Do you know the difference between “old-fashioned” and “classic”?

Because I’m gonna be honest... I kinda don’t. I feel like “old-fashioned” is what we call something until it gets cool again and then we’re like, “Oh no, darling, it’s a classic.” But I swear I’ve called the exact same dessert both things depending on my mood, the weather, or whether I remembered to put on real pants that day.

And this Strawberry Cream Cheese Icebox Cake? I’m just gonna go ahead and call it both. Classic in the sense that it’s creamy, dreamy, and nostalgic as heck. Old-fashioned in the sense that my mom and I  probably made a version of it in a Pyrex dish in 1984, possibly while wearing shoulder pads and listening to Pat Benatar.  Don’t you even think about judging me and my aqua net days.

But here’s the thing, folks: on this very fine Frosty Friday, which is our celebration of all things chilled, frozen, and otherwise refreshing—I kinda don’t care what we call it.

Because this cake?
It’s cold.
It’s pretty.
It’s pink.
It’s SO easy that even if your mixer breaks and you’re down to a whisk and sheer willpower, you can still pull it off.
And it tastes like strawberries, summer break, and sweet creamy love.

What Is an Icebox Cake Anyway?

If you’ve never had an icebox cake, let me explain it the way I would to my very confused children:

“It’s not really a cake... it’s a cake-shaped situation where cookies or graham crackers get layered with whipped cream or pudding or cream cheese or all of the above, and then you stick it in the fridge overnight and the crackers get soft and everything melds together into one big glorious dessert pillow.”

They usually nod politely, then ask if it has chocolate. This one doesn’t. But if you want to drizzle a little ganache on top, I promise I won’t call the dessert police.

Why This Icebox Cake Deserves a Spot in Your Fridge

This one is particularly special because:

• It’s no-bake. The oven stays off, your kitchen stays cool, and you stay sane.

• It uses cream cheese, which means it’s like cheesecake and ice cream had a delicious, no-commitment summer fling.

• There’s sweetened condensed milk, which is basically dessert magic in a can.

• Strawberries. Obviously.

Also, if you get halfway through and decide, “You know what? I don’t feel like layering all this nonsense,” you can STOP RIGHT THERE and churn the cream cheese mixture into a no-churn strawberry cheesecake ice cream. That’s right. This recipe doubles as an ice cream base. What a glorious time to be alive.

Strawberry Cream Cheese Icebox Cake

(aka The Frosty Friday Fridge Babe)

Ingredients:

• 2 cups heavy whipping cream

• 8 oz cream cheese, softened

• 1 (14 oz) can sweetened condensed milk

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• Pinch of salt

• 1 lb fresh strawberries, hulled and sliced

• 1 1/2 sleeves graham crackers (give or take—depends on your pan and snacky fingers)

• Optional: crushed freeze-dried strawberries or more fresh ones for topping

Instructions:

1. Whip It Real Good.
   In a large bowl (or stand mixer, if you’re feeling fancy), whip the heavy cream until soft peaks form. Set aside—you’ll fold it in later.

2. Creamy Dreamy Base.
   In another bowl, beat the cream cheese until smooth and fluffy. Add the sweetened condensed milk, vanilla, and salt. Beat again until fully combined and deliciously smooth. Try not to stick your face in the bowl. (But if you do, no judgment.)

3. Unite the Forces.
   Gently fold the whipped cream into the cream cheese mixture until no streaks remain. Boom. That’s your creamy filling. You are now halfway to icebox cake greatness.

4. Layer Up.
   In a 9x9-inch baking dish (or whatever you have that fits in your fridge), start layering like this:

   • A layer of graham crackers (break them to fit if needed)

   • A generous layer of the cream filling

   • A layer of sliced strawberries
     Repeat until you run out of things or reach the top. Make sure the final layer is cream and strawberries, because we like a dramatic finish.

5. Chill, Baby, Chill.
   Cover with foil or plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 6 hours, but overnight is best. The graham crackers need time to soften and become cake-like and magical.

6. Optional but Awesome: Dress It Up.
   Top with more strawberries, a drizzle of strawberry syrup, crushed freeze-dried strawberries, or even a whipped cream rosette if you’re feeling extra.

