We got back to the van with our bread and potatoes, having no good ideas about how to turn that into a meal. Regardless, we would make it work. We rooted around under the bed, where my dad had made the best use of storage space, bringing along one of his live music monitors that occupied about half of the designated food store. But to be fair, it did grant us a pretty excellent bottom end on the road trip playlist. It was a small price to pay. I found a pan that my dad had thoughtfully brought along, but I was most impressed with myself, as I had thought to bring a bread knife, knowing it to be an item he would forget. Seeing I was right, I smiled smugly to myself before broadcasting my genius and highlighting my dad's unacceptable failure. I like to think I'm a considerate travel buddy.

We sipped tea and looked out of the window. The side door was closed to keep the heat of the cooker in, which quickly became too hot in the small space. And then dad had his best idea yet. "We could always make chips." My face obviously lit up. I hadn't had a good chip in years. They're a rarity in Prague. Nobody can touch the British chippy and it was a sad fact I still hadn't come to terms with. But dad's chips ... well, actually, I don't remember them, but they had to be good. They had to be. Excited, I agreed, and I watched gleefully as he began chopping the potatoes and picking up the pieces that fell on the carpet. Yum. It was a road trip. Things like that were to be expected. I worked through it. I'd definitely seen worse.

Out came the pan and oil. Up went my excitement. His face gleamed and mine was probably just as ridiculous. Like children, we watched as the sad reality set in. Dad wasn't good at chips. The first seven came back raw. It was the oil. It wasn't hot enough. Just needed more time. The second batch was better. Almost edible. Almost. Then the third batch. Starving, we were ready to accept almost anything. Almost. But not this. He'd managed to achieve an unexpected scientific marvel. Burned to a crisp on the outside. Like charcoal. And yet, entirely uncooked on the inside. They were impossible to break. The bread knife struggled. My teeth were no match. I dubbed them "teflon chips", due to their appearance and the fact that they would probably never biodegrade.

It wasn't his best moment, but it was funny. Still hungry, I had no choice but to step in and save the day. I broke out the other pan, boiled some water and broke the spaghetti into pieces small enough to fit in the pan. And I found a small tin of peas in the store, which I added with the tomato puree that had been open for a questionable length of time. Hunger trumps hygiene. It all went in. Bit of salt and we were good for another meal. Naturally, this culinary excellence angered the father figure, who, out-shined by the son, had no choice but to ridicule and insult, making such outlandish claims as that the pasta dish was anything but supreme. "Overcooked" was one of the claims. Outrageous. The man had no shame. Needless to say, he ate and greatly enjoyed the dish, and definitely came back for seconds.*

Although not the actual teflon chips, this more recent example shows that the process has been perfected with time.

* Maybe it was me. I forget.

Teflon Chips (aka "Cajun Thins") recipe:

1. Slice an unwashed, unpeeled potato, using a knife you've cleaned car parts with, on the carpet where everyone's been standing.


2. Put the slices in the black pan you've never washed with a load of oil. Maximum heat.


3. Burn the outside to a crisp, while maintaining the inside in a raw state.


4. Serve on bread with no spread.