S'mores Bars — The Sweet End to a Summer Table That Keeps Growing

The lake does what the lake does. The blog gets written when the words come. The Thursday soup gets ladled. The grandchildren get fed. The rhythm holds. The rhythm is, I think, the great gift of this period of life — the kids stable enough that I can settle, my own grief settled enough that I can produce, the kitchen open enough that the family can come and go. Sophie's daughter Ingrid is walking now. She walked across the kitchen and grabbed my leg and looked up at me and said "Mor" — the Swedish for grandmother. Sophie is teaching her Swedish, or as much Swedish as Sophie remembers, which is enough for the basics. Ingrid said "Mor" with the perfect Swedish O, the rounded back-of-the-mouth O that only a child still learning sounds can pronounce. I cried. Sophie cried. The dog watched us with the patience of a saint. Sophie is pregnant again. Another baby. Due next year. I will be a great-grandmother of two. The cheat sheet on the refrigerator is going to need updating. I have a small piece of graph paper taped inside the pantry door with a family tree on it. I update it after every birth, every wedding, every death. The paper is folded at the corners now and slightly yellowed at the edges. The tree has many branches. The branches keep coming. I cooked Grilled summer feast this week. Burgers, brats, corn on the cob, potato salad, watermelon. The Independence Day spread. The Memorial Day spread. Repeated as needed. The Damiano Center: a regular named Marlene, who has been coming for twelve years, told me her granddaughter just had a baby. She was glowing. She had a photo on her phone. The phone was old and cracked but the photo was clear: a small pink baby in a hospital blanket. Marlene said: "I am a great-grandmother now. The same as you." I said: "Welcome to the club." We hugged. The line continues, even on the hard side of the soup line. Mamma's bread pans are on the shelf where they have always been. I used the smaller one this week. The metal has worn smooth in the places her hands touched it for sixty years. The pan is, in some real sense, a sculpture of Mamma's hands. I knead the bread in the bowl Mamma used. I shape it on the counter Mamma stood at (well, mine, but identical to hers — same Formica color, same dimensions). I bake it in the pan Mamma baked in. The kitchen is the relay. The relay continues. It is enough. Paul is not here. Mamma is not here. Pappa is not here. Erik is not here. They are all here in the kitchen, in the smell, in the taste, in the wooden spoon and the bread pans and the marble slab. The dead are not where the body went. The dead are in the kitchen. I have been blogging for years now. The blog began as something to do at night when sleep would not come. The blog has become — without my fully intending it — a small congregation. The readers come back. They read the recipes. They read the parts that are not recipes. They write to me sometimes. They tell me what they cooked. They tell me about their own kitchens, their own losses, their own continued cooking. The congregation is its own form of company. It is enough.

When I lay out the full Independence Day spread—the burgers, the brats, the potato salad, the watermelon—I want a dessert that feels like it belongs on that same table without asking anything more of me than the meal already has. S’mores Bars are that dessert: graham crackers and chocolate and marshmallow, pressed together in a pan, baked in the oven, no campfire required. Ingrid is too small to know what a s’more is yet, but she won’t be for long, and I want this recipe ready when the day comes that she asks me to make “the sticky ones, Mor.” The table keeps growing. The recipes grow with it.

S'mores Bars

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 30 min | Total Time: 45 min | Servings: 16

Ingredients

• 2 cups graham cracker crumbs (about 15 full crackers, crushed)
• 1/3 cup granulated sugar
• 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted
• 1/4 teaspoon fine salt
• 1 1/2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips
• 1 tablespoon heavy cream or whole milk
• 3 cups miniature marshmallows

Instructions

1. Preheat and prepare. Heat your oven to 350°F. Line a 9x13-inch baking pan with parchment paper, leaving an overhang on the long sides so you can lift the bars out cleanly.
2. Make the crust. Stir together the graham cracker crumbs, sugar, salt, and melted butter in a bowl until the crumbs are evenly moistened. Press the mixture firmly and evenly into the bottom of the prepared pan.
3. Bake the crust. Bake for 12–14 minutes, until the crust is set and just beginning to turn golden at the edges. Remove from the oven and let it rest for 5 minutes. Keep the oven on.
4. Melt the chocolate layer. Combine the chocolate chips and heavy cream in a small microwave-safe bowl. Microwave in 30-second bursts, stirring between each, until fully melted and smooth. Pour and spread evenly over the warm crust.
5. Top with marshmallows. Scatter the mini marshmallows in an even layer over the chocolate, covering it completely.
6. Bake and toast. Return the pan to the oven and bake for 10–12 minutes, until the marshmallows are puffed and golden on top. If you want deeper color, switch to the broiler for 60–90 seconds—watch closely, as they go from golden to burnt quickly.
7. Cool and cut. Let the bars cool completely in the pan, at least 1 hour, before lifting out and slicing into 16 squares. A knife dipped in warm water and wiped clean between cuts will give you tidy edges.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 265 | Protein: 2g | Fat: 13g | Carbs: 37g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 155mg