I grew up in the Pretzel Capital of the World— Reading, Pennsylvania —where pretzels were a part of our education. We learned about the origin of the pretzel (or we thought we did) in elementary school and were taken on a field trip to a pretzel factory.

Nearby Hershey calls itself the Chocolate Capital of America and the smell of cocoa actually permeates the town’s air. In that respect Reading’s pretzels have historically only generated dollars for their owners and not scents.

Although Reading is part of the Pennsylvania Dutch Country— from the German (Deutsch) not the Netherlands (Dutch) —you probably think as I was taught, that the pretzel originated in Germany. That’s apparently twisted history which is only fitting for the pretzel.

The Germans might take exception but it is believed that the pretzel was invented in Italy a thousand years ago. Evidence for pretzels to have been around that long is a 12th century illuminated manuscript discovered in the Vatican. It’s the earliest known visual representation of a pretzel…

The story goes that a monk baked pieces of dough that he fashioned in the shape of a child’s folded arms while saying his or her prayers. The monk’s treats for children, who did a good job reciting them, became known as pretiolas which translates to “little rewards” in Italian.

The Italian lineage was passed forward and linguistically backward when Latin became involved and pretiola morphed from brachiatus (Latin for having branches like arms) into the German word brezitella which became shortened to brezel which eventually became pretzel in English. I wasn’t kidding about the twisted history.

Over time Germans have certainly been the people most associated with pretzels. Growing up in a town where every store had at least one employee who could speak “Pennsylvania Dutch” and one of the local radio personalities was a guy who called himself “Professor Schnitzel”, we never heard about the pretzel’s Italian roots in our pretzel history indoctrination.

Reading had a lot of pretzel makers when I was a kid. Bachman pretzels were sold nationally but locally, I remember Quinlan, Sturgis and Billy’s —the latter were called Billy’s Bretzels. These were all what are known as hard pretzels, the kind you buy at the grocery store.

However, for me the very best pretzels weren’t at the supermarket. They were street food sold out of carts in Reading’s main square for a nickel apiece. Delicious soft pretzels that if you were lucky were still warm from the oven.

The carts disappeared decades ago but somewhere I have a picture I took of one of the pretzel cart vendors who I frequently bought mine from but with whom I doubt I ever exchanged more than nickels.

Growing up in the 1950s, summer at my public swimming pool also meant “pretzel rods” that seemed at the time as long as yardsticks. They were a favorite at the snack bar and we slathered them with mustard like they were hot dogs.

Pretzels were even a part of local sports, not good for cheering but handy for jeering. Back in the day opponents of Reading’s high school sports teams would taunt “Pretzels and beer, pretzels and beer, ach du lieber Reading is here!”

And the height of the pretzel’s status in our city— quite literally —took place at the local college which annually dubbed one of its football team’s home games “The Pretzel Bowl.” I attended one and at half time— and I’m not making this up —a plane flew over the stadium and dropped pretzels on the stands. Of course none survived in one piece.

In the beginning all Reading pretzels were handmade and experienced hands could twist 40 a minute. By the 1930s the first automated pretzel machinery enabled bakeries to make six times as many in that span. With most of the country’s pretzel production being done in the Reading area, its reputation as the pretzel capital was unchallenged.

Even today 80 percent of pretzels produced in the United States are made in Pennsylvania but I still was amazed when I moved to Maine to find my favorite Reading pretzels for sale here. I’d never seen this particular brand called Unique Splits sold outside of the state.

I wondered how that happened and it didn’t take me long to find out. Morse’s, a sort of grocery and deli best known for its sauerkraut, is about a half hour drive from Camden where I live. If you don’t know it’s there, you’ll never find it. Improbably, Morse’s has the most food items in its store that you won’t likely see anywhere else in all of Maine. I call it Zabar’s North.

Turned out the current owners were told about Unique pretzels by a customer and ordered some. The pretzels did so well other grocery and fish markets nearby had Morse’s order for them, too and now I can drive a couple minutes in two different directions from my house and purchase them.

The popularity of Reading pretzels led me to think about the other exceptional and exceptionally unhealthy food speciality that my part of Pennsylvania is famous for— potato chips. Not just any chips but potato chips produced with only potatoes and salt that are fried in lard. So, add perilous to their labeling.

The best of these chips in my opinion are made by Dieffenbach’s in the Berks County borough of Womelsdorf but there are competitors like Good’s from Adamstown in neighboring Lancaster County that produces two types of lard chips— Good’s Blues and Good’s Reds. The two used to be made by separate members of the same family but they called a truce a few years ago and merged. The difference? The Blues are crunchier.

In fact when I took Jo to where I grew up for the first time, I stopped at a market in the village of Oley close to my folks’ home. I didn’t know if she’d be impressed or mystified at what she’d see. It was more than even I bargained for. Pretzels and potato chips had two full aisles all to themselves—one for national brands and one just for local.

In Pennsylvania bags of both are as regularly by one’s side as the remote when you’re in front of the television. That’s not the case in Maine but inexplicably, life expectancy in both states is about the same.

Maybe Maine whoopie pies have something to do with it. The Pennsylvania Dutch country has them too and when Jo and I moved to Camden 15 years ago it was in the middle of a feud over which state could claim the origin of the whoopie pie. Being that I had now sampled both, I actually was asked to weigh in on this dispute very publicly but that’s another story.

Years ago I complimented one of the owners at Morse’s about his great taste in pretzels and told him about my favorite Reading potato chips. I provided full disclosure about the ingredients but didn’t tell him— and again, I’m not making this up —that the Reading Hospital ranks in the top 10 of the busiest emergency rooms in America.

Despite this I was certain Diffenbach’s potato chips would be another hit from the calorie and cholesterol unconscious countryside where I was raised if he chose to offer them. So far it hasn’t happened.

Thus, I still consider myself to be living in a “potato chip desert” but twice a year my best friend in Reading sends me a box full of bags of Diffenbach’s for which I’m extremely grateful. The gift provides Jo with the opportunity to joke, “Don’t you think Ken is actually trying to kill you?” My response is silent but in my head I hear Paul McCartney singing Let It Be.