Tomato Bread Soup

We had a rough couple of days here at Casa Huntington. Our dog, Mr. Big, hurt his back a couple of weeks ago after a particularly prolonged bout of fetch. Actually, at the time I thought it was his back legs, but that's neither here nor there. The point is he was clearly sore, wouldn't jump, etc., but we knew he'd just overdone it so we thought he may have pulled a muscle or something. Then this past weekend, after much less fetch, it happened (albeit to a lesser degree) again.

I decided it was time to take him to the vet, which Big hates. He hates all vets without question. He knows when I turn the car left out of the driveway basically that we are going there and starts shaking. He then ups the ante and proceeds to drool, pant, and shed dramatically. Nothing, not even playing fetch in the vet's office, will shake him of his anxiety. It is really, really sad and stressful to watch him freak out like that, which has the effect (surely intended) of making me avoid taking him to the vet as much as possible.

However, this time we had to go. Two incidents so close together was too much. His usual vet wasn't there, so we saw a new one. She was very nice, and took some x-rays of him. As she was proclaiming to me how beautiful the x-rays looked, she suddenly realized that one of the vertebra in his mid-back didn't look right. It was sort of blurry, where it was supposed to be defined. This could mean several things, she thought. It could mean that the x-ray machine was off. It could mean that there is just something else in there in the way that was no big deal. It could mean he had an infection. Or it could be a tumor.

So, he went back in for a repeat of the x-ray, and a few more with high-def to be sure. He came back. And the blurry spot was still there. She showed it to another vet, who agreed--this is weird. At this point she said she could rule out an infection, which left us with nothing or tumor. 'If it's a tumor, it is benign or malignant, right?' I asked. 'A benign tumor doesn't eat away bone,' she said back. So, awesome.

He's only five, I pointed out. And pretty robust and energetic. She didn't seem phased by this counterpoint. She did, however, offer that were it a tumor, it doesn't really look like one. It just looked weird.

I noted that we did have old x-rays of him from a couple of years ago from a previous underwear-eating incident. 'Those would be great,' she said, 'If it's in that one, then we know it's nothing.' Unfortunately, the old vet hadn't sent those over with his files. Alternatively, she would have the radiologist look at it, but the radiologist wasn't going to be around for several days.

So, now my dog, who anyone who knows me knows I love like he is my flesh and bone, is either dying, or completely fine. And I have several days of this uncertainty ahead. I manage a few more sensible questions regarding what the course of action is presuming this isn't a tumor and his back still hurts, say thank you, and proceed to get home before I completely lose my mind and get totally hysterical.

Smart cookie that I am, I took the x-rays with me when I left on the premise that I might be able to dig up a radiologist of my own sooner than the vet's one would be available. The second I get home I get in front of the computer and start to look. It turns out that finding a veterinary radiologist is no easy task. In fact, it is a bit like looking for a unicorn dry humping a dragon inside Noah's Ark on the lost island of Atlantis. That is to say, it's hard.

Plus, it's after 5 by the time I get home, so no one is open and I basically can call emergency vets hoping they miraculously have radiologists on staff (which they don't), or else I have to wait until the next morning (which I do). In case you are wondering, veterinary radiologists are mostly at specialty animal hospitals.

I pass what one would call a tremendously sucky night, marked by bouts of hysterical crying that probably made Josh wonder why he married me. Being a man filled with testosterone, Josh is better able to live like normal until bad news is for sure. Being a woman filled with an anxiety disorder, I am better able to ruminate obsessively on scary potentialities and completely go insane until I know one way or the other. I can handle bad news. I don't like it, but I can at least have the mercy of going into coping mode. 'We're not sure yet', however, is basically the worst thing I can hear. If you want to torture me, tell me something really, really terrible might happen. Then I can worry about it until my colon is totally empty (anxiety: nature's laxative) and my internal thermostat mechanism ceases working and I burst out into hysterical sobs at literally nothing.

So, now you know what Tuesday night looked like. The dog was like, 'Lady, I don't know what's wrong with you, but I'm sleeping downstairs.' The cat was like, 'Could you please stop this infernal blubbering? I have a magic wand toy that is not going to feistily waive itself.' Poor Josh just had to knuckle down and be the sweet guy he is.

On Wednesday morning I woke up and started calling the various veterinary specialists the second they opened. Things weren't looking good, but a last minute entry struck paydirt and they were able to see us immediately. I also called his old vet to see if they had his old x-ray. They said it was going to involve a certain amount of digging on their part, but I dropped words like, 'tumor' and 'freaking out', and got my way with the sympathy vote.

Josh, being the kind guy he is, took the morning away from work to go to the vet with me so I wasn't losing my mind all by myself. I'm sure all the drivers on the road in LA should thank him for keeping me from being behind the wheel in that state. We left the house before my hair was even dry and headed off to West LA to have Big's fate read. On the way, we stopped off at his old vet in West Hollywood to try to look pathetic enough for them to find his old x-ray. Considering my mental state, that shouldn't have been too hard. Luckily, they'd found it by the time we got there, and I wasted no time in pulling his x-ray out of the giant envelope and staring at it in the middle of the waiting room. The blurry spot was there.

