Stop. Breathe. Think.

I’m a pragmatist. I know I’ve mentioned this. I’m one of those left-brainers who approaches a problem as methodically as possible. I’m not so much a creator as an implementer. And with the exception of my brilliant (in my mind) idea to become Jewish Mother for the Foo Fighters, I don’t think of myself as particularly creative, artistic or imaginative. I’m a fixer. A problem-solver.

I don’t come up with the big, remarkable, extraordinary ideas.  That’s someone else’s job. But when those ideas are implemented and something goes awry; when the wheels come off, and the train derails, as it often will, I’m the person who gets called in to fix things. And when I get there, I’ve also brought brownies. People assume I do this to curry favor, but it’s really so everyone will sit quietly, mouths full, and let me think. And breathe. Breathing is really important.

While I’m breathing, my approach to problems is three-pronged: ONE: What was supposed to happen? TWO: Why did it NOT happen? And THREE: How do we course-correct and make it happen? In the event that the answer to #3 is a shoulder-shrug, finger-pointing, screaming or some combination thereof, there is a caveat: How do we salvage what we have and create the best outcome?

Most of the time, I’m very good at working my way through the issues and getting the train back on the track. And if that’s not possible, I’ll call a bus, get everyone loaded into it, and get all passengers and their luggage to the station. Usually on time.
It’s all part and parcel of the Jewish Mother role. Take care of everyone else. I’ve done it all my life. Lately, though? I just don’t know. I can’t seem to do it for myself.

These days, I can hardly string a coherent sentence together. What the fuck is up with that?

I’m pretty sure the problem is focus. Or a lack thereof. My head feels like it is so full of thoughts and ideas and concerns that it could explode at any time. And with so much racing around in there, I can’t grab any single thought and hold on to it for more than a minute before it just slithers through my fingers. This lack of focus, it’s screwing with my mind. It’s distracting me from joy and fun and contentment. It’s keeping me from sleeping.

It’s stressing me out!

It started about a week ago. I was getting ready for work and going over a mental check list of things I needed to do that day, a mish-mosh of work stuff and home stuff. And everything was fine…for a minute. And suddenly a few hundred other things snuck up and collectively bitch-slapped me, and I felt the room spin.  I had to put down my hair dryer and go sit in a chair. I could feel my heart racing and I was covered in flop sweat.

I’m not being dramatic. I’ll admit it’s not uncommon for me to break out in a sweat. I’m 52 and fully ensconced in the arms of menopause (sorry for the overshare, but if you’re gonna read me, eventually you’re gonna know me,) so my internal thermostat has been on the fritz for what seems like decades.

But this was different. The racing heart, the dizziness – they were new. And unpleasant. And more than a little scary. I was freaking out over a derailment of my own creation.

And here’s the really unsettling thing. There was no derailment. I was panicking in anticipation of things that hadn’t even happened! Because that’s what I do. I pre-worry.

To be fair to myself, I have a shit-ton of things looming on the horizon. My job is not exactly seasonal, but I work for a college, and September is the start of a semester and all the things that go with that, including a major project that I manage. It also marks the start of my personal academic commitment, which, in this case, is my next semester of grad school.

I now have a commitment to my blog and my readers. As much as I love telling my story and having you follow me on my meandering journey, sometimes the words come easily and other times they don’t come at all. And I need to have some time to practice my craft, so I have to block out some kitchen time and maintain my ninja-like cooking and baking skills.

Oh, and my husband is running for a Congressional seat. For the second time. Indeed, this is not our first Congressional rodeo…

We did this once before in 2000, and when it was over (he didn’t win), I told him, unequivocally, never again. And if he ever got a hankering to make another run, he was going to have to do it with a different wife. I’ve been a political candidate’s wife. I’ve also had a kidney stone. Both were excruciating. But the kidney stone was over in a week. The campaign season went on forever.

I guess the lesson here is “never say never.” This time, we discussed it at length, and he said he wouldn’t do it if I was absolutely opposed to the idea. And when I thought about it, I realized I wasn’t.

It’s not that I’m a different person than I was 13 years ago, just that now I’m more my own person. I told him I would support him, just not to the same smile-and-shake-hands-and-look-demure way that I did the last go-round.

Serving in the U.S. Congress is his dream job. I have my own. And I made a commitment to finish school. I can’t give up on my dreams just to allow him to pursue his. So we have agreed to walk our paths together, even if sometimes those paths might diverge for a time. We can stay on them and keep walking, and even if we may not stay in sight of one another for every step, we can always holler to each other. Always.

