I’m not going to be able to not talk about food for the couple of weeks while I wait for my new computer to get here. I just can’t. This means that any new recipes I post will be pictureless. (My computer is so full that it’s groaning. It spazzes out if I try to upload even one itty-bitty picture.)

This grieves me. I love to look at pictures of food. I love to take pictures of food. I love to write around pictures of food. But it’s just not happening.

Perhaps I’ll update these posts later with pictures, but perhaps not. It depends on many things, such as the amount of time I have on my hands and whether or not I remember. I’m just a reed, blowin’ in the wind….

(Now, on May 17, new and improved, with pictures!)

Two Sundays ago I was polishing off a bag of Stacy’s Simply Naked Pita chips while sitting on the sofa in the downstairs bedroom. Shortly thereafter a gigantic kettle of boiling chicken broth exploded across the kitchen. Because I was staring at the bag when the eruption occurred, the image of that empty bag of pita chips is now seared into my brain for eternity.

Those pita chips became an obsession. I wanted to make them. I had to make them. I googled and read and googled some more. Everything I read said they were a cinch to prepare. So I bought a bag of pita bread, coated the pitas with melted butter, sprinkled them with lots of salt, hacked them up, and popped them in the oven.

That evening when Mr. Handsome mentioned he was kind of hankering for a snack, I scurried to change into my birthday suit, wrap myself up in plastic wrap, and fetch him the jar of chips.

Okay, so only the last part was true. But really, that scene from Fried Green Tomatoes where the plump wife outfits herself in nothing but plastic wrap in hopes that her husband will notice her is one of my favorite parts. That and the part where she repeatedly rams her car into the back of another car that dared to take her parking space.

So I gave Mr. Handsome the chips, listened to him crunch for a minute and then said, “So waddaya think? Are they as good as the bought chips?”

“No,” he said. I wrinkled my nose and turned back towards the sink. Darn, I’d have to do some more experimenting.

“They’re better.”

Yes! I did it! I can make pita chips better than Stacy! I’m a naked pita chip superhero!

And now, by following the simple instructions outlined below, you can be a superhero, too!

If, for whatever reason, the chips don’t turn out exactly right, remember—there’s always plastic wrap.

Naked Pita Chips

I used Toufayan pitas, but I think any pita would work. Do not, however, substitute the pitas with flatbread; flatbreads do not have the air pocket and are therefore not as light and crispy.

1 12-ounce bag of pita bread (about six pitas)
4 tablespoons butter, melted
salt

Brush both sides of each pita with the melted butter. Cut the pitas into wedges or squares. Pile them on a cookie sheet and sprinkle generously with salt. If there is any remaining butter, drizzle it over the pile of cut pitas. Use all of the butter.

Bake the pita chips at 200 degrees for 2-3 hours, tossing every hour, until dry through and through. And then toast them a little more. They have to be dry, dry, dry.

Add more salt as needed.

Cool the chips to room temperature before storing in an airtight container.

Serve these with hot artichoke dip, pesto torte, and/or baked brie. Or abandon the adornments and eat them buck naked.

The chips, I mean, not you.

About one year ago: Mr. Handsome’s sandwich

There are seven kids running around outside: big boys on rollerblades, carrying sharp sticks, little girls and boys (some with lice, some without; I’m keeping my fingers crossed) drawing on the porch (on paper, I hope). I’m inside, sufficiently pumped on sugar and caffeine. There is no need to procrastinate further. It’s time to write.

I was a little surprised that none of you commented on this one line in the lousy post: 26. Send the older two lice-free children on a three-mile bike ride to visit their daddy’s job site. I thought at least someone would spy it and shoot me an incredulous “WHAT???”

I got feedback from a fair number of you regarding my question as to whether or not it is appropriate to allow the older kids to go on adult-free bike rides. Some of you were quite wary, others only so-so. (Just yesterday I got a letter from my mother-in-law in which she chronicled her children’s biking mishaps. Someone rode a bike into sister Sarah’s leg. Little Mr. Handsome got an elbow-full of gravel while riding on a country road. Sarah (what’s up with her, huh?) got some clothing caught in the spokes and flipped head over heels. But the best one was a trike accident. “Tom was riding down the front lawn with a nail in his mouth. The trike fell over and the nail went [I think] into the roof of Tom’s mouth.”)

None of you said “Go for it.” So naturally, that’s what I did. Because I’m ornery like that.

While I am by no means a hardcore biker, I’m no stranger to bikes. When I was a babe, I rode in a little plastic seat behind my mom’s billowing blouses, and by the time I was nine-years-old, or thereabouts, I was riding the three miles down country roads to my friend’s house. My town friends and I would peddle all over our little neighborhood and to the secluded (pervert alert!) public school where we’d play in the dark, spooky woods for hours on end. And then my family moved to West Virginia where bear prints were found in the swamp by the end of our driveway and my mother had to walk me out to the bus stop every morning because I was petrified. Different things are scary to different people.

