Veggie Dip - Gluten-Free and Vegan

Such a good dip. Seriously.

Living rootless is a mixed gift bag. There are no neighbors who know my history, or my family. Or even my name (unless they happened to glance by accident at the removable punch-label on our mailbox that sports our shared surname, one half of the story). I have no garden to weed. No leaves to rake. No fence to paint. I walk the city block unnoticed (flirting with invisible) in frayed men's Levi's and a four-year old sweatshirt. I do not mind the anonymity. I find it kind. It suits me. Like my faded Converse One Stars.

Craving attention- for me- is like craving bacon ice cream or hot dog stuffed pizza crust or fried chicken in buckets. I simply do not. It's innate. I just don't have an appetite for it. I practiced it endured it in childhood when necessary (for survival). Growing up can be excruciating if dropped into the nest of an extroverted party giver. Performance anxiety will indeed tongue-tie an observant three year old who already understands on some unspoken secret level that the push toward the spotlight is not about her, it's all about the pusher.

So I've never been prone to elevate the art of competition or believe in the religion of winners and losers. Keeping score or handing out awards is as unpleasant to me as sniffing haggis. Competition (when viewed up close and personal) is mental illness. The vigilant urge to be Number 1 or the beeline drive toward fame is a symptom. You can cloak it in a "pursuit of excellence" all you want. It's all an illusion with no more meaning than a pink slime infused wiener-stuffed gob of dough baked with cheese. Time will prove that to you.

In more ways than one.


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