high-bar baking

Tomorrow my friend finds out where she matched for medical school. (Is match an acronym in this instance? Feels like something med schools would do). We know that she matched, nobody panic. She just finds out where. And I know this has been immensely trying for her (hi, why is this system this way, again?), but that’s she’s finally almost there, and that soon it won’t be able to hurt her anymore. It’ll just be. 

So no matter what the answer is tomorrow, first, I’ll still love her. But since that’s not something one can actually take to the bank, I’ll also be dropping off lemon bars. She loves lemon, and this is The lemon bar. 

For years I swore by the Martha Stewart lemon bars — the kids version. That was a confusing thing to not realize, because step one is “Have an adult grate the butter for the pastry crust,” and I was 19 years old looking around my kitchen wondering, “… is there a reason I have to go find Mom?” I’ve done a variant or two where you have to make and then bake lemon curd to go into a tart or a bar, and that’s always a disaster. This same friend, actually, had a birthday a few years ago (as so many do), and I remember collapsing in front of my oven sobbing over this lemon tart that would not set. I felt like such a failure; had I not followed all the steps correctly? Sometimes recipes don’t set you up to succeed. You’re ok, kiddo. It gets better. 

Then I discovered the secret magic: sweetened condensed milk. There’s a recipe in Two Chicks from the Sticks where the lemon bars have a graham cracker crust and are based around sweetened condensed milk. You just mix it all together, bake it, and voila: perfection. No tears. Ok, only the tears you bring with you. 

Then Sarah did me one better. Instead of a graham cracker crust, her recipe from 100 Cookies has an oat crust and topping (same dough, used half and half). I am such an oat girl. It’s easy, it bakes up beautifully, and I love it. The oats bring just the right amount of texture. It even doesn’t have egg in it, which is a thing that never mattered to me until I realized a work book club of three is going to keep being pretty awkward if I insist on bringing in treats one gal can’t eat. 

Downsides, i.e. the regret I am having in this moment: the bars have to chill for 4-6 hours in the fridge, after cooling on the countertop. So much for my dreams of having lemon bars tonight. Fear not, I’ll take my cut off the top before Med School gets her hands on them. 

It’s strange to make a recipe in which the instruction is “take the bars out when there’s no jiggle.” I understand it’s not an egg-based custard, but I’m very used to the prime direction of making sure there’s jiggle otherwise you might as well have never gotten out of bed this morning (paraphrasing a little). Let me tell you, I did a lot of jiggling of that pan, and I’m still not sure if I was in compliance or not. Your eyes invent a jiggle after a while! I had to eventually pull them because I knew I’d go too far otherwise. 

I had to pull out my mother’s trusting baking phrase, the one that rings in my head every single time I’m in the kitchen: “Call it! Time of death!” 

She’s not a doctor. She just watches a lot of dramas. It is, however, the perfect phrase for the task at hand. Sometimes, you just have to call it. Trust yourself. 

And good luck, Med School.