On car trips

I love car trips. When I was a child, my family took three weeks to drive to Philadelphia and back west, attempting to visit all points of historical import along the way including the relatives. My father drove.

My sister and I rode in the back seat and attempted to make the car fishtail with our rhythmic, chanting, animal-cracker-swaying until my long-suffering mother, finally out of patience, reached behind her seat and trounced us with the map.

I loved the capsuled feeling, the rush of changing air, the hum and tap of the road underneath, feeling the world disappear like yellow tape behind us and rush toward us in the front like the wind.

As the smallest one, I was given the footwell for my bed. Night after night through my oblique window, I could see that, unlike the land flashing by in streaks of color, the smooth starry sky was constant and stayed with us.

Now I hold the map for my son, while my daughters, elated with take-off energy, with all the lists consummated, pets entrusted, floor vacuumed and last minute compulsions answered, attempt, rousingly, threateningly, One Hundred Bottles of Beer in the Wall. Despite the formidable math genes in the family, they get tangled up fits of giggles and commence to raid the food baskets.

When the landscape shifts and we are at last on roads less travelled, when Credence blares out the open windows, our signature to the passing world of trees and shadows flapping by, when we sense the merging of the pulse with the hum and tick of the roadway, a second level of liberation sets in. We are gone. We are going. We are one with the open road and the other travellers on it.

We gaze out at the occasional small towns and rest areas where mobs of tulip-shaped tourists pace the byways and stare back. Suddenly we are part of this curious brotherhood with its odd livery and curious prerogatives.

This gentle bonding might soon be tested by the decision of an addled turkey pate to make a three point turn across the highway in his big spendy red pickup whereupon the Irish navigator is inspired to a wild boardinghouse blast of the horn in front of the stoic young pilot as we go sailing around this incredible scene.

Onward, chattering by wonderful beacons of roadside Americana, the Yak Yak Shack, "Norm Has Worms", flashing past little homesteads tucked into the trees, practicing clothesline interpretation, watching all the gardens change as we move down the weather zones toward the coast.

Time is elastic on car trips. Its intimate relation to space is right and evident. Children notice it, question it incessantly, and it lulls them into quiet individual thoughts eventually, and then to sleep.

Hours move into dusk through fields of giant sunflowers, into darkness, into pairs of light, finally into the smell of salt and mist where we can rest beside the lush and continually opening sounds and the lovely cadence of the sea.

Along with music and pegboard Scrabble, nothing suits car travel better than picnics based on stuffed Pita Bread, which is very easy to make at home providing you know two tricks which are included in this recipe.

For 8 individual loaves, mix together:

1 Tbsp. active dry yeast

1 1/4 C. warm water

very small dash of sugar or honey

Allow this mixture to sit in a warm place for 10-15 minutes. The sugar will make the yeast more lively.

Mix together:

2 C. whole wheat flour

2 tsp. salt

Gradually add dry ingredients to the liquid, stirring or beating with an electric mixer. Gradually add another

2 C. flour

Stir and beat for a total of 5 minutes. When it becomes a soft dough, move it to a floured board and knead until smooth. This will take about 5 minutes.

Divide the dough into 8 equal pieces. On a floured surface, roll each piece into a 4" circle. Cover the circles; let them rest on the board for 40-45 minutes. Preheat your oven to 450.

Now this is the first trick: When you are placing your rounds onto greased baking sheets, carefully turn them over, bottom side up.

The second trick is to bake the pitas on the bottom shelf of the oven for the first 5 minutes at least, then you can shift them up and add another sheet if you want. You can sprinkle them with sesame seeds if you like.

Fill them with hummous or cheese spread or shrimp or tabbouleh.

Take them to the beach and watch the gulls and commercially winged people hang over the surf, build some sand castles and feel the impossible softness of the foam with your feet; join the old men observing the sun as it descends into the flat western plane, watch for the green light at that instant, flashing, the last color of the day's prism.