So, there you have it. All the things that were running through my mind that early morning last week, boiled down to a nutshell. I took everything that I knew would be coming up in the next 16 months and let it swallow me in an instant. And if that wasn’t enough, I tossed in the uncertainty of what might be added into that mix. I walked myself right into a doozy of a panic attack.

And I forgot to breathe.

So I have made myself a promise. I will take each day as it comes, and not worry how to get the train back on the track unless there’s an actual derailment.

I will follow the wisdom from that great cartoon dog Blue, and his pal Steve. Yeah, I know it was a kids’ show. But the wisdom is still sound.

I will stop, breathe, and think.  And listen to music. Lots of Foo Fighters.


**This will be the final post at this address. The new address is willworkforfoosblog.wordpress.com, so please make sure you've subscribed**

"How Do You Get To Carnegie Hall?"

Have I mentioned that I cook?
 
I didn’t really start cooking in earnest until my early 20s, when I got married, and then I did so regularly for nearly 30 years. My husband is also a competent cook, and we traded kitchen duties occasionally due to schedules and activities that took one of us away from home at mealtime. But when our kids were younger, most of the cooking responsibilities were mine.
 
Years of cooking for a family, often under great time and budget constraints, made me a lazy cook. During those hectic years when I was rushing myself or my kids to or from work, or dental appointments, cheerleading practices or orchestra rehearsals, it was important to get something on the dinner table that was edible, acceptable to fussy eaters, and with at least a modicum of nutritional value. I didn’t have the time to experiment with new things, so we had a pretty standard rotation of things that fit my criteria.
 
And that was okay. Nobody went hungry. It just wasn’t particularly exciting.
 
Now, of course, I have a renewed interest in all that goes on in the kitchen. In fact, since I decided that I wanted to become the Foo Fighters’ Jewish mother, cooking for me is no longer a hobby, or a chore, or a necessity. Now it’s a mission.
 
Over the last two years, since I got my crazy dream job idea, I’ve begun to look more critically at food, at recipes, at techniques, at equipment, and most importantly, at my own skills and limitations.
 
I’m good. I know this. But there’s no reason I can’t be better.
 
What’s the old joke? “How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice, practice!”
 
And so I do. As often as possible.
 
Since choosing this path, I’ve begun to collect recipes at an impressive rate. Fifteen to twenty new recipes a week is not unheard of. I find them on the internet, print them out and file them by category in binders. I pore over cookbooks looking for dishes I’ve not tried before. I ask friends to share their recipes with me.
 
I don’t have the time to fix them all, but I prepare at least four to six new items each week. And what I haven’t prepared, I file away for the future. I’m building an arsenal. Everything from breakfasts to appetizers to soups to main dishes. And dessert, of course. I have one binder that’s nothing but desserts! It’s like my own Library of Congress for food. When the day comes that my band asks me to step up, I’ll go to work well-armed.
 
Because I don’t yet know what Foo Fighters eat –well, save for Dave’s fried fucking chicken – selecting recipes is something of a crapshoot. I go with things that sound appealing to me. After thirty-odd years of feeding me and mine, I like to think I have a decent sense of what’s good. But you never really know how a recipe will turn out until you’ve fixed it, so my kitchen is a busy place on the weekends.
 
Now that cooking has become a passion for me, I have a list of rules that I have promised myself I will follow in pursuit of said passion. One is to use the best ingredients I can find. The second is to use the proper tools to get the job done. And the last is to be as fearless as possible while practicing my craft. And I’ve found that when I follow them, things turn out pretty well. But even if they don’t, I learn something from the experience.
 
It’s common sense, really. A frozen pie crust is fast and easy, but nothing beats the taste of one that’s freshly made. Dried herbs are more convenient and keep longer, but fresh herbs create better flavor in any dish.
 
Kitchen tools are important, too. My once very basic kitchen now has an array of gadgets and vessels and accoutrements to allow me to be a better cook. Hand-held juicers and a zester, and a pastry brush, and a dough blender. Three different diameters of springform pans for a variety of cheesecakes. Cookie dough scoops and a melon baller.
 
I could still cook without all of these items, but they have made a difference in the quality of the food I’m fixing. And that matters to me. Regardless of who I cook for, my skills as a cook are improving daily. Practice, practice, practice.
 
