I am sitting in the ticket booth at the Cannery Ballroom in Nashville. Every year, because I’m a complete idiot, I volunteer to man (or woman) the ticket booth for the Fab Four Festival, which benefits my nonprofit. It’s a great event, with great music, panel discussions and vendors. But I just hate this ticket booth. It’s cramped, it’s cluttered, and I have an extremely limited view of the outside world. Like through a tiny window. Trapped.
But when I really get to feeling deprived is around 5:30 p.m., when the caterer delivers the V.I.P. food. Can I be a V.I.P., please? I watch it go by, perched on my little stool, nursing my Diet Coke because I know if I have a glass of wine, the workings of the credit card machine will leave me and I’m likely to charge someone $2,000 for a $20 ticket.
For the last year, the Miro District has been providing us food. It’s insanely good. A bunch of us congregate there every Wednesday just to have a glass of wine and nosh off their free snacks, which are in class by themselves. Homemade potato chips with homemade onion dip! And homemade hummus with homemade pita bread, the soft pillowy kind, and house-cured olives with rosemary. Miro District is at the top of my list of free food that isn’t in a grocery store.
So, yesterday, my entire food intake was a small hamburger from McDonald’s and half a small order of fries (they were stale – I hate that). Then I had a fourth of a croissant sandwich from a large tray that was meant for the band (I paid for it, and who’s to know that one tiny piece of a 20-pound tray is missing?)
And then Miro District arrived with the V.I.P. food. I watched from my tiny window as a platter of hand-cured meats when by. Then came a platter of marinated vegetables. Then came a really sophisticated pasta salad. THEN CAME THE HOMEMADE POTATO CHIPS! Lord, help me. Just levitate one of those chips through the tiny hole in my ticket booth window.
So, here I am again today. I did better this morning – personal cheese pizza from Pizza Hut inside the Target. But now it’s about 3 p.m., another two and half hours before Miro District will sadistically parade their tasty buffet before me as, almost overcome with hunger, I run another credit card. Another sip of Diet Coke. Courage.