7. Serve Cold and Bask in the Compliments.
   Cut into squares and serve chilled. Try not to eat the whole thing standing in front of the fridge. Or do. Again, no judgment.

Wanna Make Ice Cream Instead?

Same base (cream cheese + condensed milk + vanilla), but skip the layering. Add in chopped strawberries or swirl in jam, then fold in the whipped cream. Freeze in a loaf pan or container until firm—4 to 6 hours. It scoops like a dream and tastes like summer vacation.

Final Thoughts from My Very Cold Heart

I know there are desserts out there with gold leaf and ten layers and torched sugar and spun clouds of elderflower foam. But sometimes? I want something I can throw together in under 20 minutes while I blast “Love Is a Battlefield” in the background.  I’m not cool people and I really never have been.

This Strawberry Cream Cheese Icebox Cake is not complicated. It’s not trendy. It’s probably old-fashioned, but it’s also definitely classic. And it is most importantly good.

So make it. Eat it. Freeze it. Turn it into ice cream. Add sprinkles if you want.
Just do what makes your frosty little heart sing.

Happy Frosty Friday, my friends. May your fridge be full and your desserts be chill. 💗🍓🧊

P.S. If you do know the difference between “old-fashioned” and “classic,” please explain it to me gently while handing me another slice of cake.

Well friends, it’s officially summer, which can only mean one thing: campfires, smores, and all the ooey gooey sugar bombs your sticky little heart desires. Or at least, that’s what it’s supposed to mean. But Colorado, in all her chaotic mountain glory, has other plans.

For reasons I cannot begin to explain (global warming? angry weather gnomes? Mother Nature needing a dramatic phase?), it has been raining for days. DAYS. Not the cute, romantic “let’s cuddle with a book and a warm drink” rain. Oh no. This is soggy, relentless, “did we move to Seattle and forget?” rain. And if it’s not raining, it’s windy. Not like “oh a breeze, how refreshing!” No. We’re talking hair-whipping, furniture-launching, toto-we’re-not-in-Kansas-anymore kind of wind. Fire pits? Campfires? HA. Unless we want to star in our own backyard disaster movie, absolutely not.

And yet, Ivy and I had one thing on our summer bucket list that we were not letting go of: smores.

We had visions. Marshmallows toasted to golden perfection, sandwiched between melty chocolate and graham crackers while the sun set and fireflies danced. Instead, we’ve got muddy shoes, frizzed hair, and an accidental science experiment growing in the backyard from all the standing water.

BUT I REFUSE TO GIVE UP. We are having smores, weather be damned.

Which brings us to the hero of this story: Smores Brownies. That’s right. When the world hands you lemons—or soggy lawn chairs—you make brownies. These babies are rich, fudgy, decadent, and full of all the smores flavor you crave, minus the mosquito bites and potential fire hazards. Also, I got a little wild and added caramel candies to the batter because why not? They melt in and disappear, but somehow make everything taste like you've leveled up your brownie game. You can’t see them, but your tastebuds know.

And now, the recipe that saved our summer:

Smores Brownies (aka Campfire Chaos Control Bars)

Ingredients:

• 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter

• 6 oz semi-sweet chocolate, chopped (or 1 cup chocolate chips if you’re like me and too lazy to chop)

• 1 cup granulated sugar

• 2 large eggs

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• 1/4 tsp salt

• 1/2 cup all-purpose flour

• 1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

• 1 cup mini marshmallows

• 1/2 cup chocolate caramel candies (I used the salted dark chocolate caramels from Sam's Club and cut them into fourths.)

• 4 graham crackers, crushed (plus a little more for sprinkling if you're feeling fancy)

• Optional: extra chocolate chips or chunks for topping because this is a judgment-free zone

• This can easily be doubled (which is what I did) and baked in a 9x13 pan.  Go for it!

Instructions:

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Line an 8x8 baking dish with parchment paper or foil, and spray it with non-stick spray unless you enjoy chipping brownies out of the pan like archaeological ruins.

2. Melt the butter and chocolate together in a saucepan over low heat, stirring constantly so it doesn’t burn. Once smooth and glossy, remove from heat and let it cool for a couple of minutes so you don’t accidentally scramble your eggs. Ask me how I know. Go ahead. Ask.

3. Whisk in the sugar, eggs, vanilla, and salt until the mixture is smooth and glossy again. At this point it should look so good you’ll consider just eating it with a spoon. Don’t. Yet.

