yes, this trip is designed to maximize your enjoyment of life away from the emergency room, where you and a loved one will spend ten hours waiting to be seen by a physician. While you’re waiting, you’ll enjoy looking around the cubicle where you’re placed and writhing on the bed in agony because no painkillers were given. You’ll also enjoy the emotional thrills of subjecting a (tired) loved one – who happens to be your mother – to share your experience. The guilt will be great for building character!

So, Friday afternoon, we went to see the gastro guy, who gave us the results of the scan, which we all expected: gallstones. A whole bag of stones, actually, is how he put it. By the time he arrived at 4:35 for our 4 PM appointment, talked to us for a few minutes, and gave us our options, the surgeon’s office had closed (4:52). So he scrawled the number to their office on a piece of paper and told us to call Monday. That was exactly what we planned to do. He also mentioned that if the pain got too bad, to head to the ER.

And then came Friday evening. I had some formula. They ate real food. A little later, I started feeling the same old sickness. It progressed to the puking phase, but the pain had kicked in long before that. I told my mom that we were going to have to go to the ER, because I couldn’t stand this any more. I told her to let me finish throwing up and then take me over. Which she did.

They got me out of the waiting area and into a holding room pretty quickly, but it all went downhill from there. I slipped in and out of a doze, hurting the while time, someone stuck their head in about three times, and we finally saw a doctor at around 10 AM. He wasn’t too happy that we’d been there since midnight, and neither were we, but I was in no condition to get angry. Even though we had no guarantees that they could squeeze me into the surgical schedule for the weekend, I didn’t care and told them to go ahead and admit me. They gave me a gown, rolled me up to a room, gave me a drip with dextrose and some painkillers, and I told my mom to go home. This was Saturday.

Sunday: no surgery room for me. A day of hanging around the room, occasionally getting drugs for pain, and being bored out of my skull. I did get some sleep, although most of the time that sleep was interrupted by the staff’s never-ending need to check my temperature and blood pressure, and by the periodic taking off and landing of the hospital’s helicopter, the landing pad for which happened to be on the next building’s roof, right across from my room.

Monday: the surgeon that we were actually going to call showed up. He said that he probably would not be able to make any room on his schedule for that day, but could try to get someone to schedule me for Tuesday. If I wanted to wait for his schedule, surgery wouldn’t be until Wednesday. Tuesday it was, then. Knowing that I was to have surgery, each shift change the nurses asked me if I’d had anything to eat or drink by mouth. No, nothing since Friday night, which I threw up.

Tuesday: by this time, I’ve had my mom bring my laptop up so at the very least I could do some work via dialup. I did get some things done, but hospital living is a little hard on the time recognition- harder even than normal for me: I would look up and it would be 2 AM suddenly. I’d drift off and it would be 8 AM, time for my neighbor to be having breakfast while I continued with drips. Nevertheless, we were assured that today would be the day, but we couldn’t get an exact time since I was an addon to the schedule. They finally came for me around 4, rolled me down to the OR holding pen, and at 4:30 – after taking away my glasses – rolled me into the ER. After scooting over to the quite cold ER table from the gurney, I made small talk with the nurses while they prepped me for the IV and the knockout juice and then zzzz……..

Tuesday, later: I wake up in recovery. Not the same kind of crushing pain as when I woke up from my original cancer surgery, but then again, it wasn’t the same kind of surgery, either. Still, my gut was full of air, my side was tender, and I didn’t feel all that great. Well enough to chat with the nurse who was watching over me and trying to remember to take deep breaths so as not to set off the respiratory monitor. After about 15 minutes, we rolled back up to the room and I managed to get back into bed. I’m not quite sure how this was done, actually, and can’t remember if I walked into the room or they rolled me in and I just walked to the bed. Regardless, they loaded me with my drip and my drugs and then the fam showed up. By this time, it was 6:45. I drifted in and out, everyone went home, and settled back into the hospital routine.