Then there’s my last rule. The scary one, being fearless in the kitchen. It’s taken some effort.
 
I fear failure when I cook. And I know exactly where this trepidation originated.
 
It was 1989 and I was a stay-at-home mom with two toddlers. I decided to fix chicken and dumplings for dinner. Easy enough, right? Except it wasn’t. To this day, I can’t tell you what went wrong. Maybe I misread the directions, or I skipped a step. Maybe I got distracted by one of the kids. But what should have been the perfect “comfort food” meal was instead a charred, smoking disaster. What should have been fluffy dumplings were burnt clumps of doughy goo. The chicken, at least what I could identify as such, was blackened. The vegetables had dissolved.
 
It was a cooking disaster the likes of which I had never experienced, a science experiment gone terribly wrong. The smell in my kitchen was horrific. As soon as the smoke cleared, everything went in the trash, including the Dutch oven, which was beyond salvation. I’ve not attempted the dish since.
 
Twenty-four years is a long time to be intimidated by chicken and dumplings. Yet it’s stuck with me, all this time.
 
But I know now that it wasn’t just about the chicken and dumplings. It was really about motherhood and marriage and wanting to be perfect at both and being terrified that I wouldn’t measure up to somebody’s pie-in-the-sky standards of successful womanhood. And measuring up to someone else’s ideals was important to me then. But I was younger. I didn’t yet know that perfection is impossible. Not to mention highly overrated.
 
My kitchen is now my safe place. It’s my laboratory, my playground, and my sanctuary. When something goes wrong there, I can usually figure out a way to fix it, and if I can’t fix it, I can toss it out and start over. And what anyone else expects doesn’t matter to me now. I only have to measure up to my own standards, which are pretty fucking high without influence from anyone else.
 
I’m ready to tackle the chicken and dumplings again. And I shall be fearless.

Leave It To Bieber

It’s never a surprise to me to hear that some famous person – an actor, singer, or politician – has been behaving badly.  It must just be the nature of the beast. Too much money and not enough sense seem to be common elements at work in such situations.

You know who I’m talking about. Tiger Woods. Chris Brown. More elected officials than I can even remember. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only person who would be happy to never hear about Anthony’s weiner again. Ever. And I SURE don’t want to see what he’s posting on Instagram or sending out via text. Seriously? Eeeewww.

Still, like most disasters, celebrity bad behavior is almost always big news. Maybe it’s schadenfreude that peaks our interest in the rich and famous getting tangled up in their own notoriety.

I walked into the break room at work recently and encountered a banner headline on the big screen TV during the noon news hour. “Freedom Watch,” it said. Really? Was there a political dissident somewhere being granted asylum? Maybe some wrongly accused person was being released from prison after new DNA evidence proved his innocence!

But no. It was just Lindsey Lohan getting sprung from jail. Again.

Much as I try to ignore this sort of behavior, I’ve just about reached my limit over the past month. And I blame it all on Justin Bieber.

What in the hell is wrong with that little twerp? He’s 19 years old, he’s a beloved pop idol (though as someone who does not fit his target demographic, I’m at a loss to explain why), and he is, as we say in Texas, richer than six foot up a bull’s ass! So what’s his fucking problem?

The behavior seems to change from week to week. He’s wrecking his Ferrari. His friends are wrecking his other cars. He’s posting rants on Twitter. He’s stranding a pet monkey in Germany. Huh? He’s walking out on his $1600 tab at a recreational venue. He’s pissing in restaurant mop buckets and telling a former U.S. President to “fuck off.” And if none of this qualifies him as Tool of the Century, now he and his little entourage of junior Tools are leaning over hotel balconies and spitting on his fans. What the hell?

An interview with his mother went like this: She blames this behavior on his youth. He’s 19 now, and she says she doesn’t have as much influence as she used to. “I’ve got to let go and let him make some of his own decisions,” she told Access Hollywood Live, adding that she prays for him.

Really, Mom? That’s all you have to say? Sure, just shrug your shoulders and play the “he’s young and immature” card. As if that excuses him. Or you.

When my kids were 19, they were both putting themselves through college. They had part-time jobs. They did not “rant” on social media. And they would never have walked out on a tab of any sort. I realize that my kids aren’t international pop stars with a seemingly endless supply of money, but if they had been, suffice it to say they would have never behaved so disrespectfully, be it to a former President, a fan, or a janitor in a restaurant.

