This morning I awoke to another cool morning. Last night I even gave up wearing my summer nightie and wore my pyjamas instead. As hot and as long as this summer has been I am not quite ready to say goodbye to it yet. The tomatoes are ripening on the vine and we need a couple more weeks of sun. It is such a beautiful and melancholy time of year, the way the light turns into dark. It was this time of year when my mom started to die for real. In the spring she had seen an oncologist who had to tell her there was nothing more to be done. She was young, this doctor. I imagine that she went into the field of cancer care because she wanted to save lives. In the case of my mom she kept looking through the stacks of reports about my mom’s 6 years of treatment, as if she was hoping that she would see something she had missed. I wanted to tell her after that it was okay. I wanted to tell her thank you. Maybe I did, I don’t remember. All I remember is the look on my mom’s face. It plays back in slow motion. Her small hopeless smile. A shrug of her bony shoulders. She looked me straight in the eye. I can’t remember if I cried. I just remember complete and total hopelessness and the earth opening up and falling down into a pit of total numbness. I remember my (step) dad patting her hand. He would do this a lot in the coming months, as she got sicker and sicker. At this point, her cancer overtook all of us. Cancer. It lies. Did you know that? It does. Sometimes it tells you that it’s not so bad and then you start to believe it and maybe we will be one of the lucky families. But then it goes in for the kill. And it does it in such a crafty and insidious way.

I am not sure where that came from. I was going to talk about my day when I started this post.

My husband and I went to the farmers market this morning. We only bought a couple of zucchinis. We had about 500 plums that needed to be used up and while we were driving today we saw a wild apple tree on the side of the road so I made plum and apple chutney. FYI – I have never made chutney before.

I also threw in some wild grapes. Let’s hope it turns out. I’m freezing it, not canning it because I don’t want to kill anyone via botulism. Update. It is delicious. I will make this again for sure.

I also made Zucchini Parmesan Thingies

1 medium zucchini, grated

3/4 cup bread crumbs

1 beaten egg

3/4 cup Parmesan cheese

large handful of cilantro

Preheat over to 400 F. Grease muffin tin. Grate zucchini and squeeze out excess water. Add bread crumbs, Parmesan and cilantro. Mix well with hands. Divide into muffin tin. Bake about 20 minutes or until golden.

That’s before baking and the one below is after. I forgot to take a picture before serving them so some were already gone. They turned out really well considering I didn’t follow the recipe and made it into my own as written above

18 thoughts on “

  1. Cancer is indeed an insidious beast. Sadly I don’t know a family who hasn’t reeled under its impact.
    Heartfelt hugs.
    And how I would love to try your chutney (I have a passion for cheese and chutney sandwiches).

  2. Cancer is an asshole that never really stops. I’m glad you wrote about your mum, it was probably sitting in the back of your mind, bothering you without you even realizing it. That happens to me a lot:)

    The chutney looks lovely.

  3. It is so hard to lose someone. My sister died of cancer. She had horrible health insurance. She waited a year for her Medicare to start, but it was too late by then. The cancer was in fourth stage.

    That recipe looks and sounds delicious. We really enjoy zucchini.

  4. I think your zucchini thingies are what my sister- and brother-in-law served with supper last night. They were delish! I’ve saved your recipe to try myself. We ate them with tomato salsa.

    Cancer is a bitch. My mother, too, died from it, a year after diagnosis. When it got to the point that she needed a catheter, she looked at me and said “Don’t ever die.” Yes indeed, it’s no damn fun. Its only redeeming feature is the time it gives you to say all you want to say to each other, if that’s possible.


    • My mom said the same thing many times. When she got her colostomy she resigned herself to the inevitable. But yes, we got to tell each other so many things. She was a good mom to me. The best, actually.

  5. One thing I dearly love is chutney. Every March I think about my father’s death. He’s been gone 17 years now. I always celebrate that time of year because it was three days before his birthday. He always loved a great party. I guess that kinda helps how I feel about his death. He celebrated life and had a blast.

    • When my mom first died I thought it would get easier. I just miss her more. I don’t cry as much as I used to, it’s more of a giving in to the reality that she’s not coming back and there is nothing that can be done about it.

  6. I’m always amazed when I sit down to write one thing, and that one thing leads to another. Writing can sometimes be an act of faith. Faith in oneself.

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