The feeling was like one of those big claws at the arcade that reaches for stuffed animals or little plastic globes stuffed with rings or candy, except the claw was in my abdomen and reaching for my organs. My heart, lungs, stomach, all of it felt cinched together, writhing against the invisible grip.
“I think it’s happening again.”
This wasn’t the first time this bizarre pain had overcome me recently, so I didn’t have to say anything else for Christian to know exactly what I meant.
“You should probably stay here, then, right?”
But I didn’t. The other two sudden, aggressive inner throbs had dissipated within an hour or so, and I had a nice day planned. I left, hopeful the pain would be gone by the time I got to Boonie’s for lunch. I waited for the cinching to subside while I ate spamsilog—spam, fried eggs and rice—with a new friend. In our newness, I felt unable to explain why my bites were slow and methodical, unsure if she would think I was completely unhinged for still meeting with her even though each bite threatened to intensify the pain to the point that I might pass out. I tried to keep my breath intentionally long and steady. I wondered if she noticed, if she thought I had a breathing practice and might be super enlightened (because I assume people with breathing practices to be enlightened). Afterwards, we made our way to the group piano class where we met, and I squirmed on the bench cushion all throughout the hour and twenty minutes. I must have not been as subtle as I tried to be because at one point our teacher suggested, “If you need to, stretch your legs! Sitting at the bench can make your body feel so stiff!” I finally made my way at a snail’s pace down Lincoln Avenue, toward my apartment. I stumbled in, hunched over, pale, my insides still in torment nearly six hours later.
Christian and I spent the next 36 hours in medical facilities, going from urgent care to one disheartening emergency room to another emergency room that was kind and thorough. They took lots of my blood and x-rayed my chest. They gave me two different ultrasounds and a pelvic exam. They injected me with contrast and took images of my abdomen. No test indicated any reason why I should be in so much pain. I cried and cried and cried because all the while, something inside me still ached and moaned and begged for relief. They sent me home with a couple of Tylenol.
Over the next several days, the pain would come and go in waves, each wave hitting with slightly less gusto. I had no other symptoms. Eventually, I was free from any pain at all. I saw my primary care physician, who referred me to a gastroenterologist, and I made an appointment with him two months later—which I now know is lucky; most folks wait six months minimum for a GI appointment. But the GI was stumped, too. He ordered one final MRI, just in case they missed something in the original CT scan, but once again, nothing.
And that’s the whole story. I spent a week in pain, two months Googling various causes of stomach discomfort that might not show up on any scans—no, not a single one—and I have no answers. The GI doctor concluded that bodies are weird, and we will just wait to see if it ever happens again. This would usually be my nightmare.
Wait and see is not exactly my style. I like to make and have plans. I prepare my order for a new restaurant when I make the reservation. When I’m going to a new coffee shop or a new doctor’s office, I check Google maps the day before at least a dozen times to pinpoint the longest amount of time it could potentially take me to get to the destination and choose my departure time accordingly. I arrive at the airport at least two hours early for domestic flights with no checked bags. Just in case.
Just in case of what, exactly, I don’t know, but these plans have given me the illusion that I am prepared for anything at any moment. For a long time I thought my plans were a solution to my anxiety, a blanket weighted with precise times and to-do lists and menus that kept me cozy and warm and safe. My meticulously planned diet, with precise calories and best times of day to eat calculated ahead of time, helped me get my body smaller and smaller and smaller. Through trial and error, I researched the average time it took to complete kitchen projects so that I could plan prep lists where I’d be mixing focaccia and baking croissants and weighing out ingredients for pastry cream and simmering candied lemon zest at the same time, all while perfectly capable of checking and signing for the dairy order.
Still, as I write about my plans and my attempts to anticipate every possibility, I can’t help but feel proud of who they made me. Looking at that girl and her plans from the outside, she looks adorable and successful and driven and capable. She deserves promotions and compliments and more hours and more responsibilities. Stories could be told about her, when she inevitably opens an incredibly successful bakery, about how diligence and dedication and plans pay off.
But that girl’s insides were being clawed at. With self-loathing and worry and doubt and fear. With hunger and alcohol and so much caffeine that the baristas at the cafe used to make an extra toddy just for her. I was miserable. Depressed. Anxious. My body looked exactly as everyone had always told me to make it look, but it was freezing. Unstable. Unwell. I was barreling toward the accolades and the career that I’d always told myself I wanted, but I was so exhausted, I could hardly keep my eyes open enough to enjoy any of it.
As I sat in the emergency room, flipping through the special Taylor Swift edition of Us Weekly that Christian picked up for me in the hospital’s gift shop, all I could think about were the horrors that might be ravishing my body. I thought about cancer. I thought about kidney failure. I thought about having the same mysterious mass around my pancreas that forced my mom into a Whipple procedure. I thought about my lone fallopian tube—the other lost with an ectopic pregnancy—wrapping itself around an ovary, but only because the doctor informed me that was something he was worried about. I thought about how letting go of my plans had done this to me. I’d missed my opportunities to plan around these outcomes. I thought about how to hold my face steady—so as not to exacerbate Christian’s worry— when the doctor came in with very bad news. I thought about how I’d change my diet immediately when I left, no more fucking around, time to cut increase those leafy greens and cut that sugar.
With each new test reporting that my life was not in imminent danger, I watched Christian breathe more deeply with relief as I increasingly felt anxiety. Because if my pain was not the result of one of these horrible diagnoses I’d imagined—or even a rare one that I wouldn’t know to consider—and I wasn’t going to be scheduled for surgery or treatment or any additional visits, then there was nothing to do. There’s nothing to plan for. There’s no way to predict if this tormenting pain will arise again, no way to prevent it, no way to squash its intensity because as far as my doctor’s are concerned, it was a mystery.
