Strawberry Honey Oatmeal Bars

Sometimes life saddles us with responsibilities we didn't ask for, never wanted, and couldn't anticipate. Big or small, these responsibilities become our own. Maybe they were never meant to be ours, but we can't help but make them into our own albatrosses to bear.

This morning while settling down on the couch to get some work done, I heard a chirp. At first, I wasn't sure exactly what I heard. It happened again. Chirp chirp. I looked towards the window to spot the bird, but the frame was empty.

Chirp Cheep.

The sound was coming from the fireplace. More specifically, it was echoing inside the flume. With my ear pressed up against the glass pane of the gas fireplace, I confirmed the worst. The little bird was trapped.

And I found myself with a sudden responsibility—to free her.

I quickly shut off the gas to the fireplace to prevent the heat from the pilot light burning her little feet. Then, I climbed out onto the roof to see how she found her way there in the first place. For whatever reason, the slats on the flume had opened and perched on top was another little bird—her mate—guarding her fiercely. As it turns out, the poor love birds had unfortunately discovered the flume was a terrible place to build a nest and home.

Listening to the desperate chirping of the little birds to one another, I too felt helpless. I wondered whether the bird had fallen and broken a wing; I pictured her singing sad melodies out from the echoing metal of the flume until she reached the end of her time.

The world can be so cruel sometimes.

I called my mother with the little bird's plight and she helped try to dismantle the gas fireplace so we could reach her. We didn't succeed. As we wondered what would become of her, I sat near the fireplace, as if my empathy could somehow reassure her. Instead, it was the sound of her irregular chirping that reassured me.

The proper people were called in to help rescue the bird. When the flume was finally opened, the living room scattered with pieces from a torn-apart fireplace, there was nothing to be found inside. It was empty. The little bird had managed to fly out from the flume, freeing herself on her own accord.

If I hadn't sat down on the couch, I never would have heard the sound of her small chirp. Her problems would never have become my own. If I hadn't sat down on the couch, her predicament would have remained undiscovered. Yet, the result would have been the same—freedom. The little bird's plight was never meant to be my albatross to bear but, because I turned it into my own, we were both able to revel in her victory.

May I never have to hear another chirp where it doesn't belong again.

Strawberry Honey Oatmeal Bars are sweet and chewy. The bars bake up soft from the strawberry jam, yet hold together well making them extremely portable. I loved them hot from the oven, where the strawberry jam was thick and warm. However, they are just as good the second day, tasting better than the boxed cereal bars of a similar nature. I used this strawberry balsamic jam and they were fantastic.

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Strawberry Balsamic Jam

At the ripe age of twenty-three, I fear I'm becoming an old woman. It's a silly fear, I know. I'm not afraid of growing older (we all must go through it eventually), but I am afraid of skipping my thirties and forties and jumping straight into my sixties.

Over the last couple years, my habits have begun to betray me. I can't remember the last time I went out on a Friday night; and when I did, I was certain to be home before the strike of ten. My mother and I enjoy watching Hot in Cleveland together (and I find myself laughing louder and longer than her). I ask for kitchen appliances and dishware when the holidays roll around. I often wear vintage clothes and, to my dismay, more than once my students have loudly proclaimed I dress like an old lady (you have the same shoes as my grandmother!).

I suppose, in many ways, you could say I am already channeling the spirit of a seventy-five year old woman.

Maybe I wouldn't fear becoming an old woman if The Signs hadn't already arrived. As I sat down in the optometrist office last month, my eye doctor broke the news that my eyes were already getting cataracts. I have exactly three old lady veins—two in rather inconspicuous locations—but the last has the unfortunate position of running down the entire length of my nose (which my boyfriend so lovingly pointed out "looks bluer when I'm cold"). And, to spread the icing on the cake, I recently discovered I have laugh lines while tiredly looking at myself in the mirror.

I even talk like an old woman. Just the other night I caught myself telling my mother that I wished pants weren't so low cut and I hoped I could find a pair with a higher waist.

