On Dips

And why I love yogurt so freakin' much.

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Whether as an inheritance from my grandmothers, both relentlessly gracious hostesses, or as a result of some sort of learned manic behavior, I cannot stand when people arrive at my house to an empty table. There must be, at the very least, a carb, a dip, and some fresh veggies. Maybe a snack mix! Ideally a thoughtfully-chosen wine. Some good olives if they’ll appreciate them. But a dip is a non-negotiable.

Big dip energy.

A dip, to me, indicates that something about our gathering is a little bit special. After all, dips are not something I put out on any old weeknight. Dips are for carrots that I have cut into beautiful shapes instead of gnawing on them whole like Bugs. Dips are for cocktail napkins instead of torn-up paper towels. Dips create an air of occasion, a special little je ne sais quoi, a slight “how do I eat this gracefully” sort of panic until our guests see that in this house, we all dip together into the same bowl.

All of this says to my guests: you are here in my home, and that occasion is special enough to be celebrated with a condiment that I thought about and made ahead of time just for you, a person with whom I do not mind sharing the amount of germs we will exchange in this bowl of not-quite-liquid stuff. Are dips my love language? It appears they are.