What a wonderful reminder for me as I move into a new year and almost a new age of my life (I’ll be 34 soon). This whole life is a mystery! My desperate attempts to plan for and predict and control were never creating safety and security because life can’t be predicted. My anxiety and worry and doubt and exhaustion were in no small part because I squeezed a tight fist around my life. I was so afraid to just let it be. To wait and see what happens. To trust that maybe it wouldn’t be bad news, and even if it was, that I’d be able to handle it.
I’m not a totally different person than I was when I had my strict diet and incredible multi-tasking. I’m still going to look at restaurant menus and get to the airport too early. I can also sit here today and write with gratitude that I don’t know what caused my stomach pain. I feel more confident with the waiting and seeing. With not knowing, not planning, not trying to control my body. I trust now that is not the worst outcome. If I knew a specific source of my pain, it might have been some really devastating news.
And with that gratitude, that trust in the unpredictability of life, I present to you my very first attempt at making meatballs. Somehow, in my nearly 34 years of life, I’ve never made a single meatball. Not one. There are some infamous meatball makers in my life: Grandma Ruby, for one, whose sauce base is a can of condensed tomato soup; Marsha, a family friend, who I recently learned used Ritz crackers instead of breadcrumbs in her recipe. I skipped the soup and Ritz, but my recipe below does borrow an idea from Alison Roman to soak breadcrumbs in ricotta cheese instead of milk.
I’m sharing this recipe because I wasn’t sure how they were going to turn out. I had to wait and see. I told myself I’d report to you no matter how it went. I don’t think they’re perfect or the best meatballs that you’re ever going to have, but they were the first recipe I ever wrote and made for meatballs and they turned out just fine. Rish said he thought they were really great. I hope you make yourself some meatballs soon. Or if life has you in a place where you just can’t fathom simmering sauce for two hours, I hope you’re trusting that decision to skip these meatballs. In any case, sending lots of love to you.
MY FIRST MEATBALL
Makes enough for 6-8 people, I’d say
FOR THE BALLS:
1 medium-sized onion, minced
4 big cloves of garlic, minced
¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 cup ricotta cheese
⅓ cup Panko breadcrumbs
2 eggs
½ cup parsley
1 pound ground beef (I prefer 80/20)
1 pound ground pork
2 teaspoons kosher salt (potentially more, to taste)
In a dutch oven or heavy bottomed pan (this will be where you cook everything) over medium-low heat, cook the onions in a little bit of olive oil with a hearty pinch of salt. You don’t want color, you just want to mellow the flavor. Cook until they’re soft and opaque, about 5 minutes if you’ve truly minced, and add the garlic and red pepper flakes. Stir and cook for another minute before removing from the pan, into a separate bowl, and allowing to cool.
In a small mixing bowl, combine the ricotta, breadcrumbs, egg, and parsley. Set aside for at least 15 minutes.
In a large mixing bowl, combine your veg (which should no longer be piping hot, and if it is, stick it in the fridge for a second), the ricotta mixture, the meat and your salt. I started with a spoon, but quickly felt my hands would better incorporate all of the ingredients. Mix until well incorporated and then form the mixture into balls. I made mine a little larger than a golf ball, but I imagine you could do whatever the heck you like.
Now, in a large dutch oven or heavy bottomed pan (this will also be where you cook your sauce) sear the meatballs in a few tablespoons of vegetable oil on high heat. You’re not cooking them through here, just getting some color. These are balls, let me remind you, so there aren’t really “sides” to brown, but I did try to get a good amount of browning all over by sort of treating it like a cube, browning the top, bottom, left & right. You’ll also likely have to do this in two or three batches. Once browned, set aside while you prepare your sauce.
THE SAUCE:
1 large onion, small diced
8 cloves of garlic, minced
¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes
2 tablespoons tomato paste
½ cup red wine
2 28-oz cans plum tomatoes or crushed tomatoes
1 cup vegetable or beef broth (or 1 cup water + ½ teaspoon bouillon, as I do)
1 ½ teaspoons(ish) salt
Over a medium heat, cook the onions with a hearty pinch of salt in the meat fat and leftover oil in your dutch oven. They will inherently get browned because you’ve done much browning already in there, which is good!
Once softened, 8ish minutes or so, add the garlic and red pepper flakes, stir for another minute and then add tomato paste. Stir for another minute and add the red wine. Let it simmer and reduce until it seems not much liquid remains.
If using crushed tomatoes, add them straight to the pan. If using plum tomatoes, squeeze the big tomato pieces into smaller, bite-sized bits. Alternatively, you could add it all to the pan and use an immersion blender, which is what I ended up doing because after one tomato squeeze, I had juice all over my kitchen, and I wasn't in the mood for all that.
Add the broth or water and bouillon, 1 teaspoon of salt, and let this simmer for about an hour. I put the lid on but left about ¼ open to release some steam.
After one hour, try the sauce. How’s it taste? Is it still pretty liquidy? Need more salt? Adjust the seasonings now! I added a little salt and let it simmer for another half hour to reduce a bit more before adding my meatballs.
Once you like your sauce, add the meatballs and simmer all together for another hour. The sauce will reduce more, and the meatballs will cook through, it's a beautiful thing.
Serve with spaghetti or pasta of your choosing or next time, I’m looking forward to making a meatball sub. However you serve it, I suggest a healthy parmesan dusting and some parsley for garnish.
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