4. Sift in the flour and cocoa powder (or dump it in with reckless abandon, I won’t judge), and stir until just combined.

5. Fold in the caramel candies and crushed graham crackers. Pour the batter into your prepared pan and smooth the top.

6. Sprinkle mini marshmallows on top like you’re a marshmallow fairy. You can also add extra chocolate and graham bits here if you’re going for full dramatic effect, which obviously we are.

7. Bake for 25–30 minutes, or until the center is just set and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out with fudgy crumbs (but not batter!). Keep an eye on those marshmallows toward the end so they get toasty but not charred.

8. Cool completely in the pan if you have the patience of a saint. Or do what I do and dive in while they’re still warm and the marshmallows are gooey and stringy and you’ve got chocolate on your shirt. Again.

These brownies are next-level good. Like “eat one, then stand at the counter and silently eat another while no one’s watching” good. Ivy and I may or may not have polished off half the pan while watching trash TV and complaining about the weather. Honestly, it was the most summery moment we’ve had all week.

And the best part? No bug spray required. No fire-starting skills needed. Just a craving, a whisk, and a bit of “I’m not letting this dumb weather win.”

So whether your summer’s looking like a postcard or more like a weather-themed horror show, give these Smores Brownies a try. You deserve that marshmallowy, chocolatey, caramel-kissed goodness.

And if the sun comes out while they’re baking? Even better. Take one outside, lift it to the sky, and say “nice try, weather. But I’ve got brownies.”

Let me know if you try them! And if you live somewhere where the sun is shining and the weather is mild, please know that I’m happy for you. Mostly.

Love and chocolate fingers,
Christine 🖤

Okay, let’s just start this off right: I am not above store-bought shortcuts. Especially when those shortcuts come in the form of flaky, buttery puff pastry that saves me from turning my kitchen into a yeast-based emotional rollercoaster.

Miss Ivy, my darling daughter with a memory like a steel trap (except where she left her phone), has been dreaming—DREAMING—about the cinnamon rolls we had on our road trip to Arizona this past March. You know the kind: warm, gooey, swirled with cinnamon-sugar goodness and somehow simultaneously light and rich. She swears they were made with puff pastry, and after going on a Pinterest bender of epic proportions, she presented me with approximately 27 nearly identical “copycat” recipes. All with the enthusiasm of someone who’s positive we can recreate a magical vacation snack with nothing but a thawed sheet of pastry and sheer will.

And you know what?

We totally can.

Because what my girl wants, my girl gets. And also—I mean this sincerely—these puff pastry cinnamon twist buns are outrageously good. They’re crispy and sticky and soft in all the right places. The cinnamon-sugar caramelizes at the edges like magic. And with cream cheese frosting? Baby. We’re in bakery territory.

Honestly, this is less of a recipe and more of a how-to for winning brunch, making your child happy, and tricking people into thinking you studied under an intimidating French pastry chef named Marcel. Spoiler: you didn’t. You just bought puff pastry from the freezer section and used your hands like God intended.

Let’s do this.

✨ Puff Pastry Cinnamon Twist Buns with Cream Cheese Frosting

Makes: 8–10 twisty, gooey, gorgeous buns

Time: About 30 minutes, unless you count thawing time in which case... don’t

🧈 Ingredients:

For the cinnamon filling:

• 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

• 1/3 cup brown sugar (light or dark, I’m not judging)

• 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

• Pinch of salt

For the buns:

• 1 box of frozen puff pastry (2 sheets), thawed

• 1 egg, beaten (for egg wash, optional but fancy)

• A little extra sugar to sprinkle (because sparkle)

For the cream cheese frosting:

• 4 oz cream cheese, softened

• 1/2 cup powdered sugar

• 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

• 1–2 tablespoons milk, as needed to thin

👩‍🍳 Instructions:

1. Preheat your oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. This is not the time to test your pan’s nonstick abilities. Cinnamon sugar glue is real and unforgiving.

2. Make your cinnamon filling. In a bowl, mash together the softened butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, and salt until it looks like gritty, delicious mud. Try not to eat it all with a spoon (I failed this test).

3. Unfold one sheet of puff pastry on a lightly floured surface. Gently roll it out just a smidge if needed to smooth any creases.

