Julia put a glass jar of turkey-tail mushrooms on the restaurant table. Drinking home-brewed tea helps her combat the side effects of treatment. The day before a blood test — which would reveal whether or not an experimental drug was working — I placed one delicate bit on the center of my palm. The ridged striations and concentric ruffles reminded me of the tiny angel-wing shells that Leslie’s partner had collected on Sanibel Island for our cancer support group. 
When I put down the mushroom to pick up a menu, nothing on it resembled the foods I had been enjoined to eat at a cancer conference I had just attended.
Next to the podium a speaker stood beside a blender in which she put almond milk, half of an avocado, a banana and flax seeds. Conference participants were told to eat fresh fruits and vegetables, to abstain from sugar and dairy and meat. We were urged to avoid white foods and instead to consume dark greens, bright oranges, vivid reds and glowing yellows. Raw and organic are the way to go, or slow roasted and locally grown. Whole grains should be a staple, but turmeric, garlic and ginger can be added abundantly, along with blueberries, walnuts, wild salmon and especially kale.
Such advice — which arrives in books and emails, on TV shows and websites — surely helps some people and might prevent disease. Decades ago, I was vigilant about carrot sticks, apples, whole wheat sandwiches and milk in my children’s lunch boxes. Yet the food gurus seem oddly irrelevant to those in treatment, at least to those of us around the table. The jar of turkey-tail mushrooms helped but did not entirely distract us from the difficulties of ordering.
Like many people with an ileostomy, I have to follow a low-fiber diet. Oddly it banishes all the foods most dieticians consider healthy: beans, cabbage, cauliflower, berries, nuts, lentils, corn and pretty much anything uncooked. I ordered a fried egg over easy and toast as the conversation turned toward appetite stimulants, medical marijuana, Nexium, the cost of Zophran and Emend, and committees deciding (“pre-certing”) which anti-nausea drugs can and which cannot be covered by insurance companies. 
Dana looked the most vulnerable because she was in radiation and had lost more than 15 pounds: “What goes in just comes out — one way or the other,” she shrugged with a crooked smile over her mashed potatoes. Leslie, after informing us that her tumor marker had risen, returned the gumbo not to her taste. Trudy, poking at her salad, laughed about a blog that recommends anorexia for people on maintenance therapy. If we starve ourselves, maybe we can help the chemo reduce the cancer. Just back from a hiking expedition to celebrate a remission, Traci sipped her wine and sampled her pate while explaining why Dexamethesone might be more effective in the bag than in pill form.
Only the next day in the hospital, while I waited for test results with an emaciated man sucking a Popsicle, did I understand what my friends were telling me. The best cancer diet consists of eating whatever we can and not eating whenever we can’t.
Maybe the turkey-tail mushrooms and angel-wing shells have brought me good luck. Or is it the gift of the company they keep? The experimental drug seems to be effective — at least for now. Silently to the man with the Popsicle, I promised to continue preparing healthy meals.
I gazed at the fragment of mushroom and the two conjoined shells tucked into a compartment of my purse. It turns out that even though turkeys migrate by walking, they can fly — one quarter of a mile, close to the ground. Let flights of turkey-tails and angel-wings take each one of us as far as we can get, I prayed.
That happened two years ago, a few months before Leslie died. Julia, Dana, Trudy and Traci still meet with me every two weeks and are thriving. We have been joined by Carrol and Ilka, both currently coping with the eating disorders that accompany another round of chemotherapy. We represent a new phenomenon of patients living longer with cancer: Two out of three people diagnosed with invasive cancer now survive for five years or more. When strong enough, we slice, simmer and serve what we can savor on the mutable menu of possibilities.
The point is to keep on cooking, if at all possible. Even on restrictive diets, there are treats to raise our spirits and those of our companions like this variation on traditional pizza. Pissaladiére, pronounced peehs/sah/lah/dyehr, needs neither tomatoes nor cheeses. For those who cannot eat raw vegetables, a bright red pepper soup is a fine alternative.
Pissaladiére
Risen pizza or focaccia dough for one pie
5 tablespoons of olive oil
4 onions sliced thin
1 teaspoon of salt
2 tablespoons or a bit more of water
3/4 cup pitted black olives sliced in half
7 anchovy fillets, rinsed, patted dry, and cut in half
2 teaspoons thyme or sprigs of fresh thyme
1. Heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large skillet over high heat and then stir in the onions and salt. Stir frequently, for ten minutes. Reduce the heat to low, add water, cover, and continue until the onions become soft, sweet, and golden brown, about 20 more minutes. 
2. With well-oiled hands, punch down the dough and form it into a 13 inch by 7 inch oval on an oiled cookie sheet. Brush the edges with oil. Leaving a ½ inch border, spoon the onions evenly over the surface. Use the anchovies, olives and thyme to make a pattern. 
3. Bake in a 450-degree oven for 20-25 minutes. 
Red Pepper Soup
2 tablespoons of olive oil
2 large garlic cloves minced
1/4 cup of white wine
Pinch of red pepper
2 teaspoons of thyme
3 large red peppers cut in chunks
5 cups of stock
1. Heat the oil and sauté the onion until soft, but not brown. Raise the heat and add the garlic, wine, pepper flakes, and thyme until the liquid evaporates. Add the red peppers and stock and simmer for 1 hour. Pureé in a blender or a food processor. Add water and salt if needed.
Yield: 6 servings