I tend to find myself on the more carefree side of the parenting fence. I hesitate to say no to risky (reasonably so) endeavors for fear that my children will end up feeling scared or unsure of themselves. I’d much rather teach them how to be safe, drill them, act out scenarios, put safeguards in place, and then empower them to (in this case) peddle free.

We are very candid with our children about the dangers of country-road riding. In these matters, I try to emulate Amy Tan’s mother, who, when warning Amy about the dangers of crossing the street, said, “You don’t look, you get smash flat like sand dab.”

I don’t know what a sand dab is, though I have a feeling it resembles Flat Stanley (now there’s another thing to worry about—bulletin boards), so I don’t say that exactly, but I did read to them the newspaper obituary about the community kid who wrecked his four-wheeler and died. And I told them, my adrenaline still pumping hours after the event, about sitting in my van at an intersection in town and watching our good (adult) friend nearly get hit by a car while making a left-hand turn on his bike.

For the most part, Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo have been pretty well endowed with common sense. (Except for the time when they found a wallet at a park and then attempted to stop cars to see if it belonged to the drivers. We have since thoroughly discussed the inappropriateness of stopping strangers in cars.) When I drilled them on bike etiquette right before they took off on their three-mile ride, they listened very closely, eyes wide. Nerves sharpen the senses. (Did you know that the best stuntmen are the ones who are deeply terrified? We learned that from the video The World’s Most Spectacular Stuntman.) We discussed dogs, staying together, not talking while riding, and keeping their heads up. That’s my Amy Tan’s mother-like mantra, “KEEP YOUR HEADS UP OR THEY WILL GET SQUASHED LIKE PUMPKINS.” I don’t usually say the pumpkin part, but they know.

I’m still not to the point of letting my kids joy-peddle around the neighborhood, but I’m thinking our next step might be to teach them a three or four mile loop, clock it, take them on a couple practice runs, and then let them ride that when they get the itch to burn off some energy.

Till then, they just run around the yard with sticks.

About one year ago: Going to work.

But I’m not going to let that stop me from writing.

Hm, let’s see. What to talk about?

(Jiggle knee. Sip coffee. Look out window. Pick teeth. Scratch head.)

For the next month, I have two-day, free shipping from Amazon. This is dangerous. And scary. And exhilarating. What should I buy? Hmmm? I’m hoping to order all school books for next year. Or maybe for the next ten years. After which we’ll need to reinstate the spending freeze for the next six months to compensate. Moderation is not my strong suit.

Mr. Handsome finally broke his spending fast yesterday. I broke it long ago with lemons and goat cheese, but he was determined to go forever. (Snort-HA!) He bought two bags of day-old bagels. The Baby Nickel was so psyched for “donuts” that he was running laps around the table and bouncing off the walls.

While I was puttsing in the garden last night, I discovered that the baby potato plants are covered with puddles of orange eggs, so I abandoned the radishes to crawl down the row squish-squishing the evil babes with my fingers.

The feet of the Potato Bug Smoosher. Be very afraid, ye yucky bugs.

And now for some kiddisms.

1. Miss Beccaboo likes to pretend she has claws.

She tapes these finger thingies to her toes and hobbles around.

She has to take them off when she does dishes because she doesn’t want them to get wet.

And I thought those fake fingernails must be a pain….

2. She also twists her arms together in a backwards pretzel shape, fingers intertwined, and then states dryly, “I’m letting my brains talk for a little while.” Apparently a friend told her that when you cross your arms like so, the left and right sides of the brain can converse. Maybe she’s deficient in brain equilibrium?

3. Which reminds me. The other day she said, “I used to be a good thinker, but I’m not anymore.” I’m not sure why she said that, and it actually sounds kind of pathetic now that I’ve written it. She probably just did a number of dumb things in quick succession. Getting in trouble repeatedly will make you feel like a not-so good thinker. That’s how I feel when I flop cakes and talk without thinking.

Or blog without thinking.

4. One day, out of the blue, The Baby Nickel said, “Mom, your hands are different.” I asked, “How do you know?” and he replied, “I smelled them. They smell like a new mom.”

I don’t know what that means.

5. Yo-Yo asked me, “What are statistics?” I tried to explain and failed, plus I kept mutilating the pronunciation, so I finally resorted to a round-about answer, “It’s what your uncle is studying in school.”

Yo-Yo quipped, “What? Can’t he say it yet?”

About one year ago: Baked Macaroni and Cheese