Wednesday: The doctor showed up, said everything went very well, and that if I started passing some gas and walked around a bit, they’d let me out. I told him I’d been burping – painful – and he said that was the wrong end. They gave me a PCA to click as needed for pain (every eight minutes) and lowered my drip to 20 drops an hour, bringing me a liquid platter for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The slip actually said “Bland diet plate (Pink)”, and boy, was that true: pudding or custard, iced tea or coffee, grits or crappy soup, milk, one creamer, one sugar, no pepper. I barely ate any of it. I did manage to walk up and down the hall a bit, but no gas action. I’m convinced that what I was burping and what was probably escaping out through the feeding tube placement was enough, and decided Wednesday evening it was time to go. But that would have to wait until…

Thursday morning: breakout time! Another crappy breakfast, followed by a visit from the rounds doctor, who checked me over and pronounced me fit to go home. The surgeon didn’t come up, but a nurse did come in with my disharge paperwork. I signed away, called my mom, and crawled back into my clothes.

Since then, I’ve been home, alternately sleeping and working, trying to get formula down, and trying to stop coughing and sneezing because those activities are not fun at all, and thinking that I desperately need a shower. I’m moving around pretty well, but it’s going to be awhile before I can lift anything, so I’ll have to drag a volunteer to the NOC when I’m able to go to set up the servers that I had planned to set up last Friday night before the attack came on.

On the plus side, maybe I’ll be able to get back into the whole eating thing before I waste away to absolutely nothing, as there’s no doubt I lost a pound or two while cooped up in the hospital. It’d be nice to be able to have even a few bites of a meal, if that’s all i can manage, without being doubled over in pain afterwards.

So there, you have it. All the news that’s fit to print.

Tossing stones

The results are in.

Monday, the day before my scheduled ultrasound and HIDA scan, I made a mistake: I ate two small chicken nuggets from a fast food place. About fifteen minutes later, I was in agony, and on my knees barfing. The chills set in afterward, and I bundled up in a blanket even though it was about 85 degrees. It passed, eventually, but not without leaving me feeling miserable.

Tuesday dawned, and I headed off for the scans. We did get the preliminary results today: the ultrasound showed nothing, because they had a terrible time seeing my gallbladder, and the HIDA scan showed stones.

Now, I know how painful it is when an attack comes. My family knows how terrible it is. Surely the medical people know how bad it can be. Can we move up our scheduled followup appointment from the 27th? No, says the staff at the doctor’s office. There’s nothing open. And what about all the pain between now and then, asks my mom? Well, says the nurse at the office, if it gets really bad, I guess you’ll have to go to the hospital.

Wow, that’s very caring.

So, here we sit, with me feeling seasick all the time, wary of eating anything in case it sets off an attack. I also now have pain in my back as well as the front – something noted in the symptoms – and I feel like crap. This is no way to go through a day. Friday, we will be calling around to other gastro offices to see who can work us in. It does me no good to pour formula down the tube or eat anything if it just comes out, one way or the other.

We also saw the ENT for this spot the PET scan picked up on my tongue. Reassuring news: he sees no bumps, feels nothing, and says my tongue is still raw and red (which makes sense, since I have been trying to eat real food, even with this gallbladder nonsense). So we’ll keep an eye on that. Not so reassuring: this spot on the mandible is probably dental, because I can feel some pain in my gum and jaw on the lower left side, and I’m hoping that the radiation didn’t hurt things so badly that I have to have major dental work done. I hate dental-related things, and since I can’t open my mouth very widely, it’s even more painful these days. Now we need to find a dentist who is familiar with treating patients who have had radiation treatments.

On the plus side, we’re in negotiations to buy out another relatively small company, and waiting on their decision. We also went back to the developer and signed a contract (as well as laid down a check). There is a five day period where the contract can be voided, so we’re using that time to look at a few more places, just to make sure we’ve found what we really want.

And it’s football season officially! Sunday is game day, and the Cowboys are coming to town. I’m hoping we have a good season, but the team can be so schizophrenic – just look at the Foxboro meltdown from last season – that it’s hard to predict how they’ll do. Still, the games are fun, and Sunday will be one day shy of exactly a year that I last went to a game. At least this year I’m not going through radiation and chemo that make me into a zombie. I’m looking forward to reaching my goal of going to every game this season, except for one when I’ll be out of town. We’ll see just how well that works, given all these other issues swirling around.

