Monday, July 13, 2015

Above all, avoid the wankers

The author, escaped from backstage.
I was a roadie — a tour-ette — back in the old days. Before the husband. Pre-kids. Back when I didn’t mind sleeping in a different bed every night. (Alone. OK?)
It was the ‘80. I learned some important things. How to work 36-hours straight. How to earn respect instead of demanding it. How to drink like one of the guys. How to maintain relationships from 1000 miles away.
It wasn’t until I went back on the road, an over-50 wardrobe girl, that I rediscovered the value of some of these lessons, particularly as I navigated the second act of my life.
On the road, every day is an encore. A do-over. A new perspective on the same old problems. The unwritten rules of veteran roadies offered some useful insights in an ever-changing world.
Here are a few things I learned from standing in the wings. 
Shut up about your talent
Talent opens the door, but 90 percent of the rest is hard work. Bands that last have one thing in common. They work. If you want to stick aroour day. The rest of it happens in the bowels of stadiums or the corners of cavund, you never stop working. Those two hours on stage are a small chunk of a 12-hur day. The rest of it happens in the bowels of stadiums or the corners of cavernous theaters. In hotel rooms and dressing rooms. There, you’ll find your fangirl crush crashing through a new tune, working the kinks out of tired chords and running scales like a schoolboy. That time on stage is the tip of the musical iceberg.
Karma, Part 1: Reputation Does Matter
You can meet a dozen Prince Charmings, but it’s always the dicks you remember. No one remembers them now, though. They’re playing casino lounges or opening (and closing) restaurants with augmented hairlines and a back-up band that's counting the days until their contract is up. 
Bring Something To The Table Besides Your Boobs
Groupies. Ugh. They swarm around the shipping docks like gnats, but rarely — so very rarely — get past the gate. If the only thing you feel you have to bring to the table is your looks, fine. Just get out of my way so I can do my job. I’ll deal with the sexism you’ve re-ignited in my workplace later. 
It’s Always Something
So here’s a story. I’m doing wardrobe for a musician who has been performing for more than 50 years. A legend, and I don’t use that word lightly. Originally with three other guys. You probably know him. Anyway, he’ll regularly riff backstage with musicians who interest him. Not big names. Mariachi bands, that kind of thing. Because even after 50 years, there’s more to learn and no one knows where that lesson will come from.
Karma, Part 2: Everyone Makes Mistakes
You stick with this job long enough and you’ll see some train wrecks. Bad relationships. Bad drugs. Bad choices all around. Here’s the thing with a train wreck. You don’t see it coming. The people around you, the one’s standing at the side of the track, watching from a different angle, sense a tragedy in the making. And they’ll try to tell you. In some way, they’ll telegraph the inevitable. They can save you or they can let you sink. That’s up to you. Pay attention to the by-standers.
Rock On
Tour professionals dress like teen-agers, work like monsters and party like a grandmothers (except for catering... that's a whole other thing when it comes to the partying). They’ve seen the world, mostly from their hotel room window. Famous people? They trip over them on the way to a bathroom break. It’s a glamorous job, and someone’s got to do it, but in the end it’s still a job. An exhausting 36-hour-a-day job that just happens to include a nightly serenade from that guy on the cover of the Rolling Stone. But like every job, this one ends and the only thing you can take with you are a few guitar picks and the ability to work with anyone, anywhere at any time. Unless they’re wankers. Avoid the wankers at any cost.

Criss Roberts is the mostly stay-at-home sister in a family of tour professionals who have been on the road since the 1980s. She was out there for a while, but likes her own bed too much. She writes at

Monday, July 06, 2015

The writing life: Part 1

Some days it's like this.
This book-writing thing. It's a bitch. It screws with your head and sucks out your soul.
I'm an outliner, a plotter (and plodder. ) Some people can just wander off down an uncharted path, happily leaving story in their trail. 
Not me.
I need signposts and rest stops. A clearly marked route. Not that I always take it, but I like to know where I'm going and roughly when I'll get there. Once I'm on that route, I trip merrily along until I reach the end, all the while living in this alternative universe I've created.
Real live friends and family are ignored in favor of imaginary ones. If you speak to me and I look confused, I apologize. I'm trying to place you. You may live next door, but at the moment, you're out of context to me. My head's in this book.
Which is fine. Even great sometimes. Except when it comes to keeping a blog going. I'd write more about that, but I feel a plot twist calling. Another thousand words to write before I can dream about anything else.

