When Kerouac went on the road his snack of choice was apple pie a la mode. Of course, his chief companion was Neal Cassady and they made their way west via bus, ’49 Hudson, and thumb. On my road trip to the (mid) west I’m accompanied by Ronan and Molly, their 18-month-old baby Jude, Molly’s youngest brother Patrick, and my cat. We travel in a minivan, carry a good deal more luggage than the beats ever did, and try to stick to a schedule that doesn’t allow for lingering visits to seedy heartland diners.

The plan is to leave from Queens at 6:00 am sharp, so I pack Minerva in her carrier at 5:00 and flag down a gypsy cab from my Brooklyn street corner. In Queens, Ronan buzzes me in. I can smell frying bacon as soon as I open the door. I leave my suitcase in the foyer and go on up. It’s fine by me if we get a delayed start due to a proper cup of tea and a couple of bacon sandies.

Ronan is from Ireland and he knows how to make tea: water brought to boiling, but not overcooked (yes, you can overcook water), loose leaves (imported from a European purveyor), and a splash of milk stirred in. It makes a good start to our day, though Patrick opts to finish his pint from last night instead – really, I don’t blame him. 6:00 in the morning is still last night, if you ask me.

But the clock is ticking. Molly and I split Patrick’s sandwich as Ronan forcibly reminds him to pack. Baby Jude has a few minutes to run around the apartment growling (he thinks he’s a dinosaur, which is pretty adorable) ‘til Patrick emerges wearing all his clothes – two pairs of pants, T-shirts, sweaters, tweed jacket, multiple socks, and a Wee Willie Winkie-style sleeping cap his mom made him. He’s all packed, he says, and doesn’t even need to lug a bag. Fair enough, we say, and load up the van.

The sun is up over the Hudson as we trundle across the George Washington Bridge. I’m riding shotgun, and am therefore in charge of navigation. Too bad I’ve packed my glasses in which bag I don’t know, my nearsightedness makes me a poor fit for the job. But I squint at the road signs and try to make myself useful, changing CDs as Molly shouts out directions while feeding Jude peanut butter from the middle row of seats. The person who was supposed to navigate is snoring on the backbench, sleepy cap pulled over his eyes.

It turns out to be for the best, when Molly passes out her famous sweet potato-black pepper muffins. She only has three leftover from her sales at the farmers’ market and, as everyone knows, if you snooze you lose. They’re still a bit cold, but delicious, as their time in the freezer has intensified the pepper flavor in the most marvelous way.

By the time we stop for gas at the Stroudsburg, PA’s WaWa we three have eaten two apples, one banana, and several handfuls of Chex Mix. (It was me who brought the Chex Mix, I swear I can’t get enough of the stuff. And I’ve never been much of a fresh fruit-eater.) Jude has had some vanilla yogurt and shared a juice box with Patrick. We’re making good time, even though we spend an inordinate amount deciding which pot of coffee to pour from – the WaWa offers rather a dazzling array. We each choose something different (100% Columbian, Dark Roast, and Regular), then switch cups to determine they’re all the same. Oh, marketing.

A few more hours and a round of chocolate covered pretzels and pitted prunes (uncharacteristically, I brought the prunes) brings us to the parking lot of a Hardee’s in Akron where my mom has come to pick up me and my cat. The rest of the crew would continue on to reunite with family in Missouri – after they popped in for a quick thickburger and order of fries.

It’s no Kerouac-ian tale, but at least we won’t be suffering from booze and Benzedrine fueled hangovers. Though I did develop a killer case of dry mouth, that Chex Mix is powerful salty.

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