I went over to my brother's for dinner on Friday, and while he was slaving away, grilling his magical mystery burger, he put me on seven layer dip duty. Seven layer dip is my absolute favorite and I couldn't wait to finish making it so I could dig in. Estimated prep and cook time is approximately 10 minutes according to Betty Crocker but since I couldn't really remember what goes in it and had to wait for my brother's instructions after each layer, I'd say it took me almost 40 minutes to make. First layer is the refried beans, followed by, "Hey, Rich? What goes next?" No answer as he's totally into making his secret mystery mayo. "Rich? Er. Now what?" As I write this I can't even remember what went next but my point is I waited about 10 minutes after each layer for the next instruction. I was going to be the usual "get shit done" person that I am and kinda guess what goes next by what was left in my little prep area; two cans of sliced olives, tomatoes, pickles, and so on. But Rich is insanely serious about his cooking, like, you can't get the layers out of order because then it ruins the color scheme and it doesn't look as nice, even though I'm not sure why that matters since it's all going to the same place. In my belly! It was a good thing that I let the Kitchen Nazi reign though because when I asked if it was ok to go ahead and spread on the sour cream layer he replied, "that's mayo, Dipshit." Phew!
So 40 minutes later, the dip is chilling in the fridge, while I kept pestering Rich, "You think it's ready yet? It's been in the fridge for TWO minutes now!" Two minutes after that I was happily distracted by dinner, funneling the cheeseburger and curly fries into my face.
While sitting on the couch with my jeans unbuttoned, watching Ghost Adventures (awesome!), and nursing my belly ache, my brother calls me from the kitchen, "Hey, Nina, would you mind coming in here?" I walked to the kitchen where my brother, his wife, and 3 of his friends were staring up some dark specs on the ceiling. "What's up?" I asked, also wondering what they were pointing at. "You got guacamole dip on our ceiling," Rich's wife answered. (Our brand new ceiling, she added). "No way," I said, "that's, like, dirt or something." To which my brother replied, "No. I tasted it. It's guacamole."
I remember squeezing the packet of guacamole dip out, and a hole bursted open on the top side, causing the guacamole to squirt all over the place, but I still can't really believe the height I got on that one!