By SCOTT SAALMAN
Scaramouch
I considered it my civic responsibility to help find a fix for our fractured country, the States of America.
We must start small, take baby steps, and embrace our simple commonalities if we want “United” returned to our nation’s name, I thought.
Immediately, one word came to mind: Soup.
Everyone likes soup (even our unfortunate, toothless brethren like soup – especially them). Granted, we don’t like the same kinds of soup. But that’s OK. We do, after all, still live in a democracy. We should not be shamed for our soup choice – well, except for you gross pea soup people (there was good reason The Exorcist used pea soup in its vomit scenes).
Still, soup in general, as a working concept, could, in essence, save the free world, I thought.
Excited, I shouted my hypothesis aloud, “We can cure an ailing America over the sharing of a soothing pot of homemade soup!” I was onto something big. I planned to place my Nobel Peace Prize trophy beside the KEY TO THE CITY given to me by Jasper, Indiana’s mayor in 2018.
The idea, I soon learned, would not be an easy sell. Soup, itself, can be polarizing. Soup eaters are divided into two camps: Those who dip crackers into their soup (The Dippers); those who crumble crackers into their soup (The Crumblers).
I’m sure someone probably is thinking, “But what about those who refuse crackers altogether when eating soup?”
Ah, yes, The Slurpers! Don’t get me started on The Slurpers! This weird third-party of soup enthusiasts represents nothing other than another frayed thread in the fabric of our nation.
All that was needed to jell our nation was Dippers to become Crumblers or Crumblers to become Dippers.
Full disclosure: Despite Dipperism running contrary to my family lineage, I am a Dipper.
My dear mother (may she rest in peace) was a Crumbler. As a child, I watched while she brutishly crumbled her crackers over a steaming bowl of salty Campbell’s Soup, creating a soggy, central mound that she then stirred, much like a witch at a caldron, to evenly scatter the cracker’s offal, causing a mushroom cloud to rise to the ceiling. Then, she lifted a spoonful to her lips and ingested her hellish mush. Her Crumbler way was as unsettling to witness as a seal-clubbing. I secretly suspected her to be a closet serial killer.
A dipper’s worst nightmare. (Photo provided by Scott Saalman)
Dippers, in comparison, are the derivative of a civilized ilk. Our refined soup-eating technique makes us the sophisticates of soup eaters. We respect the cracker. We demonstrate a quick, shallow dip, then pull back before sogginess sets in. We take a simple, calculated bite then dip again. It typically takes two or three bites before the cracker is no more. Unlike Crumblers, we don’t need to show off our hand strength or work out anger issues at the dining table. We don’t decimate the cracker. We don’t drown it. We want our Zestas to retain their zest to the very end. We demonstrate a humaneness for the cracker – think free-range chicken. We delicately dip. We delicately bite. Dip. Bite. Dip. Bite. Think waterboarding, but with heart.
I had long avoided discussing soup and crackers with Mom. It was only during my quest to fix America following the 2021 breach of our U.S. Capitol (talk about those who’ve gone more than a little crackers) that I broached the subject of our soup differences.
“Why are you a Crumbler?” I asked.
“I don’t always crumble.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Am I adopted?”
Silence.
“Will you cross the great cracker divide for the sake of nation reunification?”
“Well, sometimes instead of crumbling, I lift my spoon over a whole cracker and pour soup on it.”
“Malarky,” I said. “No one does that, Mom! I’d rather eat soup with a Slurper!”
Mom crumbled. Defiantly, I dipped. A house divided.
What I learned from this uncomfortable conversation was that I needed to keep my biasness in check if I wanted to draw others from the dark and into the light, ultimately bringing fruition to my solution. Naturally, I took to Facebook, which is a great platform for unbiased reporting, factual data, and an openness to opposing opinions – the final bulwark, per se, against the breakdown of modern society as we know it. God bless you, Mark Zuckerberg.
To sway supporters, I posted: “You Who Crumble Your Crackers Into Your Soup Are So Wrong.” An angry-faced emoji immediately appeared, followed by dissenting comments from thin-skinned Dumblers, er, I mean Crumblers.
Dave: Them’s fightin’ words.
Judi: I have so many crackers in my soup I can eat it with a fork.
Nick: Crumble away. It’s soup, not dip.
Amy: My crackers, my choice.
My hope to fix a soup-divided America crumbled. I brooded over my fresh failure, that is, until the voice of an angel sounded via Spotify, “Working nine to five, what a way to make a living…,” resulting in a true eureka moment.
It was so obvious. The elixir to fixing America: Dolly Parton.
Dippers love Dolly. Crumblers love Dolly. Even Slurpers (not that their votes count) love Dolly. We adore Dolly. Together, as Dollyists, we can bring United back to the United States of America, making “one nation indivisible” visible again.
As far as the Nobel Prize, I selflessly conceded to Dolly.
I’m sure Dolly is a Dipper. We have that going for us as well.
Contact Scott at scottsaalman@gmail.com.