I hear these stories and it makes me wonder what the 19 year-old version of Dave Grohl or Pat Smear or Taylor Hawkins was doing back in the day. I would not be so presumptuous as to claim that the younger Foo Fighters were saints. I can’t speak to that. But if I had to venture a guess, I’d guess that when most of them were the Bieb’s age, they were playing in garage bands, trying to break into the music scene. Or they were spending night after night playing dive bars and practicing their craft, and sleeping in the back of a panel van between gigs, and making just enough money for gasoline, beer and junk food. And knowing their commitment to their music, I suspect they were just fine with that.

In the Foos’ documentary “Back and Forth,” Dave says at one point that when the band performs in a big live venue, like Wembley Stadium, it’s important to him that the show is just as good to the folks up in the nosebleed seats as it is to the ones in the front row. In other words, if you’re a Foo Fighters fan, the guys want you to enjoy the show. It doesn’t matter how much you paid for the ticket, they’re just happy you came to the show.

It takes more than just talent to become an icon in the entertainment world.  If you want to last, or if you give a shit about earning anyone’s respect, or both, it also takes a healthy dose of humility. Any musician, or actor, or professional athlete would be wise to recognize and acknowledge that he has gotten where he is because there are thousands of regular working stiffs out there shelling out a piece of a paycheck to buy a ticket to seem him do his thing.

I’m pretty sure the Foo Fighters get this. Justin Bieber apparently doesn’t.

And so, Justin, I may not be your mother, but I am A mother, and when it comes to respect, humility and class, my kids would leave you in the dust. That’s how I raised them. So let me offer you some unsolicited advice:

In exchange for your mediocre singing ability and your mysterious appeal to pre-adolescent girls, you’ve been given the world on a silver platter. If you quit buying and wrecking sports cars and start investing wisely, you will likely be financially set for life. If you want to show your friends a good time, by all means do, but pay the bill when you’re done and leave a nice, generous tip. And then take some of that vast wealth and pay someone else’s tab too. Go to a nice restaurant and pay for the other patrons’ meals for a change. Don’t pee in the mop bucket. Use the restroom like the rest of us mere mortals.

Even better, how about you put some of your money to really good use and donate it? Instead of buying another exotic monkey, why don’t you write a check to your local humane animal shelter? Or a homeless shelter? Or a community food pantry? There are a zillion charitable organizations out there that could desperately use your excess cash. And you’ll never miss it.

Last, but certainly not least, be respectful of your fans. The life you’re living now is due to their generosity. You mean something to them, even if they mean nothing to you.

So behave yourself. Pull up your damn pants. Be grateful for your good fortune. Grow up.

And for God’s sake, stop behaving like a dick!

Starstruck

I’ve not had cause to mention this yet, but I actually had my very own brush with Foo Fighter greatness. Up close and personal.

But we’ll get to that… 

Wasting Light, the Foo Fighters’ most recent album, was released in the spring of 2011, and the band spent most of the next 18 months touring and promoting, both here in the U.S. and internationally. It was a grind of a schedule, and last fall they finally got off the road and went back home for some well-deserved rest. 

So, what do Foo Fighters do when they’re not on stage or in the studio being Foo Fighters?
Turns out, they do lots of the same stuff that normal mopes like you and me do when we have time off. They go on vacations with their families. They have hobbies and activities outside of music – drumming wonder Taylor Hawkins is a cycling enthusiast, specifically mountain biking, and Nate Mendel, the Foo’s extraordinary bassist, dabbles in writing - he contributes regularly to the band’s web/blog sites and he wrote a well-thought out contribution to last year’s “90 Days, 90 Reasons” website supporting President Obama’s re-election.

And there are lots of side projects involving music, just not Foo Fighters music, per se.  If I had my way, the band would release an album every year just to satisfy my desire for more of their music. But, hey, we all need a break from the job, even if it’s a job we love. I get this. And being the good Jewish mother that I am, I try to be supportive of all those side projects.  Which leads me to my Foo Fighter encounter.

One side gig is a country band, Chris Shiflett and the Dead Peasants. Chris is the Foo’s lead guitarist. His roots are in punk music, he plays a pretty mean rock and roll guitar, and even though I’m not a big fan of country music, I recognize his skill as a country western guitarist as well. Safe to say, if you needed a skilled shredder to play lead guitar in your genre band of choice, Chris would be your man.

So last March, when I found out he and the Peasants were going to be playing at a local watering hole/BBQ joint on a Sunday afternoon, I informed my husband that we would be in attendance.