This resulted in my crying with relief on Santa Monica Boulevard in the middle of West Hollywood with the certainty that the baby was going to be okay. We drove the rest of the way to the specialist, but at this point I was considerably more optimistic. The new vet confirmed what the old x-ray revealed - no tumor. Not only that, he pointed out that should a dog have a tumor big enough to be visible in that spot, he wouldn't be getting up off the sofa, let alone running around so much he's hurting himself.

And, he added, not only could he tell us that Big didn't have spinal death cancer, but he could tell us what his problem was. It seems our little monkey has an extra vertebra at the base of his spine by his tail, which makes him prone to getting sore if he overdoes it. This is not entirely uncommon among dogs, but it's still not supposed to be there. So. Now we know.

We marched out of there with a bottle of daily joint supplements, two bottles of pain meds for flare ups, and considerably lighter hearts. To celebrate, we took Big to the dog park to play (he deserved some serious rewards after two vet visits in as many days), and then went home for me to crack back open the recipe book for a happy lunch feast (I needn't add, I presume, that I foresaw the premature end of the recipe book project as I fell into a pit of despair upon the potential early deterioration of the dog).

For our lunch revels befitting a healthy dog, I made Tomato Bread Soup of the White Bear Osteria, Florence courtesy of my friend Sara Pascarella. Sara and I worked together at Quinlan Publishing once upon a tomato ourselves, and I have always considered her someone with really outstanding taste. Combine that with the fact that she's now a travel writer, and I figure a recipe ferried back from Italy by her was going to be great.

This recipe is very specific. It requires cans of 'imported Italian pear tomatoes with their juices, put through a strainer or food mill to remove seeds.' First, let me tell you, I have no idea where you will find imported Italian pear tomatoes. But, I can tell you they are not at my local Von's, TJ's, or fancy Gelson's. After searching at three places, I decided I was allowed to cut corners, and got imported Italian tomatoes, just not specifying which type. Also, I was unclear from this if they were supposed to be stewed or chopped or whole or what. I got whole.

I thought that since I have a ricer, I would be all set on the de-seeding front because ricers are just like food mills. Right? Well, maybe not. Maybe I discovered this when I dumped the cans into the ricer, squeezed it shut, and exploded tomato all over my face, clothes, wall, cabinets, etc. Honestly, I don't know why my whole life just isn't one romantic comedy gag reel.

I then decided they would go into the food processor before the ricing. That didn't work so well either because I overfilled it and then there was tomato sludge slopping out everywhere. Then it would come through the ricer, but not that many seeds were being strained. Then I tried the strainer, and not enough was coming out.

In short, I used nearly every cooking implement I had, covered my kitchen in more tomatoes than I put in the soup, and did not successfully de-seed it. That aside, it turned out pretty damn tasty. I kind of love the bread in the soup; it makes it very substantial. I think this is probably a great recipe to whip out if you want to impress dinner party guests. 'Oh yes, I am very fancy. I can make crazy gourmet tomato soup from Florence. Yes, yes, I am an amazing cook.' I'm not sure how it is going to reheat. I mean, does intentionally soggy bread get gross upon sitting in soup? Do we need to add more stock to loosen it up? I guess we'll find out.

Anyhow, if the dog asks for some, he can have it. He can have whatever he wants.

Screw you, Campbell's. I'm good.

Tomato Bread Soup of the White Bear Osteria, Florence A.K.A. Biggie Celebration Soup

1/2 cup olive oil
1 large red onion, finely minced*
4 28 oz cans imported Italian pear tomatoes with their juices, put through a strainer or food mill to remove seeds
5 cups chicken broth
10 slices 4- to 5-day-old crusty Italian bread, cut into chunks
2 cups loosely packed fresh basil leaves, roughly chopped
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
extra virgin olive oil

Heat the oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Enjoy using your huge copper soup pot. Wish copper cleaned more easily.

Add the onions and cook, stirring, until they are soft. About five minutes.

Coat kitchen + self with tomatoes. Stir in remainder and the broth and bring to a gentle boil. Do not understand what 'gentle boil' really means, and therefore bring to a rolling boil and make soup stick to the pot. Be given a gentle versus rolling boil discussion by Josh.

Cook uncovered 15 to 20 minutes. Pet miracle dog.

Add the bread, mix well, and cook 20 to 25 minutes longer. Be proud of self for preparing for recipe days ago by buying bread and letting it go stale.

Add the basil and season with salt and pepper. Remove the saucepan from the heat and beat the soup with a wire whisk until the bread is completely broken into small pieces and becomes and integral component of the soup. Check.

Serve the soup hot or at room temperature with a few drops of extra virgin olivce oil dribbled over each serving.

*Onion method: Mike's + food processor. Not too bad.