Raspberry Bars with Oatmeal Crumble Topping

Late February. The winter is loosening its grip, the way a fist unclenches one finger at a time. Not spring yet — Long Island does not do early springs — but the suggestion of spring, the faintest whisper of thaw in the afternoon air, the first crocus pushing through the frozen garden with the stubbornness of a flower that has not read the weather forecast and doesn't care.

I made Purim hamantaschen — the annual labor of love, four flavors, three days. Poppy seed (traditional), apricot (Sylvia's favorite), chocolate (David's favorite), prune (nobody's favorite, made out of obligation to the ancestors who ate prune filling because prune was what they had). Ethan helped me seal the corners. He is three and a half and his fingers are getting better at the pinching, though "better" is relative — his hamantaschen still look like someone sat on them — but the process is the education, not the product, and the process involves a boy standing on a step stool beside his grandmother, learning to fold dough, learning to fill cookies, learning without being taught that the kitchen is the classroom and the food is the lesson and the love is the grade.

Marvin ate hamantaschen and helped me read the Megillah, the Book of Esther, which we read at the synagogue on Purim in a raucous celebration that involves cheering the heroes, booing the villain, and making as much noise as possible, which is the opposite of every other synagogue service and which I adore. Judaism at its best is a religion that knows when to be solemn and when to be joyful, and Purim is joy — defiant, loud, cookie-eating joy. We were almost destroyed. We eat the ears of the man who tried. Pass the poppy seed.

I wrote about the defiance of joy on the blog — about Purim as a response to the recurring threat of annihilation, about how making cookies in the shape of your enemy's body parts is the most Jewish thing imaginable: violent in concept, domestic in execution, delicious in result. A reader named Sarah from Brooklyn wrote: "My grandmother called hamantaschen 'revenge pastries.' Your post reminded me why." Revenge pastries. I am adding this to my vocabulary. I am filing it next to "Jewish penicillin" in the lexicon of food-as-survival.

The hamantaschen are in tins, distributed to family and friends and neighbors. The Purim joy has been shared. The dough was folded. The ears were eaten. The defiance continues.

After three days of hamantaschen — four fillings, one small boy on a step stool, and enough poppy seed to honor every ancestor who never had apricot as an option — I still had raspberry jam left in the jar and oats in the canister and a kitchen that smelled like butter and holidays. These bars are what happens when the spirit of hamantaschen refuses to leave the room: same logic, same joy, same truth that the filling is never just the filling. Make them for a Purim tin, make them for a Tuesday, make them with someone whose hands are still learning to fold.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 35 minutes | Total Time: 50 minutes | Servings: 16 bars

Ingredients

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon fine salt
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 cup raspberry jam or preserves (good quality — this is the point)

Instructions

Heat the oven. Preheat to 350°F. Grease an 8x8-inch baking pan and line it with parchment paper, leaving an overhang on two sides so you can lift the bars out cleanly.
Make the crumble base. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, oats, both sugars, baking soda, and salt. Pour in the melted butter and vanilla and stir until the mixture holds together in loose, sandy clumps. It should look like good crumble topping — because half of it is.
Press the base layer. Transfer about two-thirds of the crumble mixture into the prepared pan. Press it firmly and evenly into the bottom — use the flat bottom of a measuring cup to get a tight, uniform layer. This is your foundation.
Spread the filling. Spoon the raspberry jam over the pressed base and spread it to the edges in an even layer. Leave just a thin border at the perimeter so the jam doesn’t burn against the pan.
Add the crumble topping. Scatter the remaining crumble mixture over the jam in an even layer. Press very gently — you want coverage, not a compressed lid.
Bake. Bake 32—36 minutes, until the top is deep golden brown and the jam is visibly bubbling at the edges. Your kitchen should smell like it knows what it’s doing.
Cool completely before cutting. This is not optional. Let the bars cool in the pan for at least 1 hour, then lift out using the parchment and cut into 16 squares on a cutting board. Warm bars fall apart; patient bars slice clean.

Nutrition (per serving)

Raspberry Bars with Oatmeal Crumble Topping — Because the Filling Is Always the Point