Friday, June 26, 2015

Storm clouds gather as the battle begins

Call me crazy, but I think the ability to provide food for yourself and your family is a necessary skill. Not simply pushing a cart through the aisles of the grocery store. We're talking something that involves a little labor and a lot of love.
These are not survivalist-level commitments. I'm looking at something more remedial. A potted tomato or a window box of greens to start. A few canning jars. A box of freezer bags.
As a beginning backyard farmer, I've got a deck full of pots. Eggplant. Tomato. Kale. Basil. Other stuff that's green and leafy and needs water.
Well, not eggplant. Not anymore. Because now I've got a raccoon. Two I think. They're sneaky bastards. Even the dogs don't hear them, and they hear everything.
Every night for a week, they've ripped plants out by the roots. Devoured the bird seed. Drank the hummingbird nectar. And as a thank you, left poop all over the deck.
So now what? I've rigged a series of baby gates, blocking access. That worked last night. If I cut off the food source, I'm the one ultimately injured (if being without a steady stream of kale is, indeed, an injury.)
My commitment is being tested. My morality. If I spin it out far enough it becomes kill or be killed. How lethal will this fight become?
You are warned, raccoons. You are warned.

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Rethinking food, rediscovering life

The deck farm
Nobody wants to hear about my  health problems. So I'm not going to bore you. But let's just say I'm not unique for a woman nearing 60. Particularly one who had wine as a major food group. 

I’ve been writing about food for years and I would estimate that at least 90 percent of those stories featured copious amounts of fried food and even larger amounts of sugar. These foods went particularly well with the daily hangover I’d come to accept as normal. And judging from reader feedback, I was not alone. I felt like death a lot of the time, so I did what we’ve learned to do. I Googled “Feel Like Death.”

What I learned is I was doing everything wrong. Eating wrong, drinking too much. Exercise? Ha. So I’ve started to change. I’d quit drinking a hundred times. This time, after being derailed by a loved one’s death, I quit again. But this time, I looked for support. Not from other people. Not from 12-Step groups, which work for some addicts, but not most of them. I went the internal, soul-strengthening route of treating myself like a person who deserved to live a good life because — insert long, boring backstory here — I had convinced myself otherwise.

The first step in this process is Getting Over It. Getting over my aversion to vegetables. Getting over my belief that I am special, deserving of indulgences. Getting over a compulsion to fill my empty spaces with food now that the wine is gone.

We all start somewhere.

Saturday, January 03, 2015

Cooking vegetables for the vegetable-adverse, remedial

What kind of eater are you?

My favorite meal is:
   1) at a restaurant
   2) one grandma used to make
   3) healthy 
   4) anything with chocolate on it

I eat:
   1) 3 squares a day, with snacks
   2) All-day, grazing
   3) when my body says I’m hungry
   4) when there’s chocolate

The number of calories I consume is:
   1) way more than necessary
   2) anywhere from 800 to 3000
   3) exactly as many as my body needs
   4) I do not believe in calories.

If the majority of your answers were 1 or 2, you’re a normal eater. All you 3s? You’re not a real person. I refuse to believe people like you exist. And you 4s? You are a character in a Cathy comic strip. You’re not, you say? Look in the mirror. Is there a third-dimension? Didn’t think so.
I have food issues. I either think about food constantly or don’t think about it at all. I veer between well-planned, nutritionally balanced menus to days when I eat nothing that can’t be spread on a Triscuit. It isn’t healthy, and it isn’t wise, but that’s one of the wonderful things about food. It changes by necessity. Recipes can be tweaked and twisted, as anyone who owns the cookbook “50 Ways To Cook Artichokes” knows. 
Every January I pledge to eat better, and if the media is to be believed I am far from alone. But eating better is a learned behavior. And it often begins by cooking healthier food, something that can be self-taught. We can all chop up some broccoli. It’s the process of getting it into our mouth and keeping it there that is the challenge.
Begin where you’re comfortable. Tiny pieces of celery in soup is the best you can do? Start there. Tomato sauce on pasta. It’s a step up from the universal vegetable delivery system of ketchup, I guess. It doesn’t matter where you start. It’s one meal. One day. Tomorrow you can add a few tiny pieces of carrot in there with the celery. 
Vegetable aversion is a real thing and it takes time to conquer. It also takes some skill. Haters have not learned to prepare the hated properly. So learn. Google it. Watch YouTube videos. Lock yourself in a room with a computer if you feel shamed, but know this. No one is born knowing how to cook vegetables. People who love vegetables were just like you once. 
We all start somewhere. Try starting here, with pureed cauliflower. It kind of looks like mashed potatoes. But you absolutely need a food processor to create something that doesn’t look like a vegetable. There are no quantities in the recipe, no 1/2 teaspoon of this or cup of that, because now is the time to be dangerous in the kitchen. If we must eat right, we might as well have an adventure while we’re doing it.

