If I were to assign a letter grade for my performance at the dining table, the four days I was at Reggae on the River, I would have earned a solid “D.” Even with the best planning in the universe, I did a bad job of keeping myself fueled.
I was prepared, I could access my ice chest at almost all times, but the reality is that I would simply forget to stop and fuel up. If that sounds like a little kid on holiday, then I guess I will have to accept that, but it’s no different at home. Mania will do that to a guy.
Despite the fact that there was a vast array of choice within the bowl, with more than twenty vendors serving lunch and dinner, I know it will come as a revelation that I brought my own. Not only did I ensure that there was no one else to blame if matters went awry, I also guaranteed that I could eat whenever I felt so inclined.
My first ROTR, in 2015, I took advantage of breakfast in the very kitchen that I repped. It was fresh, organic and tasty, and I combined my pleasure in dining, with that of a little business: charging my electronics. With our relocation in 2016, across the 101 to the campground behind the hippie gas station, we now have power to the people from the chapel, alongside which we are camped.
I no longer have to arrive at the kitchen when it first opens, in order to claim one of the half-dozen electrical outlets. Any port in a storm, you know? With all factors being considered, I decided to go with an out-of-ice chest experience.
|Table for one, please.|
Last year I roasted a chicken before I left for ROTR, stripped it off the carcass, and packed it on ice, along with a container of rice. I packed fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, peeled, hard-boiled eggs, already-baked bacon, and an assortment of chips and nuts. I also packed a bag of Snickers candy bars, the little bite-sized ones.
This year, the first time I walked into the hippie gas station to get ice and double-A batteries, I fully intended to indulge in some chocolate. I spaced it out and afterwards, marveled at that turn of events. I was so enamored with the thought of trying ROTR without sugar, that I formed the resolve to never yield to temptation, this year at least.
My food agenda all flowed well enough last year, except I got tired of cold chicken a bit faster than I might have thought, so this year I decided to keep on exploring. I couldn't improve on bacon and eggs for breakfast, with a sliced tomato and a banana, so that took care of the mornings.
I bought a small package of organic, skinless chicken fillets, and roasted them in the wee hours prior to leaving on Thursday morning. I used a mustard sauce to season it, that Gluten-Free Mama was sweet enough to have prepared for me on Wednesday night.
Finally, to ensure there was no gappage, my sweetest of apple blossoms hooked me up with a pair of sandwiches that couldn’t be beat. Those sandwiches were a life saver when I rolled into the venue on Thursday, and was immediately shanghaied by Bull, and chained to the grindstone.
When I got hungry, at least I was able to wolf down a ham and cheese on rye arrangement, that inserted a new outlook on life within me, and got me through an unexpected foray into the world of work. I don’t mind work, in and of itself, unless I am expecting vacay instead.
Bread for the sandwiches was a huge concession because I stopped eating it a few years ago, except on rare occasions. As much as I love sourdough, I found myself using it as a go-to in the past, far too often, and at the same time I saw my stomach go-to pot.
When I stopped eating all forms of bread-cold turkey-I found myself losing an average around of two pounds per month, for 24 months, almost fifty pounds of bread basket goodness, with absolutely no additional effort on my part.
Whether it was adrenaline, logistics, the heat, my mania, the timing of the music, or any of a variety of other reasons, I ended up eating my breakfast of bacon/eggs/tomatoes/banana on Friday morning, but nothing else except the second sandwich that GF Mama had fixed for me, during my 16-hour day.
|I used the Coleman stove to make lattes.|
Saturday was worse because besides breakfast, the only thing I ate was one slice of rye bread, with a piece of chicken breast crammed into it. I wolfed it down as I hot-footed it out of camp after deciding that I would pass on the J Boog experience.
The artist and his band were dining with us due to connections with the Hawaiian contingency in our campsite. Us became them as I gazed out over a sea of unfamiliar faces, upon cruising into camp, and therefore, I never stopped. I merely paused at my tent to grab the half-sandwich, sans mustard, and carried on.
Sunday found me consuming the one meal that I consistently managed to eat, my eggs and bacon. I brought home unused lunchmeat, chicken, a couple of eggs, some bacon, and almost all the chips, peanuts and snacks I had thought to pack.
It’s neither good nor bad-it just is.
Why am I not interested the food booths? Ninety-nine percent of it is the lines. If you are over there early, then no problem, but early is when I was still full from breakfast. Later, it’s a matter of luck, but if I really am hungry, and then have to stand in line, I can’t do it.
Can’t, won’t, whatever.
Taking the uncertainty out of eating was my one goal, and in that regard, I scored an”A.” You can’t win them all, but as long as no one breaks the bat over my head, I am good to go.
And oh yeah, sugar-wise, HeadSodBuster bought me the best tasting root beer float, Saturday night, that I have ever had, but that's still not chocolate.