The hits just keep on comin’

I haven’t fallen off the face of this earth just yet.

The past couple of weeks have been interesting.

First, there’s this whole gallbladder thing. From the 18th to about the 27th, I was either wishing for death to get rid of the agony, or cursing the pain and nausea that this issue is causing. I switched back to an ultra-lowfat diet consisting mainly of formula, and the pain has backed off a bit. The low level nausea persists, but it isn’t incapacitating. This also allowed me to attend, with a small gathering of good folks, the 40th birthday of a dear friend.

Between those two things, I had yet another PET scan. The night of the dinner, the doctor called with the results: two spots lit up. One in the left mandible, which may be dental – which means the usual three month exams I get have to be pushed up a little in this case – and one at the base of the tongue – which means a trip back to the ENT for a look and most likely another biopsy. Oh, and I cracked a piece of filling out of one of my teeth on the right side, even though it isn’t as if I’m eating jawbreakers here.

I’ve been taking Prevacid to help with the reflux and heartburn I’ve been having. I have insurance now (that doesn’t cover anything related to the cancer, since it’s preexisting), and they refused to pay for the Prevacid when it was first prescribed for me, saying that Prilosec was available over the counter. The gastro doctor told me to take the Prevacid twice a day instead of once, and wrote me a huge prescription for it to last until we get things sorted. The insurance company balked. The doctor’s office sent the insurance company a fax, telling them it was indeed medically necessary – after all, I have to take it twice a day, every day, without stopping after 14 days, and since Prevacid is little pellets that don’t have to be crushed, it will go down the feeding tube, unlike Prilosec, which would have to be crushed up, going against the way you’re supposed to take it. The insurance company once again balked. I had to shell out $300 on Saturday for 60 capsules, because I was down to one in the last batch that I’d gotten (and paid for out of my pocket). I’m paying my premiums. I’d take something else if it worked and would go down the tube. The least they can do is help me take care of my HEALTH since it is HEALTH insurance that I’m buying from them.

Then my email crapped itself at the domain here, which is why your mail bounced, Cal. That, of everything, is naturally the simplest to repair.

The other day, we acquired a tiny company (relative to us), and we’re working on integrating those people into the main billing system, sending notices out, and doing all the other things that have to be done to merge them. That’s always an adventure.

And finally: today we found a lot and a builder in a development not far from here. I’m crossing my fingers that everything goes the way it should and I will, for the first time, become a homeowner. This qualifies as being just as scary as some of these other things, albeit in a different way.

There you have it: I’m as well as can be expected and still around. It certainly could be worse. I could have died in a horrible freak incident like Steve Irwin did.

The gall of it all

As faithful readers of this blog know, my eating habits are, shall we say, a bit off-kilter. This is through no fault of my own, I assure you. Being on the cancer diet for nine months has a way of taking the punch out of you a bit. I’m trying, though, to eat by mouth as much as possible, and my recent round of weight loss is directly attributable to that: nothing through the feeding tube+small amounts of food by mouth+a body still recovering from the ravages of cancer and the associated treatment = weight dropping like a stone in water.

So it was back to the old feeding tube for me, for use a couple of times a day. Lately, that has become three times a day because the weight continues to slowly come off the frame. And I’m trying to stick to that, if only to get my mother’s nagging out of my ears.

But a funny thing happened on the way back to normal, a trip that looks as if it will not be ending anytime soon. And I don’t mean funny ha-ha.

I’ve mentioned the hideous burning pain I’ve felt occasionally in the past month or so, that feels like it’s going to finish what the cancer itself could not, complete with nausea, vomiting, and the desire to just curl up and pull a rock over my head. Unfortunately, that pain seems to be coming much more often now and staying longer, like some freeloading bum of a relative who just wants to hang out on your couch eating all your chips and drinking all your beer while monopolizing your television and leaving the seat up on the toilet. This last round began on Friday and lasted into Tuesday morning, where it finally dissipated into a lingering nausea. It was bad enough to cause me to miss the first home preseason game – the first football game I would have been able to go to in a year. None of that is good. No, not good at all.