Pureed Cauliflower

1 head of cauliflower, cut into little pieces

I should probably say that you’re cutting off the flower part. You’ve already gotten rid of the green leaves and now you’re cutting it away from the core. If you knew that was necessary, you should probably not be reading a remedial article. Boil those pieces until you can stick a fork in them. They’ll be the consistency of ice cream, your fork goes in easily but there is some resistance. (If you do not want to get a pot dirty, invest in those Ziploc Steamer Bags. They are a kitchen miracle.)
Place cooked cauliflower in the food processor with a couple tablespoons butter and a splash of milk. Add a little bit of salt. Turn it on and wait until it looks like mashed potatoes. Add more butter and milk if you’d like after you taste it. Yes, taste it. If it tastes fine, eat it.

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

On the list

I'm delighted to be on this list of 2014's best for the website Better After 50. (Writing as C.Anne Roberts)

The last of Christmas

Not ham again/Ted McGrath/Flickr
I haven’t been blogging because I haven’t eaten anything besides sugar for days. And yes, that makes me as delightful to be around as you’d suspect. I was going to fix that by eating better today. There are some vegetables in the greens bin, a best intention, but they’re destined for a soup at this point. I think I bought them a couple weeks ago and have systematically ignored them since. The important part of this story is that I have again become aware of vegetables. My vision has strayed from cookies. It’s time to move on.
Sugar overload is my Post-Christmas Tradition No. 1. The second tradition is The Clearing of the Refrigerator. When the cheese balls and specialty olives are gone, I start  reheating and re-serving. It does not go unnoticed.
“I’ve had ham four times in the last two days,” said the husband. 
So I get creative. Ham in the quiche. Ham in the soup. Ham in a puff pastry, kind of an upscale version pigs in a blanket with some cheese and dijon. So much ham. Today it was Ham and Quinoa Croquettes because here’s what I had: A couple slices of said ham. Half a cooked chicken breast. Quinoa. A couple eggs. Some Purple Haze soft goat cheese. 
I wish I’d had an onion, but I didn’t. If I make this again, it will definitely include an onion. The amounts used are because that’s all I had. Play with it.

Last-of-Christmas Croquettes

1 cup chopped leftover ham
1/2 cup chopped leftover chicken
4 oz soft goat cheese
2 cups cooked quinoa
2 eggs
(Cooked onions would be perfect)
A handful of flour
Mix these all together in a bowl and form into patties. Coat each side with bread crumbs. Pan fry in butter (because I’m out of everything else, I really need to get to the store.)

Serve with left-over white sauce. And vegetables.

Tuesday, December 09, 2014

Save the sprout

Flickr image/krgjumber

I’ll give this to Brussel sprouts. They are adorable. They grow on miniature trees., these tiny little cabbages, like the dollhouse version of a vegetable. Too cute to eat. I’ll give them credit for that. After I get past appearance, that’s when I have a problem.
Brussel sprouts have a bad reputation, one I have contributed to as a cook and as an eater. My encounters the the cruciferous sprout is familiar to so many vegaphobs. It was hate at first site. On introduction, they were badly prepared. Boiled, usually. Sitting in a puddle of margarine if we were lucky. And whole. Big round blobs of mushy green on the outside and semi-frozen green on the inside. I’m retching just thinking of them.
They were inedible, but a generation of parents forced us to eat them. No wonder they were as hated as broccoli.
There has been a Brussel sprout renaissance in recent years and it is all thanks to one thing: Bacon. Bacon is the cure-all for vegetables. Combine bacon with my favorite preparation method of preparation, which is dicing them up so they are no longer identifiable, and you have something I eat. This is not a healthy recipe. Dieticians will protest and I beg them to look away. But it is an excellent way to reintroduce sprouts to a palate that hides in the other room when their name is mentioned.

Carmelized Brussel Sprouts. With Bacon

Bacon, with saved grease
Brussel sprouts, shredded into thin slices
Pecan pieces
A little brown sugar and balsamic vinegar 

Fry up as much bacon as you think you’re going to need. Recipes that say 1 or 2 slices are just wrong. You need enough back to make a previously loathed vegetable edible. Take the bacon out once it’s cooked. Save enough grease to fry up those shredded sprouts. Cook over a medium flame in a big cast iron pan until they start to brown. Be aware that they may pop out at you like pieces of popcorn. Nothing about Brussel sprouts is easy. 
Once they’re browning nicely, toss in some pecan pieces and brown those up a bit. 
Personally, I toss a little brown sugar on them, because inevitably I don’t have the patience to wait for the full-on carmelization which gives the sprouts their sweetness. A splash of balsamic vinegar gives a nice depth of flavor and hides reminders of Brussel sprouts past.