It is seemingly wrong to think these tasty little treats were floating through my mind as I was running tonight. Why on earth, after desiring to get back into the routine of things, since routine has been anything but present, did these fantastic, unrealistically good and party favored squares invade my concentration? Seriously, three word:. Mars-Bars-Squares. I am not making these any time soon, because they are just too dangerous. However, I am going to share this recipe and as I type, I will pretend I am baking them and that is all I can do this evening. Pretend.
Mars Bars Squares
From : Company’s Coming
4 Mars Candy Bars
½ cup Butter
3 cups Special K Cereal
1 ½ cups semi sweet chocolate chips
¼ cup Butter
How To Play:
Heat and stir candy bar pieces and first amount of butter in a large saucepan on low until smooth. Remove from heat.
Add cereal. Stir until coated. Press evenly in greased 9×9 inch pan.
Heat chips and second amount of butter in small saucepan on lowest heat, stirring often, until chips are melted. Spread evenly over cereal mixture in pan. Chill. Cuts into 36 squares or 4 really large ones…
Studying the lines purposely ingrained on my grandmother’s bed ridden face, I begin to see her face as a map, a path, a distance traveled and a life lived. The contour lines circling and encompassing, inform and remind me of the tragedies encountered, the murders, the rapes, and the lives taken gruesomely in the hands that rose in fearful pride during WW2. As her eyes rest, her breathing faint, I can’t escape the outlines of her defining jaw. Her infamous cheekbones have been worn like an asset, a prize, and a trophy. She passed the beauty of that onto a pedestal, a pedestal in which she put herself on, not on purpose, but by prejudice. It was the prejudice to survive and to save; to save herself from the snares of Hitler’s regime. It was a way to preserve herself from the New World’s biases and judgments and to keep her safe from the religious condemnations. She was not only a woman, but an orphan, a refugee, my descendant. A bloodline, saturated in richness, has clothed my bloodline like a gypsy, a disguise, an impostor. My grandmother, a victor and a mystery, can be compared to the outlines of her features. As I trace the same lines on my own face, I realize an approval I fought so hard for, maybe never to be given. A name, I lost, but a face I wear. My grandmother she is and her granddaughter I am. The lines lead to the inevitable chaos. To survive is to live and to live is to survive, and we do and we will. We continue to follow the maps from one bloodline to another, from one descendant to another, and from one hope to another until the dreams passed down reveal the mysteries and secrets hidden in the dark from one lifetime to another.