Crazy Bread (or Crazy Me?)

If you've never had Little Caesar's Crazy Bread, it alone is worth a trip to heartland. It is puffy, buttery, garlicky heaven, dusted with a substance resembling parmesan cheese and served with a vat of sauce. I've not eaten Crazy Bread in years, but when a pregnant childhood friend of my husband's emailed me from Michigan about her insatiable Crazy Bread cravings, that was it. I had to have it. I morphed into crazy pregnant monster, like the transformation of the incredible Hulk. The problem? There are no Little Caesar's in this county. I think I will have to talk to Mike Illitch, Mr. Caesar himself, about this problem. But in the meantime, what is the Hulk reincarnate to do? Why call her local pizza joint and as sweetly as possible, explain her craving and ask if they can assist. The chef obliged, and while this version did not contain the fake butter that always seeps through the bag and won't come off your hands, it was pretty damn fantastic if I do say so myself. Upon sharing my triumph with our friend, she asked if I told the pizza people that I was pregnant. That probably would've been a good idea. Crazy pregnant lady is much more justifiable than just crazy lady.