#102 Food Subterfuge. And Why I Don't Want A Book Deal.

I’m not proud of myself.

But yes, I did, indeed, do this.

To make matters worse, I was not an invited guest to the fancy dinner.

I was, in fact, “the entertainment” for the evening, spending most of the night sitting in the corner playing background music and attempting to look as sophisticated as people who play the harp are expected to look.

(Actually, calling myself the entertainment is elevating things a tad. From the point of view of the hostess, I was a member of “the help”. Which means an even higher level of scrutiny if you commit the sort of faux pas I was about to commit.)

While on a short break between sets, I was given the go ahead to sample the ritzy buffet and I tucked right in.

Almost immediately disaster struck.

There’s just about nothing I like better than a stuffed mushroom cap so, without taking a beat to be delicate, or cut it up with a fork or anything, I popped it right into my mouth.

Bad move.

If I had taken that extra moment I might have discovered that said mushroom was filled with some of the strongest, stinkiest, “bleu”est, cheese I’ve ever encountered.

I froze.

And began looking about for a discreet option for disposal. Preferably a bathroom.

But the party was in a private home. Not only did I have no idea where the facilities might be located, with my mouth still full of my mistake, I could not ask anyone.

“Trash can. Trash can. My kingdom for a trash can.”

No such luck.

With my gag reflex threatening to make the situation even more embarrassing, I remembered the large potted plant situated in that corner next to my harp.

Which gave me cover to casually sit back down, pretend to root for something in my gig bag, and quickly spit the mess into the back of the pot.

To be discovered, who knows when, by some poor cleaning lady.

So, on the long list of my sins we can add violating a fern.

I’m hoping the sentence for that one is light.

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Copyright© 2025 Anne Morse Hambrock All rights reserved.

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More Food Concealments…

A confession from an ignoble past.

Our story begins in 1972 in a kitchen which, due to factors both economic and cultural, is short on fresh fruits and vegetables.

As we join the dinner in progress, we see a pot coming to the table. Containing a staple of the 1970's and the crux of our story.

Frozen Mixed Vegetables.

Frozen Mixed Vegetables With Lima Beans.

I don't know whose brilliant idea it was to take a perfectly good bag of peas, corn kernels and diced carrots and muck it up with lima beans.

Because the thing about lima beans, the BIG thing about lima beans, is that their flavor falls into a category - along with coffee and cabbage - that overpowers any and every other ingredient with which they keep company.

And there are some of us (guess who) who have a very sensitive gag reflex. So sensitive that even a hint of lima bean - even the aroma of a lima bean - spurs us to upchuck.

Now, we may not have had Frozen Mixed Vegetables With Lima Beans every single night for dinner - I mean, how could we have had them every single night - but, in my memory, we did.

There came a point at which my sister and I decided that we had choked down our last lima bean.

From then on, dinner became a sort of chess match between us and our parents. We won, not only by not eating the dreaded lima beans, but by convincing them that we had.

Gambit number one (and my personal favorite) was invented by my sister. It was easy and almost foolproof.

You simply put the lima beans into your mouth, pretended to eat them, and then took a drink of milk. You then waited for a moment when the parents were suitably distracted and spit the offending legumes into the glass of milk. Where they drifted down to the bottom and waited for dish clearing time.

Success depended on two things.

First, not exceeding the milk glass's capacity to conceal the addition (the average glass was good for about 9 beans before they would start to show at the edges) and, secondly, you had to be allowed to clear your own dishes and wash the whole mess into the garbage disposal before anyone noticed.

Gambit two was the hardest. It involved sleight of hand, timing and luck.

Sleight of hand in that you had to get the lima beans into your hand without anyone noticing.

Timing in that you had only a narrow window of opportunity to get them down to where the dog was waiting.

And luck in that you had to hope that the dog by your feet - there were two - was the one who would actually eat a lima bean.

If you got the other dog, the lima bean hater, you were not only out of luck, but also usually caught, as the dog would take the proffered bean, make a sort of smacking sound while he diagnosed its edibility, and then a spitting sound as he ejected it.