4. Spread half of the cinnamon filling onto the pastry. Edge to edge, people. Every bite deserves love.

5. Lay the second sheet of pastry right on top. Like a buttery little cinnamon sandwich.

6. Cut into strips. About 1 inch wide. You’ll get 8 to 10 depending on your geometry skills and commitment to even spacing.

7. Twist! Grab each strip and give it a few twists like you’re wringing out a tiny towel. Lay them on the baking sheet with some space between, because puff pastry likes to do just that—PUFF.   You can stick with them like this, but for that cinnamon roll feel, I rolled them up pinwheel style.  So pretty!

8. Brush with egg wash if you want that golden glow-up. Sprinkle with a little extra sugar if you want to sparkle like a culinary unicorn (you do).

9. Bake for 18–22 minutes, or until puffed, golden, and your kitchen smells like a cinnamon-scented candle’s much more delicious cousin.

10. While they bake, make your frosting. Beat the cream cheese until smooth, then mix in powdered sugar and vanilla. Thin with milk a bit at a time until it’s drizzleable but still lush. Try not to bathe in it.

11. Drizzle that glorious frosting all over the warm buns. Or serve it on the side for dipping. Or both. Live your best life.

🌀 Some Tips, from My Questionable Life Experience:

• Thaw your puff pastry in the fridge overnight if you’re a planner. If you’re not (hi, friend), you can leave it on the counter for about 30 minutes but keep an eye on it—it goes from frozen to melted and sad real fast.

• Don’t skip the salt in the filling. It makes everything pop and makes you feel like you’re in a pastry competition show. “Oh, that hint of salt!” the judges will say, probably.

• If you want to prep these ahead, twist and chill the unbaked buns in the fridge for a few hours before baking. Brunch party trick = unlocked.

These puff pastry cinnamon twist buns are like the culinary equivalent of showing up to a potluck in an amazing outfit you totally found on sale. Impressive, effortless, and worthy of compliments that you can accept with fake humility.

Miss Ivy declared them “basically perfect” after devouring two and licking frosting off her fingers like it was a competitive sport. She swears they taste just like the ones from our Arizona trip, which honestly feels like the highest compliment. There’s something kind of magical about taking a bite of something and being transported—back to a road trip, a memory, a bakery off a dusty highway where cinnamon dreams came true.

So yes. It’s a little recipe. It’s a little nostalgia. It’s a little sneaky shortcut. And it’s a lot of delicious.

Make them. Share them. Take a photo while the frosting’s still dripping and pretend you slaved away for hours. I won’t tell.

P.S. If you want to impress someone this weekend—your family, your friends, your future self—bake a batch of these, make some coffee, and bask in the glory of being the kind of person who makes fancy-looking treats on a whim. Or at least pretends to. 😎

The other day, while minding my own business and definitely not eavesdropping on the girls at work when, I heard one of them say, “I don’t really like cookies.”

Pause for dramatic effect.

I gasped. Internally. I didn’t want to startle anyone in the office or make the my co-workers think I was about to flip their table in defense of baked goods. But my cookie-loving heart shattered into bite-sized pieces.

But then, in the spirit of journalistic curiosity—and because they were talking really loudly—I kept listening. What they were really saying was, “There are just some cookies I don’t like.”

Okay. Phew. Less dramatic, but still mildly offensive.

I mean, sure, I guess we’re all allowed our personal tastes. Some people don’t like raisins in cookies. That’s understandable—raisins do have a sneaky way of pretending to be chocolate chips, and that kind of betrayal cuts deep. And maybe you’ve had one too many hockey-puck-esque gluten-free monstrosities posing as “healthy cookies” and now you live in fear. Again, I get it. Cookie trauma is real.

But then one of them said—and I quote—“I don’t like Peanut Butter Cookies.”

Reader, I almost cried at my desk.

Peanut. Butter. Cookies.

Who hurt you?

I don't mean to be dramatic (which is a lie—I absolutely do), but this felt like finding out someone doesn’t like puppies. Or naps. Or joy. Peanut butter cookies are the backbone of the American cookie canon. They’re soft, a little chewy, lightly crumbly, just salty enough, and packed with roasted peanutty goodness. If cookies had a comfort food category, peanut butter would be the lead singer, the star quarterback, and prom queen all in one. Like I used to dunk hunks of chocolate into the peanut butter jar as my afternoon snack. (Ahhh, those days when I had a metabolism…)

So, I made a decision. A heroic, selfless, not-at-all-cookie-craving decision.

