I once heard a story about a woman who lost her wedding ring while dipping fish in batter – and how her son then ate it. Not only did this story stick in my young head, it raised questions. What sort of ring was it, and how big? Why didn’t she feel it fall off, or notice the lump? Did the son notice as he swallowed? Did he choke? What happened the next day? (I had a good idea about what happened the next day because this story met with another about a piece of Lego.) Four decades on, and this story still bursts up like a sprinkler on a timer every time I dip anything in anything, even without a ring.
I also have mixed feelings about the triple dip, which sounds as much like a gymnastic move as it does a cooking instruction. While I enjoy the preparation, setting out the three plates of flour, egg and breadcrumbs, and the sequence of moves to coat evenly, the process inevitably annoys me. Because, regardless of how organised I set out to be, mess invariably creeps in for a hostile takeover: egg in the crumbs, lumps in the egg and spills everywhere.