Saturday, with wave one behind me and with wave two upon me, I finally croaked out to my mom that perhaps a visit to the gastro people was in order. After all, a person can’t go on like this, and I certainly can’t afford to drop more weight. At 106 pounds, I weigh less than I weighed throughout high school (110), and I’m bony enough without calling more attention to all the sharp angles. But with this sort of pain gripping me, it’s almost impossible to eat or pour something down the tube, because it comes right back up.

So they wanted to give me an appointment for a month from Monday, the day we called. My mom pointed out that this was in fact no good, and I told her I’d be dead by then if this kept up. A few moves from point to point on the phones in the doctor’s office, and we found ourselves with an appointment for Wednesday. Hooray.

When we finally got in to see the doctor after waiting around for an hour, and after he told me how much better I looked now than I looked when he put in my feeding tube almost a year ago (thank you, now that my skin isn’t being burned off by radiation, I suppose I do), and after I described the symptoms, the first words out of his mouth were, “Do you still have your gallbladder?”

Now, I never really thought about my gallbladder. Who does? It’s not as if it’s the first thing on my mind. “Gee, I wonder how my varoius internal organs are doing this fine morning?” But he’s a gastro guy, and it’s like me diagnosing a technical issue I’ve seen a thousand times before when someone describes their problem: I’m sure that my symptoms clicked for him the same way someone’s email problem would for me. And naturally I have my gallbladder still, since my surgeries were for tumor removal and tube fitting. But perhaps not having it would be better. As he explained it, people who are not nutritionally functional for an extended period of time and/or who lose weight rapidly in a short period of time – like, say, oral cancer patients who have been having a formula fed to them through a tube directly into their gut – are at risk for impaired or reduced gallbladder functionality. It gets “sludgy”, stones build, and then when that person does start eating real food again, the efforts the gallbladder makes to do its normal job create the pain that makes the person wish they were dead.

When I was younger, and all through high school, I never had any broken bones. Never required any surgeries. I had injuries, of course – it’s next to impossible not to with all the activities I was involved in and how reckless kids tend to be with their bodies. But throughout it all, if I got banged up, I healed and moved on, and I never had anything particularly serious other than a bad case of bronchitis, laryngitis, colic, and dehydration (all at once) that landed me in the hospital in the ICU for a few days the year after I graduated high school. I seem to be making up for all those missed opportunities now: a cancer diagnosis, two surgeries, two hospitalizations, two months of radiation and chemo, and a tube to get calories, all in the span of a year.

Before I chalk another surgery on my scoreboard to remove another piece of me, we have to go through some tests. On the 5th, I’ll be returning to the outpatient center – which is where all my PET scans have been done, another of which I had Thursday, and during which I asked the tech to be on the lookout for my gallbladder during the CT part (it was hiding, so no news there) – for an ultrasound, followed an hour later by a HIDA scan. Like the PET scan, the HIDA uses a radioactive tracer. Unlike the PET scan, where you have to wait about an hour before the scan, for the HIDA, images are taken at specific intervals as your body deals with the tracer. The test takes about two hours. That will be yet another in a series of unproductive daytime hours for me, I can see that already. After that, it’s back to the doctor later in the month, to discuss the results and where we go from here.

One of the questions I’ve been amusing myself with today is about the potential surgery. It’s done as laparoscopy, just as the tube placement was. Which leads to the inevitable question: since I have a hole in my abdomen where the tube is placed, will they actually be able to blow up my abdominal area without me leaking the air out? Or will they have to slap a piece of duct tape around the hole? Inquiring minds want to know.

Signs of the times

Someone left a comment in the Savannah entries about that fuzzy plant: a chenille plant. Thanks very much for the information. I can say with some happiness that it has not been at the forefront of my mind, so I’ve not been dreaming of strangely-colored fuzzy caterpillars while I pondered the genus of that plant.

A piece of of spam in my email – 136 out of 138 new messages in that particular mailbox were spam – had the subject “Better life, well-alphabetized”. That brought a smile to my face and reminded me of the very strange family from The Accidental Tourist, bettering their life by alphabetizing their canned goods.

