Whenever my mother would open a new jar of peanut butter, she would always call for my brother and me to have a “dip” before she made our sandwiches (or whatever it was that she was preparing).
A “dip,” in this case, referred to our family practice of sticking our pinkie fingers into the fresh, smooth surface of the peanut butter… after we’d washed our hands, of course. There was something very satisfying about it, in a way that made it seem like licking our fingers clean was almost entirely an afterthought (rather than being the actual purpose of the practice). Truth be told, my brother and I were a little bit too fanatical about the routine, to the point where we’d actually discuss it (sometimes at great length) whenever we became aware that our current jar of peanut butter was running low.
Now, I mistakenly thought that everyone “dipped” into their sandwich spread when presented with the opportunity. Needless to say, that wasn’t the case. This realization wound up causing me a rather profound sense of shock when my friend Alex’s mother took it upon herself to make lunch for her son and me one afternoon. I watched with rapt anticipation as she opened the jar of peanut butter, removed the freshness seal… and then completely skipped asking for the assembled children to dip into it.
“What are you doing?!” I shrieked, seeing the woman’s knife pierce the peanut butter’s surface.
She turned to look at me, obviously concerned. “What’s wrong, Max? Is everything okay?”
“You… we…” I stammered, unable to get the words out. “We didn’t dip!”
The woman’s worry quickly gave way to confusion. “‘Dip?'” she repeated. “What do you mean?”
I did my best to describe the concept, but my five-year-old brain was already preoccupied with a sense of mild panic. I was eventually invited to demonstrate, but I steadfastly refused. After all, the peanut butter had already been violated by the butter knife, thus rendering the entire exercise pointless. While I did manage to explain – several minutes later – what the dipping routine was supposed to involve, the situation was almost too much for my tiny brain to comprehend. Some people, it seemed, simply did not dip. Were they barbarians? Didn’t they understand that dipping was absolutely essential?
Or… or was it?
The next time that my mother opened a jar of peanut butter, I responded to her summons like I always did. Upon arriving, though, I held my hand back and looked her in the eye.
“You know, Mom,” I said, “some people don’t dip their peanut butter.”
She was less shocked than I had been.
TL;DR: My friend’s mother violated a jar of peanut butter before I could finger it.