You know what’s the worst?
Staying up until midnight watching the Survivor finale and then having your phone alarm go off at 5:45.
Only your phone fell off your nightstand and under your bed and you have to scramble around and try to find it before the whole house wakes up and you have to workout with an audience.
And they totally call you out when you do girl pushups.
Also the worst? Getting icing caked on your jeans that you just washed for the first time in three months.
You know what’s the best?
Six days until Christmas.
No lunches to pack, no homework to do, no ballet practice, no pneumonia.
Making a gingerbread house with two of your favorite people in the whole world.
Also the best? These bars.
Gingerbread “Cliff” Bars
Makes 9 bars
- 1/2 c. oat flour (or old-fashioned oats, ground into a flour)
- 1/2 c. old-fashioned oats
- 1/2 c. vanilla protein powder + additional 3T. for icing
- 1 T. baking powder
- 1/2 t. salt
- 2 t. cinnamon
- 2 t. ginger
- 1/2 t. nutmeg
- 1/2 c. unsweetened applesauce
- 1/4 c. molasses
- 1 t. vanilla
- 1/2 c. non-dairy or organic milk + additional 1-2 T. for icing
- stevia to taste (optional)
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease or spray an 8×8 pan with cooking spray and set aside.
In a large bowl, combine oat flour, oats, protein powder, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg.
In a smaller bowl, combine applesauce, molasses, vanilla and milk.
Add applesauce mixture to oat mixture and stir until just combined. Add stevia to taste, if desired.
Pour mixture into baking pan and bake for 20-15 minutes, until bar is set and pulling away from edge of pan.
Allow to cool completely. You can expedite the process by popping the bars in the fridge or freezer.
For icing, mix together 3 T. of protein powder with 1-2 T. of milk to form a thick icing. Add stevia to taste.
Scoop icing into a resealable plastic bag and snip the corner with a pair of scissors.
Pipe icing across cooled bars and stick bars in fridge or freezer to allow icing to set, if desired.
Cut into squares. Store remaining bars in the fridge.
Have you tried the gingerbread Clif bars? I promise you, these are far, far tastier.
I know, because I took the one smack dab out of the middle. That’s my right.
They are sweet, spicy, cakey and even a bit doughy.
The icing makes them taste naughty, but they are oh so nice.
Do yourself a favor.
Do at least one real pushup. I know you can.
Build a gingerbread house. So what if it’s messy?
Make these bars. For breakfast. For dessert. Whatever.
Eat the middle one.
And wash your jeans, for goodness sake.
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Other Wannabe Recipeas:
Say what you will about Gigi, but that girl wears her heart on her sleeve. She gets it from me. If I get a paper cut, you’ll know about it, the thickness of paper that instigated the wound and the eight naturopathic remedies I’ve applied to ensure rapid healing. Aloe vera for the win.
Pea Daddy, on the other hand, internalizes things a bit more. I’m sure it has nothing to do with me or my listening and empathy skills. Nope.
Gigi came home last week with a scowl on her face, threw off her pink Chuck Taylor’s like they were on fire and sighed, long and loudly, as she threw herself on the couch.
“I am not wearing those shoes tomorrow!” she announced.
“Okay, how come?” I asked.
“I just don’t like them.”
“Did something happen at school today?” I knew full well something did and the shoes were probably getting framed.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
SIGGGGGGGGGGH.
“Okay, well, if you change your mind…” My voice trailed off as I headed to the kitchen to start dinner.
In no more than twenty seconds, Gigi stomped into the kitchen.
“They made us climb this big stupid rope in P.E. class today!” She spat out the words like they disgusted her.
I immediately burst into laughter, apologized for laughing, and then laughed some more.
And then I told her how I too had to climb the big stupid rope in P.E. class and never, not even once, made it off the ground far enough to slip a dollar bill underneath me. And when we had to do the stiff arm hang, I’d intentionally wear dresses so that I could sit out. The one time I was forced to scale the rungs up to that blasted bar, I think I got three seconds before I dropped to the cushy blue mat like those were the hardest three seconds of my life.
“I’m still terrible at that kind of thing, Gigi. I can’t even do a pull up, which is why I kind of hang on the mantle ever few days and try to pull myself up. Does that make me any less funny, any less nice, any less of a person?”
She shook her head no, but her face said, “No, that makes you weird.” She’s right.
“Mom,” she choked up, “I couldn’t even get to the black tape, and all the kids that did,” she gulped, “they got…certificates!”
She said “certificates” like they were fully loaded iPods in engraved cases rather than just silly pieces of paper.
Dinner had to wait.
I rummaged through the kitchen junk drawer, throwing aside expired coupons, old receipts, Allen wrenches and Chapstick and found a marker and a blank piece of paper.
I made a certificate.
As Gigi watched me scrawl across the paper, using a Dry-Erase pen I’d told her a dozen times not to use on regular paper, she beamed proudly.
I handed her the certificate, gave her a hug and told her that I loved her.
I went into make dinner, but glanced in the living room a few minutes later. She was huddled over the coffee table, writing with a responsibly chosen pen, right on her certificate.
She put down her pen and chasséd into the entryway, humming “The Dance of The Sugar Plum Fairies” as she went.
The suspense was killing me so I went in for a look.
Clearly I wasn’t specific enough.
Funny, because she hasn’t mentioned the rope or the “real” certificates since.
But there is another certificate hanging on her wall. And I cried proud tears of my own when I watched her on stage this weekend.
She was awesome.
Certifiably awesome.