And a few signs that say perhaps charitable donations of dictionaries are in order:

“Congradulations Class of 2006” – on a church marquee. This stayed there almost the entire month of June.

“We celebrate our dependance on god” – the same church, switching to a strange patriotic-type message for July.

“OPEN DAILEY SALES” – a small place I pass on trips to the NOC. According to the painted sign on the building, it’s an auction house.

Speechifying

Wednesday night marked the last of the speeches my sister had to prepare and give for her speech class. I didn’t mind the speeches, particularly. I certainly didn’t mind cooking for everyone who showed up to be part of her required audience.

Earlier in the day, I’d decided that I really would prefer not to run to the store for anything, so rooted around and cleared out the pantry a bit. We were a bit disjointed Wednesday evening; people were drifting in at various times, making a true sit down meal impossible. What’s a cook to do when work beckons?

Brown sugar and cumin grilled chicken.

Some green beans and black eyed peas.

Plum and peach salsa.

The peach ice cream I’d made the other day turned out quite well indeed, and that was available for dessert. One of my sisters also had a cappuccino with me after dinner and after the speech. While I’d thought there would be quite a bit of leftovers, since one of the boyfriends said he wasn’t going to eat, we only had a single chicken breast, a bit of the sides, and almost no salsa left over, as he changed his mind and everyone had a decently sized portion. Except me, of course.

Continue reading Speechifying

The Challenge: Day Thirty

And so we come to the final day of The Challenge. Before we get into that, though, a little catching up is in order, to fill in the gaps left by my slack updates.

Thursday night was speech night: my sister, who is taking a speech class, needs a captive audience of at least five people to hear her speech on whatever the topic happens to be. The speech – and the audience – have to be taped. We’ve been through a number of these this semester, and each time, our routine is pretty much the same: speech, then dinner, prepared by yours truly. This time, though, since we are in the midst of house-hunting, and since we wanted everyone’s input on this one particular house we’ve been considering, we all piled into a car and headed over to wander through it. I imagine that was quite a sight for people in the neighborhood. Earlier, my mom and sister had picked up the makings for tacos, so I did not have to cook anything and was able to work work work until it was time to go see the house and have dinner. This was a good thing, as it happened, as we’ve been quite busy lately and there’s always something to be done. Once we returned from the house viewing, I warmed some tortillas on the griddle and we all sat down to eat.

Well, more accurately, they all ate, and I had formula. That was, I think, the only thing I’d had to eat that day, which was probably a mistake. Later that evening, I had another excruciating round of heartburn or reflux or whatever the hell it was, with a round of puking as a weird bonus session. This lasted into Friday, and since I was in no condition to cook, the fam fended for themselves. I had been planning to head to the NOC to set up a bunch of servers, but wound up hanging around the house, working off and on, and sleeping quite a bit.

When Saturday rolled around, I felt a bit better, and headed to the NOC to get the servers up and racked (taking someone along with me to do the lifting, since I’m still not quite as able as I’d like to be). There were half a dozen servers to set up, and Wendy’s was calling our name, so dinner was uninspired. At times, it must seem like feeding a little baby when I eat: one and a half chicken nuggets and some fries was what I managed. Plus some formula. Everyone swears that one day I’ll be able to eat like a normal person again, but some days it seems that goal gets further and further away.

And that brings us to Sunday, which was supposed to be a speech day, but turned out not to be, since my sister needs to do a bit more research before she’s ready. Still, just about any day is a good day to cook, and I did just that after we’d been out looking at more houses and lots.

Oh, on a side note: the canning operation of the tomato sauce seems to have gone very well once I got the canner to coooperate.

The white residue is from the vinegar I added to the water to help keep the cooker from discoloring. Nothing serious.

Sunday’s menu: roast beast…I mean, beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, peas, and two sauces: a horseradish cream sauce and a mushroom sauce with wine (Zin, in this case). I was going to make rolls, but by the time we returned from the house hunting, there wasn’t room in the schedule.

The beef. Eye round. Isn’t it pretty?

Bathed in dijon mustard, salt, pepper, and garlic.