I was going to bake a batch of classic peanut butter cookies and offer one to the peanut-butter-cookie-hater. Not in an aggressive “taste this or else” kind of way—although, let’s be honest, that was the energy—but more in a “let me right a wrong done to your taste buds” kind of way.

Mostly, I just wanted an excuse to bake them. And eat them. A lot of them. Ivy was in full support. When I told her my plan, she wanted my assurance that she’d be getting the lion share of the cookie bounty.  No worries big girl, I got you!

But before I give you the recipe that just might save a soul today, let me be clear about one thing:

Crumbl is overrated.

There. I said it. I know this might get me banned from certain influencer brunches, but I stand by it. $5 for a cookie the size of a salad plate that tastes like it was made by someone who read the idea of a cookie in a dream once? No thank you. I’d rather have a good, honest, homemade cookie made with love, a little bit of self-doubt, and that don’t need 7 pounds of frosting and extras to hide under.

Also, boxed cookies? Let’s be real: boxes are where cookies go to die. They’re the stale echo of what once was a glorious treat. A box of cookies is like texting your ex at 2 a.m.—regret comes quickly and tastes a little like cardboard.

So now that I’ve insulted major cookie conglomerates and alienated people who are just trying their best with Chips Ahoy, let’s move on to the good stuff.

Classic Peanut Butter Cookies (a.k.a. the Redemption Round)

Ingredients:

• 1 cup creamy peanut butter (none of that “natural oil separation” situation—it messes with the texture)
• 1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 1/2 cup packed brown sugar
• 1 large egg
• 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• Optional: extra sugar for rolling, chocolate chips if you're feeling wild

Instructions:

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or, if you’re like me and out of parchment, the back of a Trader Joe’s bag (desperate times).
2. Cream together the peanut butter, butter, granulated sugar, and brown sugar. This is a good arm workout unless you’ve finally forgiven yourself for not using the stand mixer that’s gathering dust in your cabinet.
3. Add the egg and vanilla. Beat until it’s smooth and your batter looks like the kind of thing you’d eat with a spoon even though you know there’s raw egg in it.
4. In a separate bowl, whisk together flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Or just dump it all in and pretend you’re whisking it mid-pour—no judgment.
5. Combine the dry with the wet until just mixed. If it gets a little crumbly, use your hands. If it’s perfect, congratulations—you win today’s bake-off.
6. Roll the dough into 1-inch balls and (optional but highly encouraged) roll in granulated sugar.
7. Place on baking sheet and gently press down with a fork in a crisscross pattern. This is the universal peanut butter cookie symbol. It's basically a handshake for your oven.
8. Bake for 9–11 minutes until edges are lightly golden. The centers will look a little underbaked—trust the process. They’ll set up as they cool.
9. Cool on a wire rack or, if you’re me, eat three straight from the tray and wonder why your mouth feels like it just ran a peanut butter marathon.

So now it’s your turn. Skip the box. Skip the over-frosted, neon-sprinkled calorie bricks. Go bake some cookies that taste like a hug from someone who remembers your birthday and never judges your fourth trip to the fridge.

Bake them for someone who doesn’t like peanut butter cookies, but if they’re like Zander (ARFID follows its own rules) be nice if they politely decline. There’ll be more for you! Bake them for yourself. Bake them for your next door neighbor. But bake up a batch right away.

And when you do, just know: you’re sharing a classic.

A chewy, golden, salty-sweet classic that tickles the tastebuds—one crisscrossed cookie at a time.

Ok friends, let’s take a moment to acknowledge a universal truth: Martha Stewart is Hall of Fame for a reason. She’s cooler than most of us will ever be—like, I’m not friends with Snoop Dogg, are you? No? Yeah, same. Martha’s over here aging in reverse, hanging out with rap royalty, and casually dominating every corner of the domestic arts while we’re over here Googling things like “how to clean burnt stuff off a pan” and “is mold on cheese really bad?”

