No, that’s not really true. I went to bed on a stomach full of perfectly good things like three-cheese tortellini tossed with roasted vegetables. I guess what I mean is that I went to bed with an empty heart. A heart that yearned–nay burned–for something more. And what was missing? What could I possibly desire with such an otherworldly intensity? A lemon bar. A silky, tangy, gooey ray of light to soothe my pregnant soul.
But it was not to be.
For one thing, when the craving hit it was past 10 PM and any conceivable lemon bar vendor was closed. So I looked to my own kitchen. Yes, it was true I had plenty of butter, sugar and even a glowing orb of hope sitting in my fruit basket. But I was exhausted. David had a test the next morning, which meant no demanding he put on my red-checked apron and learn how to make me some lemon bars. And as talented as our canine roommate means to be, he had worn himself out trying to interest our new handyman (who spent the evening hauling away a third of our storm-damaged tree) in playing with his squeaky penguin.
Shoot. I just realized I should have asked the handyman if he had any experience with baking. Next time, handyman. Next time.
So I did what any pregnant desperado would do–I tried to substitute what I really wanted (nirvana through butter) with something I had on hand, which happened to be a gorgeous bowl of pomegranate seeds. It almost did the trick. But I had to promise myself a silky smooth breakfast of what my heart desired.
So guess what I did first thing this morning? (Hint, it was not brushing my teeth.)
As I prepared to bake I congratulated myself on my excellent decision. But then the mania started. Here is an incomplete list of things that went wrong in the Welch Kitchen this morning:
- My original recipe vanished from the internet. Vanished.
- I realized I was missing my 8×8 pan
- Butter exploded in the microwave and dripped like a summer rainstorm when I opened the door
- Had the wrong size of eggs. This seems to matter
- Wiped a handful of caramelized red onions through my hair
And finally, as I lovingly pulverized an entire lemon to create the filling (try this!):
- My food processor sprang a leak and drowned my kitchen in a custardy river of disappointment.
And yet I carried on. I cobbled together extra ingredients. I fashioned a pan out of tin foil. I scraped filling off my counter. And somehow, somehow, they turned out. Gloriously. Hopefully. Tartly. I promptly served myself 1/3 of the pan and am now bathing in the afterglow of certain sugary bliss.
Here’s the recipe–best of luck to you. It was absolutely, one-hundred percent worth the effort.