On SPINACH DIP

January 21st

On SPINACH DIP

Memoirs - Part VI

It was right around the time when I was killing the Lambs that I got into Spinach Dip and was reading this fascinating biography of Abraham Lincoln. Funny how, once you settle down in the suburbs, your life becomes largely about other people.

I first discovered a recipe for Spinach Dip on the internet when I was looking up how to reconfigure the Lambs' billiards room into a gas chamber. It may seem obvious to the seasoned suburbanite that spinach dip can be served in a pumpernickel bread bowl, but at the time this was quite a revelation to me.

I had no job at this time, so I spent my days balancing experiments in spinach dip with plotting to kill the neighbours and reading an excellent biography of Abraham Lincoln. Everyone knows that Abraham Lincoln was born in a log cabin, but few know the logs were from silverbirch trees, and the bark was left on the logs to give the cabin a glowing, futuristic look. I was also surprised to learn that Lincoln's wartime cabinet included a dog, three antique compasses and the President of Chile.

I developed a good relationship with my local baker, who made extra round pumpernickel loaves for me, enabling my new obsession. The main problem I had was that, after a day of eating spinach dip form pumpernickel bowls and reading about Lincoln, I would reek of spinach, which almost gave me away when I was in the Lamb's basement and boobytrapping their rec room. I had to bribe their dog, Wally, with enticing sports magazines which he would calmly read while I went about my business, despite the fact that my stench must have been overwhelming to his sensitive nose.

Like all personal fads of this nature, my addiction to experimenting with Spinach Dip petered out. The last dip I attempted to make was the difficult spinachless spinach dip, which I made while reading the final chapter about Lincoln's assassination, in which the author concluded that, based on new information he had unearthed in the course of his research, the assassination was not conducted by John Wilkes Booth but instead by a trained frog in a top hat that was paid by the President of Chile. As I read these words I looked up to see Mr. Lamb emerging from his basement into his living room, which was visible to me through a bay window that faced my kitchen. He was screaming very loudly and clutching his face, which was melting. Mrs. Lamb and Wally were already dead. Penelope later asked me why I had killed the Lambs, and I told her that I found their way of life insulting. It wasn't the real reason, but the one that made the most sense to me at the time. In retrospect, it was clichéd.

With the Lambs killed, my book on Lincoln finished and my spinach dip enthusiasm lost, I decided it was time to move on. This life didn't agree with me, and a wider world beckoned. We left our house under the cover of nightfall and traveled to a plastic surgeon's in Denver, who changed our faces so that we could move back to New York without anyone recognizing us.