Dream a Little Dream

When I was a kid, we used to go to Tahoe every fall for our family vacation. (In reality, it was a week-long conference for our church, but since it used up all my parents' resources to go to it, they tried to turn it into a vacation as well. They did a pretty good job--we always looked forward to it and had a great time.)

One of the things I looked forward to every year was visiting the hippie shops in Tahoe City. I still have many of the souvenirs I collected over the years: three-inch-long laced-leather pony-tail holders, jewelry made out of feathers and abalone shells, incense burners, and books printed on handmade paper.

One of the best things about our pilgrimage was the food. We packed up all our favorites to take with us, and usually got to go out to eat once or twice during the week. It was also the only time my mom would let us go crazy with junk food.

There was a health food store in Tahoe City that we went to as often as possible. At the health food store, there was a special treat for sale--Dream Bars--a heavenly concoction of oats, sugar, and some other stuff that was probably mostly fat. I think dried apricots were part of it. We would each get one, and I would eat mine as slowly as possible, savoring the deliciousness. It was a long time ago, but I seem to remember that they were baked right there in town, and not available for wide distribution. No matter. The annual treat has its charms--something to look forward to and all.

When I was thirteen, we stopped going to that church, and there were no more trips to Tahoe.

I never had a Dream Bar again.

Since then, I have searched far and wide for a recipe or reasonable duplicate of the Dream Bar. I have eaten some pretty horrible tasting stuff that looked dreamy, but wasn't. I have downloaded recipes and baked my little heart out, only to find that the end result was only tasty--not dreamy at all.

You may think I was too young, or that it was all too long ago for me to be able to remember the taste of the Dream Bar. You'd be wrong. I remember that taste as clearly as I remember the time my appendix burst and the butchers at the hospital in Japan slashed open my abdomen and almost killed me. Just as the three-inch keloid scar is with me in the flesh, The Dream Bar is with me in spirit. Always. And it mocks me. My taste buds have been unfulfilled ever since.

And now comes the part where we all get out our calendars and make a mark. Friday, April 6. Good Friday takes on a whole new meaning for me. Yes, I found the Dream Bar! Sure, it was slightly different, lacking the cookie-textured bottom layer, and undergoing an incomprehensible name change to "Bobo's Oat Bar," but after thirty years of searching, you'd expect there to be a couple of changes. In essentials, though, it was The Dream Bar. And when I put my lips to it, I just knew.

Tears sprang to my eyes.

I let out a little sob.

Daltonboy looked concerned.

And I started babbling, "This is it! This is it!!"

I called my mom, even though I was on a date with my husband, and that's rude. I dispensed with the pleasantries and said, "I found the Dream Bar."

My mom said, "You're kidding! Where?!?"

Ha! Too bad she lives in California. She will have to order hers online and wait for days. I can have one within the hour if I want.

Is it a coincidence that that night I slept like a baby for the first time in weeks? I think not.

If you live in Utah County, you can find this delectable treat at The Good Earth. If you don't, I encourage you to go online and purchase a case for yourselves (I'd get the assorted pack, personally). And if, when you receive the bars, you don't find them as perfect as I do, please consider donating them to me as a birthday gift.

Note: Bobo's [Dreamy] Oat Bars do contain palm oil, which I refuse to consume under any other circumstances--even Newman's Own microwave popcorn, but willingly consent to eat as long as it's playing it's True Role. I'd rather die of heart failure than go without another Dream Bar ever again.

Ahem! May 7.