Leon and the Champion Chip

by Allen Kurzweil

  “What a rip!” Lumpkin protested.

  Idaho Furtles ignored the complaint and launched into a brief history of his family-owned business.

  “My grandfather, Flinders Furtles, founded our company in 1921. That was the same year two of our Pennsylvania competitors started their operations. But whereas those two enterprises grew greedy, sacrificing quality to quantity, we here at Furtles have stuck true to our kettle-cooked roots. We started small and we’ve stayed small. Why? Because no bag of Furtles gets sold beyond the city limits. Why? To maintain quality control. How? By making sure every batch of Furtles gets tested and inspected by yours truly. Now come with me and I will show you how that happens.”

  Idaho Furtles took the class to a workbench that ran across one entire wall of the testing room.

  “Man oh man, look at all this stuff,” P.W. marveled.

  “This stuff, young man, is the finest chip-testing equipment available. Much of it I designed or modified myself. So at the risk of stating the obvious, do not touch!”

  “Did you hear that, you would-be vandals?” Miss Hagmeyer said.

  “Tasting chips all day? That’s my kind of job!” said Lumpkin.

  “I do not taste chips,” sneered Idaho Furtles. “I test them.”

  “What’s the big diff?” said Henry Lumpkin.

  “The ‘big diff’ is this: Tasting is at best a mere hobby, whereas testing is a hard science.”

  “Can’t be that hard,” Mr. Sparks joked.

  “You are mistaken,” said Idaho Furtles sourly.

  Mr. Sparks ignored the tone. “That’s some microscope,” he said. “What’s its maximum magnification?”

  “It can enlarge things four hundred times.”

  “Impressive,” said Mr. Sparks. He leaned toward the microscope. “May I?”

  Idaho Furtles gave a reluctant nod.

  Mr. Sparks peered through the eyepiece. “Amazing,” he said. “What kind of potato chip am I looking at?”

  “That’s not a chip,” said Idaho Furtles. “Frying destroys the integrity of the starch granules that infiltrate the tissue.”

  “So you’re saying it’s just raw potato?”

  “Not just any raw potato, Mr. Sparks. It’s a patented Furtles hybrid, one of the many reasons our chips are as crunchy as they are.”

  Mr. Sparks adjusted the focus. “Wow, my students have to see this. Would you mind?”

  Idaho Furtles hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  Mr. Sparks looked up. “Please,” he said. “These students will never appreciate the true beauty of the potato chip unless they are given the chance to gaze at starch granules magnified four hundred times.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Idaho Furtles. “Just make sure they don’t bump the slide.”

  While the fifth graders stared at potato tissue, Idaho Furtles snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and prepared a few chips for testing.

  “Now pay close attention,” he said once everyone had had a turn with the microscope. He lifted a chip from a small paper boat.

  “Why the boat?” asked Thomas Warchowski.

  “For transport and protection,” said Idaho Furtles.

  “And the gloves?” said Flossy Parmigiano.

  “To avoid contamination during chipometric analysis.”

  “Chipometric analysis?” said Mr. Sparks.

  This was the first question of the day that prompted Idaho Furtles to smile. “Came up with the phrase myself,” he boasted. “Chipometry—the science of potato chip evaluation—is the only way to maintain our standards.”

  “Don’t you ever eat chips?” P.W. asked.

  “Never,” said Idaho Furtles. “Now if I may continue … where was I?”

  “Chipometry,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Thank you. Chipometry begins with a thorough visual inspection of the chip. That means studying the surface texture. Assessing roughness, particulate density, patina, and glow. In my job as Chip Master, I must make sure our chips are never too oily and never too dry.”

  Idaho Furtles removed a gadget from the wall. “This hydrometer is specially designed to register the moisture levels of our chips.” He touched the sensor to the surface of his sample. “One-point-five percent. Just where it should be,” he said approvingly.

  “Next I evaluate the chip’s color. For that I rely on a digital color wheel.” He reached for another gizmo. “This unit can match 762 different shades of potato chip, from the lightest yellow to the darkest brown.”

  “What about Furtles Shamrocks?” said Leon.