It's like a disease, I tell you. Old womanitis.

Despite my frivolous concerns towards aging, when I stumbled upon the quote above by Cassandra Clare, I did feel more at ease about myself. Beauty may fade, but cooking is forever. It's comforting to know that it doesn't matter whether my hair is gray or my hands are gnarled; I can make a mean chocolate chip cookie. In the end, I think that's what matters most. Food brings people together—it's a celebration of life and love.

When it comes down to it, I'd rather my legacy be lovely strawberry jam instead of a history of face lifts.

This strawberry jam is thick and sweet. Balsamic vinegar joins strawberries, lending a unique and enhancing flavor. The jam is thickened on the stove top until it reaches your desired consistency. This strawberry jam is perfect to spread on bread, crackers, or drizzle on top of ice cream.

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Strawberry Rhubarb Lemonade

There comes a day in every baker's life where absolutely nothing will go right. And I mean nothing. Perhaps it is the great Butter and Sugar god's way of telling you that you've had enough good fortune and it is time to share it with someone else. More likely, though, they look down at you from the marshmallow clouds and loathe you for your ability to make sweet treats so much that they curse you with bitter misfortune

This happened to me last Wednesday. It was a day so bad I can scarcely speak of it now, 4 days later. My mother told me this is one of those days I'm going to laugh about someday.

She's wrong.

Last Wednesday also happened to be my first blogiversay. I was supposed to be celebrating my love for pastry and heavy cream, but instead I spent most of it in meltdown mode, in tears over spilled cake. A little ironic, yes, but, as any food blogger would tell you, sometimes that's just how it goes.

I had originally set out to create a very elaborate meringue cake for you to celebrate one year of blogging. I prepped everything the night before and set out to assemble it in the morning. It was gorgeous. Stunning. Delicious. As I was wiping the last bit of stray chocolate from the cake stand to take photographs, it happened. The entire cake stand toppled over. I don't know how. I don't know why. I managed to catch the stand before it hit the table, but it was too late. The meringue collapsed, the layers slid, and 1/3 of the cake was sitting on the table.

A few choice words were said.

I was upset. It was my blogiversary. I needed to share something with you! It wouldn't be a blogiversary without cake!

In my stubborn fit of rage, I got in the car, drove to the nearest kitchen store, and bought myself a new cake stand. I went to the grocery store and bought more ingredients. Then I went back home and I spent the next four hours baking that damn cake. Again.

As I was assembling it, the bottom layer collapsed on one side. I sucked in my breath and tried to fix it up the best I could. It would have to do. After getting everything in place for the second time, I stood back to admire my work.

You won't believe what happened next. I still don't believe what happened next. What happened next isn't even physically possible.

The cake started melting.

It had become the Virgin Mary of cakes; I didn't even need to cry because my cake was crying tears of frustration for me. Sad, clear tears ran themselves down the sides of the cake. They pooled in the bottom of the cake stand, creating a puddle of misery. The layers weeped themselves right off the cake.

To put it simply, I had a meltdown. It wasn't pretty. Over $40 of cake was lying on the table or dripping onto the floor. My kitchen was an absolute disaster. And I still didn't have anything to share with you.

I had another four failed desserts that day. You can call me persistent. You can admire my determination. But, as it so happens, I just don't know when to throw in the towel. If there was any doubt before, you now know that I am undeniably not immune to (multiple) kitchen failures.

Sigh.

So it goes.

In this case, I think it's safe to say that when life give you lemons... make lemonade.

This strawberry rhubarb lemonade, however, is definitely not a kitchen failure. It is so light, intense, and unbelievably fruity. I had to stop myself from drinking the entire two quarts in one sitting. The strawberry notes in this lemonade really stand out. The sweetness of the strawberries is cut by the tartness of the rhubarb, creating this wonderful blend of flavors. This lemonade is such a bright, bold color that you just might find it difficult to look away. This is a drink you don't want to miss.

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