When I Dip, You Dip, We Dip

I love my roots.  I love where I came from and how that past contributed to the person I've becom.  I even love my hometown.  My favorite view of it comes from my rear view mirror. 

I knew from a very early age that I needed to get out of there.  This knowledge probably stems from my mom regularly telling me that I needed to get good grades so that I could get a scholarship because we were poor.

8-year-old me pulling an all-nighter before a spelling quiz.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to take everyone I love with me.  That means I have to drive back to Centralia, IL on an almost monthly basis.  While my father and I have a strained relationship, he has made this list and, through association, so has his girlfriend and her children.  I attended grade school and high school with them.  We’ve always been a part of one another’s lives.

These people are a mess, so I clearly get them.  Last Thanksgiving, they decided not to invite many people and were able to host in my dad’s single-wide trailer.  There were two types of turkey (smoked for Rhonda (the girlfriend who is now my stepmother) and roasted for pretty much everyone else) and all of the usual suspects of sides.  My stepmom even made bacon-wrapped asparagus.  It was awesome!

Having grown up in Southern Illinois, though, I always expect one appetizer at holiday dinners: pickle wraps.  They’re basically slices of ham smeared with cream cheese and then wrapped around dill pickles ham-side out.  Once sliced into bite-size pieces, they look like pupil-less green eyes.  They’re both repulsive and delicious.  I blame my sodium deficiency.

White trash caviar

I looked all around for them, but didn't ask because I didn't want to accidentally spark a conversation. I’m the only extrovert in my biological family, but Rhonda’s kiddos know how to small talk, especially about things that matter in their own microcosm of the world.  They’re not entirely self-centered, though.  Each and every one of them asked where my partner at the time was.  He had never attended a Garland Thanksgiving.  He always went home for that holiday and came with me on Christmas.  Still, they never failed to ask.  I've yet to decide whether I appreciate or hate that fact.

Despite my carefully toeing the landmines of actual conversation, I, nevertheless, was pressed to try a new dip.  It was in a bowl the size of which I would associate with holding an entire bag of microwave popcorn or vomit (avoid popcorn bowls in my house).  For dip and the number of people in attendance, the serving seemed superfluous.  The medium was white and suspended in it were pink and green chunks of indiscernible flora and fauna.

As I spread the mystery dip onto a cracker and had it nearly to my mouth, I asked, “What is it?”  I didn't consider this a bold or adventurous move.  Most of the food my family makes is fairly bland.  Eating strange animals hasn't been an issue for me outside of the one time my dad mentioned “bullet cat stew.” (I’m still hoping he was kidding, but he swears a recipe is floating around his house (trailer) somewhere.) Saltiness was the only flavor profile they hit hard, and that wasn't a problem for me.

The cracker was already in my mouth when my “sister” said, “It’s pickle wrap dip!”

NOT TODAY, SATAN.  NOT TODAY!

This is as good a time as any to explain my stepsister, Sam.  She is almost the exact same age as I.  We were in the same grade, but we didn't really take the same classes or like one another.  Then, our parents started dating and suddenly I was “brother.”  Growing up in Centralia, I knew when to take my lumps.  I returned the favor and we've gotten along ever since.  She’s especially easy to like considering the way my father treats her.  I’ll take his indifference to the constant barrage of insults he tosses her way any day.

Sam stayed at my dad’s house (trailer) for about a year after she developed some disease I never cared to remember.  The symptom was fainting?  Insomnia? Celiac disease?  Regardless, she was there.  When my brother and his family made one of his biennial visits, my father and stepmother insisted they spend at least one night with them.  They were staying at my mom’s with me while she stayed at my “stepdad’s” place around the block.

Sam's doctor, I'm assuming

The only way Shawn, his wife and his daughter could stay at the lake, though, was for Sam to hit the bricks.  In an effort not to make Shawn and co. feel like they were kicking her out and bail out of guilt, though, my father did the honors himself.  Everything Sam owned, including her toiletries, were moved to the unfinished house my dad stopped working on when I was four years old.  Since my father also hosted a barbecue that evening, we all got to hear this first-hand from Sam herself.

Thankfully, her boyfriend at the time brought a tent and sleeping bags (along with his four children from a previous relationship) since it was going to be thirty-three degrees outside that night.  In the end, my father’s stratagem proved successful. Shawn and his wife felt so much responsibility that they HAD to stay in the trailer.

I felt bad for Sam after that…until I ate the dip she invented.  Now, I totally get it.  That fainting, not-sleeping, gluten-fearing jerk had it coming.

She turned pickle wraps into a dip!   And it was…awful.  She used a combination of dill and bread and butter pickles (Note: In no way am I claiming that using only dill would have made this dip edible).  I shame-swallowed this monstrosity in my mouth and quickly fled the table devoted solely to one of the worst things I've ever allowed past my teeth.  When asked, I politely effused over how happy I was that something so good was made into a dip.

My niece and I spent the rest of the night in a horrified silence normally reserved for people who dress up in pirate costumes for a pirate-themed wedding only to find that they are, in fact, the only ones who assumed costumes were part of the theme.

The struggle is real.  Let your guests know in no uncertain terms whether or not you want them to dress up for your wedding that has a ridiculous theme.