  Idaho Furtles frowned. “I see we have an expert in our midst. The boy is correct. We do produce a green chip for St. Patrick’s Day. But the Shamrock is a dyed seasonal, and thus exempt from color analysis. Now if I might continue uninterrupted.”

  Miss Hagmeyer waved her needle at Leon, but Mr. Sparks softened the rebuke with a sly, conspiratorial wink.

  “After I have checked for texture, moisture, and color,” said Idaho Furtles, “I submit the chip to a smell test.” He reached for an aluminum case.

  “What’s in there?” said Flossy Parmigiano.

  “This,” said Idaho Furtles, opening the case and removing a device that looked like a walkie-talkie, “is the Nose-It-All 3000. Top of the line. State of the art. Furtles is the only family-run chip lab in the country that uses an electronic nose to evaluate potato chips.” He touched the “snout” to the surface of the sample. “The sensor helps maintain batch-to-batch consistency.”

  “Can’t you just smell the chips?” Leon asked.

  “Not with the accuracy of the Nose-It-All 3000. And unlike the human nose, this electronic sniffer never comes down with a cold or sinus infection.

  “After I have evaluated texture, moisture, color, and smell, I must still measure the thickness of the sample. Most brands have an average width of zero-point -zero-five inches. That’s about the thickness of a dime. But here at Furtles, we batch cook our chips in kettles filled with only the finest premium cold-pressed virgin peanut oil. It is one reason our chips are twenty percent thicker than the chips sold by our competitors.”

  Idaho Furtles reached into the breast pocket of his lab coat and pulled out yet another gizmo. “My Darhansoff external caliper gauge,” he said. “I carry it everywhere. Accurate to point-zero-zero-zero-four inches.” He pinched the sample chip between the crablike pincers of the device. “Point zero-zero-six-five inches. Perfect, right where it should be.” He scribbled the results on a preprinted form.

  “Um, Mr. Furtles?” said Leon.

  “You again?” The Chip Master looked around for Miss Hagmeyer, clearly hoping she would intervene. Unfortunately for Idaho Furtles, Miss Hagmeyer had disappeared. “What is it?” he said.

  “How about Furtles Double Crunchers? Aren’t they a lot thicker?”

  “I see you are acquainted with our complete line,” Idaho Furtles sneered.

  “Mister,” said P.W. “Leon is more than just acquainted.”

  “Oh, really?” said Idaho Furtles condescendingly.

  “Really!” said Lily-Matisse. “Go ahead. Test him.”

  “Very well,” said the Chip Master. He pulled a chip from a nearby sample tray. “Let’s see if you can identify this without tasting it.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” Leon asked.

  “Just as I thought,” said Idaho Furtles, returning the chip to the tray. “Amateurs,” he muttered under his breath.

  “No, hold on,” said Leon. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  He looked the chip over for a few moments. He gave it a sniff. “Salt and vinegar?”

  “Yes, of course it’s salt and vinegar,” said Idaho Furtles. “But what brand of salt and vinegar?”

  “Huh?” said Leon. “I can’t tell you that. It’s impossible!”

  “Oh, is it?” Idaho Furtles said with a self-satisfied smirk. He grabbed four paper boats, each containing a chip. To the untrained eye, the four chips looked identical. �
��The brand name of each specimen is marked on the bottom of its boat,” he said. “Shuffle the boats while I turn away.”

  P.W. mixed up the boats. “Ready,” he announced.

  All eyes were on Idaho Furtles as he faced the rearranged fleet. Using each tool in turn, he completed his chipometric analysis in under two minutes.

  “Starting from left to right,” he said confidently, “Furtles Plain, Cousin Ray’s Low-fat Kosher Dill Pickle Delights, Willie Winkle Salt ’n’ Vinegar, and Okee-Dokey Plain.”

  Leon capsized the boats.

  The first one was marked FRTLS-P.

  The second was marked CR-LFKDPD.

  The third was marked WW-SNV.

  The fourth was marked OD-P.

  “Yow!” Leon exclaimed. It was a sentiment shared by the rest of the class.

  “You see,” said Idaho Furtles. “The proper use of the proper tools allows the true professional to identify a potato chip without ever taking a bite. Taste is highly unscientific, and in the end—”

  “DROP IT!”

