Last night I dreamed about double dipping. Seriously. There were other things in there too – a dance rehearsal (I don’t dance); an impromptu dramatic performance (I can’t act); Donald Trump playing basketball (his hair was, in fact, a wig, & I pinched it; he didn’t seem to mind); and an old friend with a hangover trying to arrange a formal dinner – but the double dipping thing was the standout.
There was a kind of celebration going on, in an enormous hall with odd, undulating walls of knobbly concrete propped up by wooden scaffolding. It was dim, and the single, quite beautiful chandelier failed to light the furthest reaches of the hall. There were mounds of food laid out on trestle tables scattered within the glow created by the chandelier. Some of the trestles were covered in semi-translucent white paper cloths; others were bare.
On one table was a bowl of green dip, accompanied by long shards of crispy flatbread. This dip was, in dreamspace, my favourite dip. I snapped one of the flatbread shards into smaller pieces and dipped one. A group gathered. The women broke their shards into smaller pieces; the men didn’t. The men dipped and munched. I dipped my second piece & the man to my left cried out in protest that I was double dipping.
Everyone stopped, some of us with our hands in mid-dip. Then one of the women patiently explained, with accompanying actions, that breaking a shard into smaller pieces, and then dipping each smaller piece only once, did not constitute double dipping.
The man protested, against a general background of approving rumbles from the other menfolk, that it was unfair, as he only got to dip once. We pointed out that he could break his shard just down from where he’d bitten into it and dip again, but he continued to argue that we who had broken before dipping had the advantage, and in any case our broken pieces carried germs from our fingers into the dip, and our fingers had been licked because there were no napkins, and that meant we were still, in effect, double dipping. Meanwhile, people were accidentally dropping bits of flatbread into the dip and then fishing them out with their (presumably licked) fingers.
The dream kind of drizzled away after that – or at least, I don’t remember what happened next. I woke with the double dipping argument and its accompanying anxiety impressed strongly on my mind, along, it must be said, with the texture of Trump’s wig (fine and silky, like cobweb minus the stickiness).
The green dip was not, by the way, avocado or pea or pesto. I knew what it was, asleep, but awake, I haven’t the slightest idea.