The woman is the GOAT. She probably folds fitted sheets in her sleep. She’s everything I aspire to be—except I don’t think she’s ever melted a plastic spatula because she left it on the stove while she “just quick checked” Instagram. Allegedly. Not that I’ve done that. Recently.

Anyway, I’ve been in a spring slump lately—the kind where you keep telling yourself you’ll go outside when it’s warmer, but then it is warmer and you still somehow end up curled up on the couch, zoned out half watching the cubs and half zombie scrolling Instagram.  What?  Just me?  

So I decided to bring some literal sunshine into my kitchen. What better way than lemon bars? They're sweet, they're tangy, they’re yellow (nature’s serotonin), and let’s be honest, they’re also a great excuse to eat what is essentially citrus pie for breakfast, lunch, and an afternoon pick-me-up. #NoRegrets

So I started the hunt for the perfect lemon bar recipe. You know, the kind that’s not overly fussy. I didn’t want to separate 9 eggs, zest lemons harvested exclusively on a Tuesday under a waxing gibbous moon, or channel Ina Garten’s energy and use “really good” butter that costs more than my mortgage.

I went down the rabbit hole. I sifted (metaphorically and physically) through cookbooks, food blogs, and a lemon-enthusiast Reddit thread I’m still not sure wasn’t a cult.

And then I realized… DUH. Martha. Of course Martha Stewart has the perfect lemon bar recipe. Probably written in cursive with gold ink while she hand-pressed lemons into crystal bowls or something.

I went to her site, and sure enough: there it was. The sunshine bar I was searching for. It didn’t require 47 steps. It wasn’t going to take up my entire weekend. It was just right. Not too sweet, not too tart, just classic, creamy, citrusy magic on a shortbread crust.

I made them. I wept a little. My family tried them and didn’t ask if there was a “backup dessert.” Even my cat looked impressed, which is saying something because she once stared judgmentally at me for eating peanut butter out of the jar. (Rude.)

And now, because I care deeply about your happiness and I want you to spend less time recipe hunting and more time eating lemon bars with your face in the sun like a happy lizard, I present to you:

The Perfect Creamy Lemon Bars (courtesy of her Highness of the Kitchen, Martha Stewart)

Ingredients

• ½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature, plus more for pan

• ½ cup confectioners' sugar, plus more for dusting

• ¼ teaspoon salt

• 1 cup all-purpose flour, (spooned and leveled)

• 4 large egg yolks

• 1 can (14 ounces) sweetened condensed milk

• ¾ cup fresh lemon juice (from about 3 lemons)

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Line a 9-by-13-inch baking pan with parchment paper or foil, leaving a little overhang on the sides so you can lift the bars out later like the kitchen wizard you are.

2. Make the crust:
   In a medium bowl (or the bowl of a stand mixer if you’re into that kind of thing), cream together the butter and confectioners sugar until light and fluffy. Add the flour and salt, and mix until crumbly and well combined—kind of like wet sand that’s really into carbs.  Don't over mix my friends, you want your shortbread to be tender and dreamy.

3. Press the dough into your pan. Get in there with your fingers or the bottom of a measuring cup. Prick it all over with a fork.  Bake for 18-20 minutes, until lightly golden. This is your buttery shortbread base, aka the edible plate for your lemon dreams.

4. Make the filling:
   While the crust is baking, whisk together the eggs yolks, sweetened condensed milk and lemon juice in a bowl. Pro tip: don’t use a tiny bowl here or you’ll end up with lemon goo on your counter and a tiny existential crisis.

5. Pour the filling onto the hot crust. That’s right—don’t wait for it to cool. The crust is like, “Bring it on,” and the filling is like, “Here I come,” and together they become something magical.

6. Bake for another 20-25 minutes, or until the center is set and doesn’t jiggle like it’s auditioning for a Jell-O commercial.

7. Cool completely. Seriously. Don’t try to cut into them while they’re hot unless you want lemon soup. Once cool, cover them in plastic wrap and stick them in the fridge for 24 hours at least to fully set.  I know, you want them now, but a little delayed gratification is the path to lemon bar heaven!  Carefully lift them out using the parchment overhang and cut into squares or rectangles or hearts or whatever shape feels spiritually correct to you.  

8. Dust with confectioners' sugar, take a dramatic photo for Instagram (don’t forget the filter that makes it look like you live in a French cottage), and devour.

