When I was growing up, the appearance of my mother’s creamy sun-dried tomato dip on the kitchen table meant that company was on the way. Hers was terracotta-colored and a very rich affair, whipped together with cream cheese, butter, and lots of Parmesan cheese—built for a breadstick rather than a stalk of celery. I loved it, and spent most of my youth devising ways to scrape the top layer off her delicately plated dip with a cracker but leave the bowl looking just