At our house, especially now that it’s just the two of us, Sundays revolve around coffee, talking head news programs, and laundry. I’m not required to get out of my pajamas for any of these activities. Often, I don’t. I allow very little to intrude upon my Sundays, so an outing to chow down and hear live music was a big deal. Mark, my husband, was a little stunned by the suggestion (actually, it was more like an edict, as I recall!) but happy to tag along.

“What kind of music is this?” he asked.

“Who cares? It’s Chris Shiflett!”

While I was getting ready, he was tinkering around on the computer. As we were leaving the house, he presented me with a little plastic sleeve of business cards. They had my name and all my contact information on them, along with the title “Band Mother in Waiting.” And a Foo Fighter logo.

“If you’re going to meet a Foo Fighter, you need to be prepared,” he said.

To see what was the essence of my dream job, my life’s wish, spelled out in black and white on a business card stunned me. It was one thing to talk about it to a very small group of friends and family, and something else completely to see the idea, MY idea, expressed in writing. I admit, it rattled me.

I couldn’t imagine any circumstance that would prompt me to take one of those cards out of my pocket. It seemed so presumptuous. And a little creepy. Stalker-like, even. Definitely not how I wanted anyone to think of me. Especially not a real live Foo Fighter.

There was even a moment when I thought maybe we should just turn the car around so I could go home and put my pajamas back on and forget the whole thing.

But I had to go. It was Chris Shiflett! Chris. Fucking. Shiflett! And besides, I was hungry.

So we went. We had lunch. Sat out on the patio and enjoyed a lovely March afternoon – St. Patrick’s Day, in fact. Chris and his Dead Peasants arrived and proceeded to set up their equipment. Apparently, when you’re out on the road with your side band, and the side band isn’t as well-known as your primary band, you become your own crew of roadies. That was okay with me. It softened a little of that bright shiny stardom that I had anointed Chris with, and made him seem more like a regular guy.

If I had to classify their first album, I’d say the Dead Peasants are a country/rock hybrid band. But that Sunday, their sound was pure honky-tonk.  Most of the songs were covers of old country classics by legends like Faron Young, Merle Haggard, and Del Reeves. My husband was delighted – this was the music he’d grown up with!

After the show, when the band was breaking down their gear, I went up to meet Chris. I said the usual things you say to a star when you’re star-struck and groping for words – I love your work, I have all your albums, I think the Foo Fighters saved my life – yes, I actually did say that.  My friend Lynne took my picture with Chris. It’s a goofy picture. I was facing the sun and I didn’t have my sunglasses on, so I’m squinting like Mr. Magoo and grinning like a fool. But it’s me! With Chris. Fucking. Shiflett!

 

As we were leaving and chatting with him and the other band members, I had a moment of bravery and I said “Hey Chris, if you guys ever decide you need a cook, I’m ready to take the job.” He said that when the Foos travel internationally, the food service is pretty good, but here in the States, it’s hit or miss.

“That’s why you need me. Here, let me give you my card.” And I did.

If you’ve still got that card, Chris, give me a call. I owe you a pan of brownies. 

Chris Shiflett and the Dead Peasants’ second album, All Hat and No Cattle, is available July 30^th at record stores and e-music outlets everywhere.

The Paths We Choose

My 52^nd birthday rolled around recently. As a gift to myself, I ordered a half-dozen new CDs from Amazon.

Yes, I realize that it’s not necessary to have an actual CD on hand in order to listen to music nowadays – if you have an MP3 player or a smart phone which will hold and play music, you can download just about any song or album ever produced. And sometimes I do.

But I’m an old-fashioned consumer, I guess. I like to have a real CD, nestled safely in its little jewel case or cardboard box. Opening it is like opening an oyster and finding the pearl! I like to read the liner notes, because they provide all sorts of nuggets of important information.  Sometimes there are even song lyrics, so I don’t have to consult some lame-ass lyric website, which is just as likely to get the words wrong as I will myself. Still, downloading does have its advantages.

The main one being that it eliminates the process of extracting a CD case from the protective plastic wrapper, which poses more challenges to the average consumer than a rear-hook bra does to a fumbling adolescent boy making out with his girlfriend on the couch in the game room.

What kind of sick bastard came up with CD packaging? I understand the need for a security strip so you can’t stuff a dozen CDs in your purse or the pockets of your cargo shorts and then waltz out of Best Buy without paying. But once you’ve bought the damn thing, you need an engineering degree to get the package open. It’s not going on a space mission, for God’s sake!

