Almost Famous

When I was about 18, I wanted to become a rock writer.  I saw Almost Famous and thought that was what I wanted to be.  I didn’t identify with Penny Lane, but with William who felt awkward and unsure of his place in the world.  I wanted to be something more than a groupie or feel like I’m kidding myself. 

I think the reason I wasn’t very good at it was because I wasn’t a particular type of fan.  I loved going to shows (still do) and have always enjoyed various genres of music.  Music was something I shared with my dad, but I was never the uber fan.  I believe they call them stans now. I was never the teenaged girl screaming the moment she saw her favorite band and covering her walls with their posters. 

The other side of that coin is the cynical musical snob who, for all of his knowledge and criticism, works at a record store or bookshop while he practices with his own band at night.  I use the pronoun “he” because this person is usually male. These were my friends back then.  Always offering a scathing review of my personal playlist picks and dismissing the entire catalog of a band because they don’t fit into his idea of “good music”.  I tried to be that pretentious, but could never fully live with that much bitterness.

I then come to food writing for which I have always thought would be the perfect job even if it’s only part-time.  You get to go to restaurants and eat some of the best food.  Occasionally, get a sneak peek at new menu items.  To be a professional critic, I think you need to have a certain air of self-importance.  I have never thought I was that important. 

I love food and cooking.  I love trying new things and eat my mistakes. I take a special, personal delight in picking out flavors.  I love the bold, the subtle, the spicy, and the simple. The richness of a chocolate cake makes my tastebuds dance. The comfort of a well-made dumpling makes my tummy happy.  Love may not be enough.

I have worked in the industry and know the problems of a Friday night.  The constant war between front of house and back of house can ruin a shift.  I have received incredible tips and have had to pay part of a meal when a group of people walked out.  In my post-food industry life, I try to be generous and understanding, but I’ve never been cool enough. Even when I was working in it, I was never fully accepted.  

What makes this different? Maybe nothing, but in this day and age, I can write and post things on a blog for the world to see or maybe the three people in Germany that have stumbled onto it for whatever reason.  Nothing is keeping me from writing about whatever I want.  I’m just not getting paid for it.