Into the oven it went, starting at 425 for a bit, then lowering to 375. In the meantime, some starchy goodness. That’s a reflection on the top there, not some creeping crud I decided to feed to people.

Just as at weddings where you’re supposed to have something blue, we needed something green with our dinner. Peas, please.

Sliced mushrooms, a little wine, some beef broth, salt, pepper, flour, and water, and presto! It’s a sauce. Or gravy.

Everyone started eating before I got a picture of the table, but that’s the way things work out sometimes. Besides, I was making the gravy that’s in the foreground from the drippings of the roasting pan. Nice, thick, deep gravy.

A sample plate. The white stuff is the horseradish cream sauce. A major hit with everyone, and quite simple to prepare, really.

And how did the beef turn out? Fabulous.

While we were in Publix, the peaches looked and smelled very good.

I decided to make some peach ice cream. The peaches had to be peeled, diced, and soaked for a bit in lemon juice and sugar.

Some egg, sugar, cream, milk, and the juices from the peach bath were mixed and dropped into the ice cream maker. The peaches went in for the final 5-10 minutes of the churn. How did it turn out? That, my dear readers, will have to wait until tomorrow when the ice cream is fully frozen and gets a good taste. Although sample tasting – for quality control purposes, of course – indicates that it will be just fine…

Our totals for the evening.

Beef (eye round): 13.32
Potatoes: 2.29
Peas: 2.00
Sauces: 2.43

Total meal: 20.04
Total per diner (5): 4.00

There were leftovers as well, and since Monday is probably going to be busy for all of us, those will likely serve as at least lunch. Now to come up with a menu for Tuesday’s spech night.

Getting sauced

In a good way, of course. What do you need in order to make good, homemade sauce suitable for pasta or pizza?

A bunch of tomatoes, for one.

Core them.

Blanch them.

Shock them.

Peel and seed them.

Chop them. In batches, if you’re making a huge amount of sauce as I did today.

Then some garlic. About three heads (not cloves!), chopped.

Onions are good, too. Vidalias especially. About three and a half large onions, chopped.

Spices, oil, and wine.

And some tomato paste.

Sauce is so easy to make. In the winter, use canned tomatoes. In the summer, fresh.

Step one. Saute the garlic, then add the onions and some salt, cooking for about 10-15 minutes until the onions are medium-soft.

Step two. Add the tomato paste and some spices (oregano and tarragon, if you’re us). Cook until the tomato paste begins to brown a bit.

Step three. Add a touch of red wine vinegar and some good red wine, raise the temp a bit to get a good simmer going. Tomatoes need alcohol to release certain chemical compounds, and this will enhance the flavor of the dish. Most of the alcohol – never all of it – will burn away when you raise the temp. Not into alcohol, or have someone with special needs in that department? Skip it. It will be fine. After reducing it a bit, lower the temp and add the tomatoes and the juices.

Step four. Give it about 25 minutes or so, stirring it often.

Step five. Break out the blender. If you can find your immersion blender, that would be easier. Alas, I can’t find mine. Puree the sauce in batches. Like chunky sauce? Be sure you’ve chopped things in fairly bite-sized pieces back at the beginning, and only puree as much as you need to get the consistency you desire. We like smooth sauces, so all of it gets some blender time. If you’re using a blender, take out the insert from the top and cover the hole with a dish towel. Only fill the blender to a max of half the container. Do not ignore these things! If you do, you’ll be cleaning tomato sauce off your ceiling.

Step six. Return to heat. Add pepper and basil (fresh or dried).

Step seven. Jar it. Be sure to follow the rules for canning tomato-based products and sauces. Wipe the rims. Use fresh lids and good bands.

Step eight. Into the pressure canner. Of course, if yours is like mine, it will refuse to cooperate, and there will be no pressurized canning, only spitting and frothing by the canner, with no lift of the weight gauge. Bummer.

I gave the gauge a knock to see if it would manage to lift off. That appears to have done the trick, and we’re under pressure and counting down the processing time. It was a fun day, working on this in between bouts of working on real work, and it will be nice to have homemade sauce available for something that requires it if the mood strikes us just right.