Famous Last Words

Every so often, around 2 or 3pm, I look at the clock and think, “Huh, I haven’t had too much pain today.”  These are famous last words in my life.  It seems inevitable that about ten minutes after I utter them, the pain begins creeping and settling into my upper back and shoulders. 

Usually grocery shopping is agony for me; all the standing, browsing, carrying unbalanced loads, reading ingredients lists in search of those pesky sugars.  A few months ago, after repeatedly finding myself near tears in the checkout line, I learned that I should always use a shopping cart, regardless of how little I plan to buy.  Shopping carts carry the unbalanced loads without straining my back, and they make good supports when I need to lean on something for a while. 

A few weeks ago I spent about 20 minutes at the supermarket.  I was feeling good enough that I spent some time doing recognizance on natural sweeteners and ingredients lists.  When I got to my car (with my cart) I was pretty amazed at how little pain I was feeling after so long in the store.

Then I got home to my pile of tomatoes, basil and onions, prepared to spend a few hours making a vat of Creamy Tomato Soup.   I started the work of blanching the tomatoes to prepare them to be diced and peeled.  Then I went to work on dicing them and preparing the onions.  After about 15 minutes of work, I thought, “Huh, all this work and I’m not in any pain yet.  Must be a good day.”

Oops.

Then it started. 

Gradually the burning sensation grew stronger and stronger as I added ingredients to the pot.  As the soup was cooking, I went about cleaning up the dishes, knives and cutting boards from preparation, and the pain increased.  I wiped down the counters and limped into the living room where I sprawled out on the hardwood floor watching the clock as the soup simmered. 

The next step was to puree the soup in small batches.  This turned out to be an ordeal.  For all my excitement about owning a food processor, I was not prepared for how messy, disorganized and frustrating this part would be.  In order to dump out the bowl, I had to remove the stubborn blade, splashing soup down the hole and on the spindle.  Wiping down the food processor between batches, ladling the soup into the bowl, removing the bowl and dumping the pureed soup into another bowl, each step sent fire through my muscles. 

Step by step this continued.  I transferred the pureed soup back to the pot, added the milk and tomato paste, and whisked it together. 

By the time I finished transferring the soup into zipper bags, rinsing and labeling them, and stacking them in the freezer, I could hardly believe how much pain I was experiencing.  I finished up washing the dishes and wiping down the counters – I have an ant infestation in my house, so I need to clean things up promptly, otherwise I would have curled up in a ball at this point or earlier – and again I hobbled over to my favorite spot on the hardwood floor.  It was hard even to get down there to rest. 

Looking up at the skylights, feeling the breeze from the windows, sensing some relief from the burning sensation in my shoulder blades, I tried to think of how good it would be after a long day’s work to come home and eat some of that tasty, homemade tomato soup with a slice of bread and maybe some cheese, and I made a mental note to choose easier recipes in the future.  (I bet I'll forget, though.)