If I buy a CD in an actual brick-and-mortar retail store, chances are I want to listen to it as soon as possible, like once I get to my car. After the loss-prevention issue has been eliminated, how much more protection does the CD need? I paid for the damn thing, but I can’t listen to it because I can’t OPEN IT!

Getting the plastic wrap off requires a sharp implement, which is why I keep a pocket knife in my glove compartment, and that’s not even the end of the process. Get that damned case unwrapped and you still have to pop the CD off the spindle without breaking it. Or a fingernail. Both of which I’ve done.

Sorry, I was ranting, wasn’t I? But it had to be said. CD packaging industry, are you listening??

Where was I? Right! Back to my birthday CDs…

There was a little of everything among my new treasures – an old favorite (Rush’s Permanent Waves) and a new band that intrigued me on a Letterman appearance (The Shins’ Port of Morrow). A new favorite band (Muse’s Black Holes and Revelations,) and a band I knew only by reputation (El Camino, by the Black Keys). Finally, there was Green Day’s American Idiot, and the brand new People, Hell and Angels, a collection of twelve never-released studio recordings from the legendary Jimi Hendrix. I heard a lot of Jimi growing up, but this was the first Hendrix album I had purchased for my expanding music collection. It won’t be the last.

When I buy a pair of shoes or a new shirt, I almost always know that I’m going to love it before I leave the store. Music is different for me, though. I have to listen to a new album three or four times before I know what I think of it; I have to try it on and wear it around for a while to make sure it fits me. Once I determine that it does, I like to intersperse it with old favorites. For this reason, my iPhone’s shuffle feature is my best friend. Pick a genre, any genre. Or an artist. Or try out the Genius mix feature. You get a little of everything. It’s pretty fucking amazing.

Anyway, save for my frenzied Foo Fighters CD extravaganza a few summers back, I normally purchase music more prudently. One new album a month, two at the most. So, to say that the birthday array was a little daunting is an understatement. I couldn’t decide where to start.

So I did what any normal denizen of the 21^st century would do – I sought advice from social media. I posted a photo of my CDs on my Facebook wall and asked what to listen to first. And of course, the answers were as varied as my friends.

“Muse, of course! Silly question!”

“We saw the Shins in Toronto last year, they were great!”

“Go with the Black Keys!”

“Hendrix, DUH!”

I got lots of input – my niece and grandniece were pushing hard for Green Day, and my ever-practical daughter suggested that I go in alphabetical order.

But in the end, I chose Rush. Permanent Waves was a staple of my early years in college, and decades later, when I began to understand that sometimes the lyrics from a particular song can have an influence on your life, I remembered a line from the song “Freewill” which had done so. In retrospect, it was this particular line that I had filed away, carried through my adulthood, and pulled out of long-term memory whenever I’d been faced with making a decision. 

“If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.” 

Why that line stuck with me so tenaciously, I can’t say. But it did. Not just in my college days but many times, from then until now. It reminded me that sometimes, we are forced to choose a path, even when we are scared to move, because not choosing just leaves us idling where we are. The paths we choose may not be exactly right, but moving forward is almost always better than just sitting still.

Sounds like my life. Maybe yours, too.

And remember what I said about those liner notes? They really are important. All these years I’ve given primary credit for “Freewill” to Rush front man Geddy Lee, so imagine my surprise to learn that the lyrics which nudged me along on so many occasions were written by drummer Neal Peart. 

I wonder if he likes fried chicken...

Turn That Fucker Up!!

Sooner or later someone will ask this question, so I’ve been pondering the answer in anticipation.  How did the Foo Fighters become the be-all and end-all band for me?

If you don’t know the Foo Fighters, you can Google them or check them out on Wikipedia.  They’re not new to the American music scene; in fact they’ve been around for nearly 20 years.  But in the spring of 2011, with the release of Wasting Light, they were new to me. 

After college, my rock and roll soul took a long vacation.  I spent most of my child-bearing years listening to Top 40 radio and lots of pop music (at least after my kids were old enough to stop listening to Raffi and the like.) People like Seal, Sting, Bryan Adams and Phil Collins. Terrific singers, all.  But once my kids hit their teen years, they protested my musical selections in the car, and we were always in the car.  They wanted to listen to THEIR music!  And honestly, I was getting a little restless, too.