Gambit three depended upon the parents losing patience with your refusal to eat your vegetables and leaving the room while grounding you to the table.

Once you were alone in the room, it was a matter of stealth.

The goal was to get the unwanted vegetables back into the serving pot which involved leaving the oak kitchen chair, (which squeaked) tiptoeing across the wooden floor, (which also squeaked) getting the lid off the pot (which clanked) and back on again (another clank), and getting back to your place at the table where you could call out musically "I'm finished...."

If you were quiet enough and convincing enough, they would buy it.

Gambit four was the easiest but also brought the harshest consequence when you were ultimately caught.

Our dinner table was one of those antique oak affairs that could be opened up to add wooden table leaves, thus expanding it for guests.

Which meant that underneath the table was a warren of nooks and crannies into which you could insert unwanted food.

As with gambit two, sleight of hand skills were required. (You also had to be sitting near a spot with an opening, which wasn't always possible.)

An advantage to this approach was the delay of punishment.

One tended only to get caught when, two or three times a year, the table got opened for company.

At which time, a multitude of desiccated vegetables, dried up breadcrusts (another unpopular item around our house - we would eat the centers out of our sandwiches but then stash the crusts in the table) and other now completely unrecognizable food items would spill out onto the floor.

When that happened, you hoped you had the good fortune to be elsewhere because the parental wrath was high and the punishment rarely extended beyond whichever child happened to be in the room.

At some point, lima beans stopped showing up at dinner. I'm not really sure when it was. It may have coincided with my mother going back to work and family dinners becoming more of a rarity.

Or maybe she just got tired of the chess match.

Or maybe she wanted to - just once - open that table up without dealing with moldy bits of food.

I've never had the nerve to ask.....

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On The Way

Probably only a week or two now…

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Why I Don’t Want A Book Deal

Last week, as I prepared to publish, I got an email notification that a Substack live video was happening about using Substack to get an agent, a book deal, fame, fortune, etc.

So I stopped what I was doing and listened for about an hour. After all, who doesn’t want fame and fortune?

I learned a lot.

I also left the session understanding something new about myself.

I don’t want an agent.

And I don’t want a book deal.

Once upon a time I was thiiiiiiis close to having both.

I decided not to sign with the agent after reading her contract that had an awful lot of percentages given to her “in perpetuity”.

There was also the small matter of her not understanding truly what I am doing – she thought I should be marketing my book to Christian publishers. After having been called a blasphemer (and worse) by some highly religious folks who had nothing better to do than troll me on social media, I’m pretty sure a Christian company is not going to be a fan of my work. Nor I of theirs.

I was super excited for the book deal with the big publisher, who DID seem to get where I was coming from and that my work is really a gift book. I’ve spent the ensuing years regretting the “deal that got away”.

But now I think maybe I dodged a bullet.

Because it turns out publishers want super exclusive rights to everything, and I mean everything, you will ever do with your writing.

Let me say that again with emphasis – they want super exclusive RIGHTS.

Let that sink in.

Not just a percentage but the rights to all your work. Including all incarnations beyond print.

Suddenly they are the ones in control.

Which means not only that they can lift you up but also that they can keep you down. They can do a bad job of marketing your book, blame you for its lack of success, and then stick it on their “backlist” to die a slow death. (Look up this business of the back list – I promise you it’s an education.)

I started Anne & God stuff 10 years ago with no real idea of where to take things. People told me I should collect my work into books so I did. Someone else’s agent took the time to look at my first book and pointed out that, with the harp and the humor and the pathos I had the makings of a really wonderful one woman show. So, after the book deal fell through, I self-published and worked up a stage presentation. Over the years I added a newsletter and wound up here.

Where I think, probably in the back of my mind somewhere, was the hope that my writing would attract an agent, get on the radar of a publisher, etc.

No more.

The best thing that came out of listening to the session last week was that I learned I’m absolutely fine with just doing my live shows and selling books to the folks who turn up and like what I’m doing. Self-publishing lets me not only own my work but I own my life and my schedule. And can take this journey anywhere I wish.

And I like that.