Final Thoughts (and Mild Lemon Bar Addiction Warnings)

I’ve now made these lemon bars three times in two weeks. My neighbors are suspicious of my motives. My cat thinks lemon bars are a new food group. I’m not saying they changed my life, but I’m also not not saying that.

Martha, if you’re reading this (and let’s pretend she is because why not?), thank you for blessing us mortals with this recipe. You didn’t have to go that hard, but you did. And we are all better—and slightly more lemony—because of it.

So if you’ve got a bowl, some lemons, and the will to make something that tastes like spring got a glow-up, you know what to do.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to make another batch “just in case.” (In case of what? Don’t worry about it.)

Stay zesty, friends. 🍋

Let me just start by saying something that might get me uninvited from future bake sales: I love oatmeal cookies. Like, actually love them. And yes, I mean oatmeal cookies with chocolate chips. Although I'll still eat the raisin ones too.  Like I said, I love oatmeal cookies!

And apparently, this makes me a walking controversy. For some weird reason, oatmeal cookies are divisive. Like pineapple-on-pizza-level divisive. (Which I also love and will totally blog about later!) How a sugary confection can bring out such vitriol in people I will never know!

Case in point: Every time I so much as mention oatmeal cookies in my house, Miss Ivy and Zander immediately go full Bob’s Burgers on me:

Gene: “Unless you have some cookies! And not the oatmeal ones!”
Louise: “Never the oatmeal ones!”
Gene: “Yeah!”

Every. Single. Time.

It’s like they’re pre-programmed. Pavlov rang a bell, and my kids quote Bob Belcher. I get it, okay? Oatmeal cookies have a bad rep. Somewhere along the line, someone decided to cram a perfectly good cookie full of sad little raisins, told kids it was healthy and passed it off as dessert. Trauma ensued.

But I’m here to reclaim the oatmeal cookie's honor. Because let me tell you—done right, they are DELICIOUS. We’re talking crispy edges, soft and chewy centers, and glorious, chocolatey clusters throughout. These aren’t the “you’ll eat them last when the good cookies are gone” kind. These are “hide them in a Tupperware container labeled ‘frozen spinach’ so no one else finds them” kind.

So whether you’re already on Team Oatmeal or you’ve been burned by a dried fruit betrayal, I invite you to try my go-to Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cookie recipe. I promise—this one might even win over the Belcher children. And if not, hey—I’ve got Miss Ivy and Zander here to fight over the leftovers.

My Ride-or-Die Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cookie Recipe

Ingredients:

• 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

• 1 cup packed brown sugar

• 1/2 cup granulated sugar

• 2 large eggs

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

• 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

• 1 teaspoon baking soda

• 1/2 teaspoon salt

• 3 cups old-fashioned rolled oats (not the instant kind!)

• 1 1/2 cups semisweet chocolate chips (or chop up a good dark chocolate bar if you’re feeling fancy)

Optional (but recommended if you want to be extra):

• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon (just a whisper of spice)

• A sprinkle of flaky sea salt on top (yes, we're being bougie and proud)

Directions:

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone mat. Or don’t, and live dangerously. Just don’t blame me when the cookies glue themselves to your pan like clingy toddlers.

2. In a large bowl, cream the butter and both sugars together until it’s light and fluffy. You want it looking like the kind of frosting you’d sneak a spoonful of when no one’s looking.

3. Add the eggs and vanilla, and mix until everything is a lovely, creamy mess.

4. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, and salt (plus cinnamon if you’re using it). Add this dry mix to your wet ingredients a bit at a time, mixing slowly unless you want a flour facial.

5. Stir in the rolled oats like the cookie rebel you are. Then fold in the chocolate chips. And maybe sneak a few for quality control purposes. It’s tradition.

6. Scoop out hefty tablespoons of dough onto your baking sheet, spacing them about 2 inches apart. These cookies like their personal space.

7. If you're feeling fancy, give each dough blob a tiny sprinkle of sea salt. The sweet-salty combo is a game-changer.

8. Bake for 10-12 minutes, or until the edges are just golden and the centers look almost set. They’ll firm up as they cool. Trust the process.

9. Let them cool on the baking sheet for a few minutes before transferring to a wire rack—if you can wait that long. I usually burn my mouth on the first one. No regrets.