Over the next few years, I took to digging around in their CD collections, looking for something that I thought might be intriguing.  I took a particular shine to Queens of the Stone Age.  I nicked two of their albums, Songs for the Deaf and Era Vulgaris, from my son’s room one day, with his permission – he had everything on an MP3 player. Nobody listens to actual CDs anymore, Mom.  Duh!

I loved QOTSA. I loved Josh Homme’s voice.  Loved the rhythm.  Cranked the volume as high as I could stand it.  What’s that saying? If it’s too loud, you’re too old? Not me, baby. Turn that fucker up!  And it was the Queens of the Stone Age, and Josh Homme’s side project, Them Crooked Vultures, that ultimately led me to the Foos.

While the Foo Fighters were busy releasing a new album that spring of 2011, I was fighting a strangely paralyzing combination of restlessness and depression.  I was in a state of melancholy.  I’d just been passed over for a promotion. My husband had recently taken a job which had him traveling 2 weeks of every month, and the constant separations were hard on me. My kids were around, but grown and doing their own things.  I felt gloomy and stuck and directionless.

Not knowing what to do, I did nothing.  But while I was doing nothing, I decided to find something new to listen to.  No new QOTSA. No new Vultures. Damn.  What next?

One slow day at work, in a desperate attempt to stay awake, I started watching live performance videos of the Vultures.  I’ve always had a burning desire to learn to play the drums, so when I watch musical performances, I watch the drummer. The guy behind the Vultures’ kit was a fearsome creature who had the most magnificent mane of shaggy hair I’d ever seen. My CD case told me this was Dave Grohl. I was mesmerized.  I Googled him.

Drummer for Nirvana? I knew who Nirvana was. Guest drummer on Songs for the Deaf? I loved that album! Founder and front man of the Foo Fighters?  Wait…who? And really, the drummer sings? Well, Phil Collins did it with Genesis. Might be worth a listen. It wasn’t like I had anything better to do.

I found a YouTube video of the Foo Fighters performing on The Late Show. The drummer was not Dave Grohl – Dave was out front with a guitar, in fact. They performed “Rope,” and I was impressed enough to buy their new album the next day.  I listened to it several times in a row. And then over and over again.

The following week I went to Best Buy and bought every Foo Fighters CD they had.  What they didn’t have, I ordered online.  Eight albums total – seven studio albums and a live acoustic concert they had performed in L.A.  For the next few months, I immersed myself in Foo Fighters music.  I listened every day. I learned every song, every note. And inexplicably, while I was listening, the fog around me began to lift. I started to feel better.

I was still alone frequently, but that was okay, because the Foo Fighters were filling that space with music.  Just hearing them made me feel less lonely. After a while, the promotion I’d missed out on didn’t seem to matter much. I started thinking maybe it was time to look in other directions, and that maybe I should start working on my master’s degree.

I’d considered it several times before, but always shied away because I was so fucking intimidated by the idea of taking the GRE.  But this time, for some reason, I wasn’t so freaked out anymore. I bought a few study guides. I read through the math sections several times. I picked a test date and registered for it, and I enrolled in grad school on a provisional basis, so I could take a few classes and get my feet wet. I did all of this while listening to the Foo Fighters.

Their music gave me hope. And confidence. And courage, I suppose. I was becoming a braver, stronger, more bad-ass version of myself.  I was still me, just with a brand new set of brass balls!  I took and passed the GRE. My math score was not great, but it was enough to be accepted into grad school as a ‘degree-seeking’ student.

As a present to myself for completing my first 6 hours of school, I started a sleeve on my right arm.  I have other tats, but the idea of a sleeve was always daunting to the old me. No more, though. New and improved me was ready. 18 hours of chair time.  I gritted my teeth, practiced deep breathing and listened to my band through all of them. My sleeve is a depiction of the solar system with a fierce purple dragon woven between the planets. Oh, and Mars is a Foo Fighters logo.

So, here we are, a blog post later, and I still haven’t answered the question.

Why the Foos?

I don’t know.

I wondered for a long time, but finally decided ‘why’ didn’t matter. Some things you just learn not to question.

But something clicked. Five guys that I don’t know, who’ve been making rock music together for nearly two decades, touched a chord in me.  They brought me back from a dark place.  Maybe there was a void in my soul, and the only thing that fit there was Foo Fighters music.  Again, I don’t know. But I do know this.

They triggered a profound change in me.  And I’m pretty sure they saved my life.