  The shrill command so startled Idaho Furtles that he dropped his thickness gauge on the floor.

  Everyone turned and faced Miss Hagmeyer, who stood before a rack of chips, her needle aimed at Lumpkin.

  Idaho Furtles scurried over.

  “Caught him helping himself to an unauthorized mid-morning snack,” Miss Hagmeyer said indignantly.

  Idaho Furtles inspected the ransacked tray. “It’s almost empty!” he fumed. “Don’t they teach you to read at your school?” He pointed to a sign that said POSITIVELY NO SAMPLING!

  “What’s the biggie?” said Lumpkin defiantly. “I just helped myself to a few rejects.”

  “Those were not rejects!” Idaho Furtles raged.

  Lumpkin plucked a chip off the tray—or rather he took two chips fused together in the shape of a butterfly. “You call this normal?” he said.

  “That’s exactly the point!” Idaho Furtles cried. “You have been eating off the specials tray!”

  “The what?” said Lumpkin.

  “The tray reserved for candidate chips.”

  “Candidates for what?”

  “For the Furtles Potato Chip Museum.”

  “Oops. In that case, sorry,” Lumpkin said unconvincingly.

  Miss Hagmeyer tapped her needle on his shoulder. “You are hereby put on notice, Mr. Lumpkin. One more misstep, and you will end up someplace where that army jacket might come in handy.”

  “She means military school,” P.W. whispered to his friends.

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” said Miss Hagmeyer.

  Lumpkin answered the threat with an insolent shrug.

  The unlawful snacking ended the visit to the testing room and made Idaho Furtles extremely grumpy. Without a word, he marched everyone down a long corridor and onto an iron catwalk that overlooked the factory floor. The cavernous space was filled with noisy, creaky machines, most of which were linked together by ancient drive belts and conveyors that whirred and wheezed, sputtered and spat.

  “It’s like a giant potato roller-coaster,” P.W. shouted as a piston valve hissed overhead.

  “Seems like the only microchips in this place are the ones that get salted and bagged,” said Mr. Sparks.

  “If you’re suggesting we could use new equipment, talk to my pigheaded brother,” said Idaho Furtles. “I’ve been pushing to computerize the kettles and switch to a synthetic cooking oil, but he keeps saying no.”

  Mr. Sparks took a keen interest in a thick leather drive belt that looped around the axle of a very powerful motor. The top of the belt ran ten feet overhead and the bottom disappeared through two wide ovals cut into the floor. He was about to ask about the belt when a worker in overalls pushed his way to the front of the group.

  “Mr. Furtles!” the worker said urgently. “We got problems.”

  “Let me guess,” said Idaho Furtles. “The salting station?”

  The worker nodded anxiously. “The tumbler is going haywire again!”

  Idaho Furtles turned to Mr. Sparks. “I’m afraid we’ll have to end the tour here.”

  The groans of the students competed with the clatter of the machines.

  “Mr. Furtles, what if I were to guide the class through the rest of the factory?” Mr. Sparks proposed.

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “But we have traveled all this way. It’d be a shame to come back. That would mean bothering you twice.”

  Idaho Furtles hesitated. The prospect of a make-up tour clearly did not please him.

  “Mr. Furtles?” said the man in overalls. “The tumbler has already ruined two batches of Double Crunchers.”

  “Tend to your tumbler,” Mr. Sparks advised.

  “I don’t know …”

  “Go on, shoo. We’ll be fine on our own.”

  Idaho Furtles relented. “Oh, very well,” he said. “Follow the conveyor belts, and I will rejoin the group farther down the line.”

  “Excellent,” said Mr. Sparks. “Don’t worry about us.”

  “I do worry,” said Idaho Furtles. “But a haywire tumbler is more troublesome than a group of nosy fifth graders.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Miss Hagmeyer muttered as Idaho Furtles and the worker disappeared behind a giant vat of premium cold-pressed virgin peanut oil.

  TWENTY-THREE

  A Hair-Raising Tour

  “Okay,” said Mr. Sparks, guiding the class down a spiral staircase to the factory floor. “Let’s continue the tour.”

  “Don’t you mean start it?” P.W. said.

