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.

There's a Reason The Empire Theme Plays When You Call

My mother has finally figured out how to send text messages.  Despite the fact that she still has unlimited text messaging from when I was on her plan, she tries her hardest to economize her messages.  This seems like a natural inclination while texting, but she manages to do so in a way that actually defies one of the tacit rules therein.

Most texts you receive have one topic.  For instance, “Where are we eating tonight? What time do you want me there?  Are we doing anything afterward?” This message asks three questions, but they’re all related to a central topic.

My mother, on the other hand, learned to text on Htrae.  Here is an actual text I’ve received from her:  “Hello son. I hope your week is going well. Grandma is in the hospital again.  Let me know when I can send in your car payment.” Nothing can prepare you for such a text.   It's almost as if she's worried about running up the bill by breaking up her thoughts in an organic way.  Not counting the greeting, there are three separate topics in this message. I’ll break down each one so that you can better understand the punch such a message packs.

Hello son.

My family has a quirk shared with many others in that we refer to one another by our relationship to one another.  It isn’t odd for a child to refer to his/her parents as “Mom” and “Dad,” and most nieces and nephews refer their aunts/uncles as “Aunt/Uncle So-and-So.”  My family, however, takes it a step further. My parents call me “Son.” I call my brother “Brother.” My uncle Jeff is simply “Uncle.” The only relationship where this isn’t the case is the uncle/aunt-to-niece/nephew title.  My aunts and uncles all refer to me as Stephen (or Stevie).

Upon witnessing this for the first time, most people just assume my parents are reacting sarcastically to getting called outside of their given names or something. Or they think my brother and I are just quoting Arrested Development. That one is actually kind of true. I've certainly adopted Buster's affect whenever I greet my brother. Still, just know that names are only important in my family if the relationship alone isn't specific enough to convey information.

I hope your week is going well.

I try to talk to my mom at least once a week.  I rarely initiate the conversation, but if I miss a call, I’ll generally return it unless it’s the fourth or fifth I’ve received that day.  A week is an arbitrary amount of time that I’ve decided is long enough to not feel smothered, and short enough to show affection and respect.  This was my mom’s way of reminding me that I hadn’t called her yet this week.

In my defense, it isn’t always easy to call her. Parents of my generation who live in small tows have a tendency to respond to Empty Nest Syndrome by becoming hometown newscasters.  This can be entertaining on occasion, especially when someone with whom I attended high school ends up in the newspaper for illicit activities. Unfortunately, more often than not, I’ll find out about the deaths of relatives of people I hardly knew.  Today, for instance, I learned of a doctor’s son who died of an overdose. This was only relevant to me because he had another son who committed suicide six years ago. I did not know either son, which means my mom has decided all suicides are relevant to my life due to my oldest brother’s suicide eleven years ago.  Hopefully, you can see why I don’t jump at the chance to call my mother more often to play Six Degrees of Lachrymosity.

This also changed with time.  Eventually, we started bonding over mutual interests like cooking and gardening.  Recently, we met at a BBQ restaurant and had some of the best potato salad I’ve ever eaten.  We agreed on that fact and then spent about 15 minutes trying to figure out what went into it. By the next morning, she had sent me two different links to recipes confirming what we had guessed.  It’s kind of like a game except it normally just makes whoever is eating with us very nervous and quiet.

Grandma is in the hospital again.

My grandma has been having back problems for several years.  Two years ago, she fell and hurt her back and spent several months in the hospital and the nursing home.  She was eventually able to come back, but whenever she feels neglected, she’ll pull out the paperwork and threaten to sign herself in.  She’s the only person I know who on occasion wants to live in a facility that smells so strongly of urine. This message was a request for me to call my grandma and then come home and visit her over the weekend.

Let me know when I can send in your car payment.

At this point, my mom had one of my checkbooks and was sending in the payment for me at the beginning of every month.  I was only subbing during this time, so sometimes the payment would need to wait a few days until the next paycheck. This message, however, was actually how she sealed the deal in terms of me calling her.  It was always easier to just tell her which day to send the payment and explain my reasoning over the phone rather than receive a barrage of questions (and most likely more upsetting information). The woman knows what she’s doing.

Hopefully my mom will learn to break up these meaning-laden texts, but until then, I'm happy to share them with all willing listeners.