"In Your Honor, I Will Fry Tonight"

Independence Day. The 4^th of July. The jewel in the crown of summer holidays. 

When you hear these words, you probably think of fireworks, parades, or the Founding Fathers.

Mention this event to my family, however, and I assure you, their first thoughts will conjure up this patriotic image: a heaping platter of fried chicken. 

This particular association began with my mother, who offered to fix it for the 4^th of July about 20 years ago, and taught me the process at that time.  It was so well received that we made it a holiday tradition.  As a rule, we don’t fry food often at our house (all that nasty cholesterol business, ya know), but on the 4^th, we make an exception. 

Mom handled frying duty for many years, and I would assist when called upon, but when the torch got passed a few years ago, my husband took over for her.  For this reason, I’d never taken on the role of lead fry cook.  But this year, as the holiday neared, I told him I needed to fly solo on chicken duty.  Here’s why: 

A few months ago, I read an AMA (ask me anything) with Dave Grohl on some social media outlet – Reddit, maybe – and someone asked him what his favorite food is. His response?  “Fried fucking chicken.” 

Until that moment, I had no idea what any of the five Foos liked to eat, save for the general guidelines I’d been able to glean from the tour rider. Yet, here was my first nugget of valuable food information.  It wasn’t much, but it was a start to my Foo Fighters culinary education. 

“Fried fucking chicken.”  I read that and became nearly giddy with joy! It had been a while, but I could fry chicken! I just needed to practice. 

Now, just so there is no confusion about me and my skills in the kitchen, let me state unequivocally that I am NOT now, nor have I ever been, a chef. I’m just a cook. A highly competent cook, but a cook, nonetheless. 

I’ve had no formal cooking instruction.  I don’t create 4-star restaurant-quality meals with reduction sauces and chiffonades, and then serve them on a domed plate with a sprig of parsley or a rosemary leaf as garnish.  Not that I couldn’t, if I had to, but it’s just not how I roll. 

I don’t wear chef’s whites and scream obscenities at people in my kitchen. I will admit to having a nearly uncontrollable urge to scream obscenities at the people who hover uselessly in my kitchen during a family gathering, but that’s just because they’re impeding progress. 

I don’t liken myself to Julia Child or Wolfgang Puck or Gordon Ramsay. I’m just a Jewish mother who knows how to feed people.  And feeding people fulfills some deep need in me. It could just be part and parcel of motherhood, but in my case, I suspect it was just ingrained in me by the women who raised me. 

I’m a good technician in the kitchen. I’m not big on fixing complex dishes. What I fix is not fancy, but it tastes good and it’s filling and you’ll never leave my table hungry. That’s a promise. 

Now, back to the fried fucking chicken… 

At the start of the process, my husband showed me the optimal level and temperature for the oil in the skillet, handed me a couple of brown paper grocery sacks for the dredging process, and graciously retreated to his office.  This was to be my first solo attempt, after all. He would direct from afar if necessary, but this was my show.  If fried chicken was important to Dave Grohl, I needed to be able to deliver it. 

Good fried chicken starts with diligent prep work, which is critical.  I’m not going to explain my whole process here (c’mon! I have to keep some things close to the vest), but I’ll tell you that the first step is skinning the chicken.  Some people balk at this step.  Skin the chicken first?? But that’s sacrilege!! How can you have good, crispy chicken, they ask, if you take off the skin? 

The trick is in the battering process, which is the heart of careful prep work. I decided to double batter my chicken, deviating slightly from the original method my mom taught me.  It was a good move, and resulted in a thick, crunchy, delicious crust.  Get the crust right and you’ll never miss that nasty, fatty skin. 

Frying chicken is not a quickie endeavor. If you’re going to cook for a crowd, you need to plan on spending the day in the kitchen. Wear comfortable shoes or you’ll be feeling it later. Expect the kitchen to get messy, because it will. This is not just a main dish, it’s a labor of love. But it’s worth it. 

So, how did I do on my first solo attempt?  I’m happy to report that I prepared a magnificent batch of fried chicken. It was delicious - browned to perfection, crispy and subtly seasoned. I couldn’t have been more pleased with my work. 

And in light of this landmark culinary victory, I have a message for Dave and the rest of the band: 

Dave, if fried chicken is what you desire, I will be delighted and honored to provide it. And as soon as I know what the rest of the band wants to eat, I’ll fire up the oven and make it happen. 

After all, I live to serve.