  Mr. Sparks didn’t respond. He was too busy inspecting the belt-driven motor that had attracted his attention before Idaho Furtles was called away. He jumped over a chain to get a closer look.

  “Mr. Sparks, do you think that advisable?” Miss Hagmeyer questioned.

  “Remember what you said on the bus, Phyllis? You concern yourself with misconduct—let me tend to the science. This area is perfectly safe.” He turned to his students and said, “What do you think would happen if I stood under that drive belt?” He pointed to the whirring loop of leather.

  No one had a clue.

  “The effect,” said Mr. Sparks as he did just that, “should be hair-raising. Observe.”

  All at once his ponytail shot straight up!

  The whole class broke into hysterics. Even Miss Hagmeyer found it hard to keep from laughing.

  “Okay,” said Mr. Sparks. “Maybe one of my co-researchers can tell me why my hair is dancing? Any guesses—excuse me, hypotheses?”

  “Air currents?” P.W. postulated.

  “Nope.”

  “Suction?” Flossy Parmigiano proposed.

  “Guess again.”

  “A vacuum?” Thomas Warchowski wondered.

  “Ix-nay,” said Mr. Sparks. “The cause is electricity.”

  “Like the potato clocks?” asked Antoinette Brede.

  “No,” said Mr. Sparks. “The potato clocks rely on current electricity. Their movement is generated by a steady flow of electrons traveling in a circuit. But the belt is generating static electricity, and that’s a whole different kettle of chips. Static electricity doesn’t loop. It works by noncircular attraction and repulsion. Can anyone give me an analogy?”

  P.W. leaned over to Leon and whispered, “how about, we’re attracted to Lumpkin’s army jacket, and we’re repulsed by Lumpkin?”

  “Shhh!” Miss Hagmeyer scolded.

  “When I get a shock on the doorknob?” said Lily-Matisse.

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Sparks. He held out his hand. “Come on in,” he urged. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Cautiously Lily-Matisse climbed over the chain and joined Mr. Sparks below the belt. Now the two of them had hair dancing on end.

  “Well?” said Mr. Sparks. “What are the rest of you waiting for?”

  Within seconds the whole class was lined up under the leather loop, laughing uncontrollably at the spectacle of all that dancing hair.
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br />   “Miss Hagmeyer,” P.W. hollered. “Join us!”

  “I shall pass, thank you very much,” she replied firmly.

  “Come on in!” Thomas Warchowski said. “It’s a blast!”

  “Trust me, Phyllis,” said Mr. Sparks, “you’ll get a charge out of it.”

  “Oh, why not,” Miss Hagmeyer said at last, joining the others under the fast-moving drive belt. All at once, her hair began to shimmy. And soon after that, so did Miss Hagmeyer. For a few minutes, the whole group hopped about and giggled.

  Sccritchh!

  Leon heard a strange but familiar sound he couldn’t quite place.

  Sccritchh!

  There it was again.

  He looked about, searching for the source of the noise, which was hard to pinpoint over all the shouts, giggles, and mechanical clangs. He wasn’t the only one who heard the strange sound. P.W. picked up on it, too, as did Lily-Matisse.

  But it was Antoinette Brede who isolated the cause of the sccritchhing. “Miss Hagmeyer!” she screamed. “Your hair!”

  All at once the fourth-grade teacher reached up and caught hold of her wig, just moments before it separated completely from her scalp. She patted the fake hair more or less in place and swiftly removed herself from the path of the belt.

  “Shoot!” P.W. said, barely able to contain his disappointment.

  “Maybe we should move on,” Mr. Sparks wisely suggested. He guided the group to the mechanical potato peeler. “Technically speaking,” he said, “this contraption doesn’t peel the potatoes. It sands them clean. If you look closely, you’ll see that those rollers are covered with grit.”

  As the group was gazing at the peeler, Leon felt the weight of his backpack suddenly get lighter.

  “So what the heck’s in there, anyway?” Lumpkin whispered. “I saw you holding it like a baby when the Hag was talking to you on the bus.”

  Leon tried to pull away but found himself pinned against a handrail.

  “Relax,” said Lumpkin. “You’re not going anywhere.” He waited until the others were out of view before yanking on the pack.