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Dip. That one three-letter word makes me so irrationally happy. It makes me forget that I’m a ginormous ball of stress trying to juggle three different jobs and a baby without all the balls (and the baby) coming crashing down on me. To me, dip is like a cool, creamy pool of relaxation and meditation. It’s the bartender at my favorite bar who listens to all my problems. It’s where I go when I need to turn my frown upside down….and other clichés.
If you’re thinking I have an unhealthy relationship with dip you’re probably, OKAY, DEFINITELY, right. Dip is not something that can be portioned out (unless you’re using a tortilla cone). It must be served in a big bowl with an endless bottom so that you can repetitively and mindlessly dip your chip over and over. Dip knows no bounds and my already wavering self-control pretty disintegrates into a pile of dust when in its presence. Hence (yes, we’re hence-ing today) why I only invite dip over on special occasions and holidays.