The Verdict

Are these cookies going to change the world? Probably not. But could they change someone’s opinion about oatmeal cookies? Very possibly. At the very least, they’ll win over your kids. Or your coworkers. Or yourself at midnight when you “accidentally” wander into the kitchen for a glass of water.

And hey, if Gene and Louise still want to throw shade, I’ll just be over here eating cookies and quoting Tina:

“Your ass is grass and I’m gonna mow it.”

...with love. And cookies.

I was born in the 70s, which means I’m Gen X all the way. We’re the latchkey kids, the ones who survived metal-tipped lawn darts, a complete lack of seatbelts, and whatever was actually in those “Tang” packets. Now, I firmly believe that there are a lot of things from the 70s that need to stay in the past. Avocado-colored appliances? No, thank you. Carpet in the bathroom? That’s a crime against humanity. But two things from that era need to live forever: The Bee Gees and carrot cake.

They’re just classics!

So how deep is my love for carrot cake? (See what I did there?) I love it soooo much. And the 70s girl in me likes it with raisins and nuts, just like my mom used to make it. But if that’s not your vibe, you can totally skip them. I won’t judge. (Okay, maybe a little. But only silently.)

Before we dive into the recipe, let’s talk high-altitude baking. If you live up in the clouds like I do, you know that baking at elevation is basically a science experiment with unpredictable results. Cakes rise too fast, dry out, or end up sinking in the middle like a tragic dessert crater. But don’t worry—I’ve got you covered. This recipe has been adjusted for high-altitude success, so you can enjoy a moist, perfectly spiced carrot cake without any baking-induced existential crises.

High-Altitude Carrot Cake (aka: The Greatest Cake of All Time)

Ingredients:

For the cake:

• 2 ½ cups all-purpose flour

• 2 cups granulated sugar

• 1 teaspoon baking soda

• 1 ½ teaspoons baking powder (reduced for altitude)

• ½ teaspoon salt

• 1 ½ teaspoons cinnamon

• ½ teaspoon nutmeg

• 3 large eggs

• ¾ cup vegetable oil

• ¾ cup buttermilk

• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract

• 2 cups finely grated carrots (about 3-4 large carrots)

• ½ cup crushed pineapple, drained

• ½ cup chopped pecans or walnuts (optional, but you know you want them)

• ½ cup raisins (also optional, but let’s be real, they belong here)

For the cream cheese frosting:

• 8 ounces cream cheese, softened

• ½ cup unsalted butter, softened

• 3 ½ cups powdered sugar

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

• Pinch of salt

Instructions:

1. Preheat & Prep: Preheat your oven to 350°F (or 325°F if you’re over 5,000 feet). Grease and flour two 9-inch round cake pans (or line with parchment because you are a person who values your sanity).

2. Mix Dry Ingredients: In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg. This is the part where you feel like a scientist.

3. Mix Wet Ingredients: In another bowl, whisk the eggs, oil, buttermilk, and vanilla. Pour this into the dry ingredients and stir until just combined. Don’t overmix! Carrot cake batter should never be overworked—it’s chill, like a Bee Gees ballad.

4. Add the Good Stuff: Fold in the grated carrots, pineapple, nuts, and raisins (if you’re using them). Try not to eat the batter. I mean, do what you want, but salmonella is not a good time.

5. Bake: Divide the batter between the cake pans and bake for 30-35 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Let them cool in the pans for about 10 minutes, then turn them out onto a wire rack to cool completely.

6. Make the Frosting: Beat the cream cheese and butter together until smooth and dreamy. Add the powdered sugar, vanilla, and salt, and beat until fluffy. Try not to just eat it with a spoon. (Or do. No judgment.)

7. Frost & Enjoy: Spread that luscious frosting between the cake layers and over the top. Decorate with extra nuts if you’re feeling fancy, or just dive right in.  ( I actually like to go thin on the sides and big fluffy piping on the top, but you make this your way!)

And there you have it! A high-altitude carrot cake worthy of its legendary status. Moist, flavorful, and loaded with nostalgia, just like the music of The Bee Gees. So put on Stayin’ Alive, cut yourself a generous slice, and bask in the glory of a cake that—unlike macrame plant hangers—should never go out of style.

Now, go bake this cake. You know you want to!