Hauling items for Trash Christmas out of my creepy basement [Photo: Amy Allender]
One Man’s Trash…
Something magical week is nearly upon us in the Magic City. It’s that special time of year that yields surprises, laughter, and neighborly cheer. It’s an emotional rollercoaster of loss, joy, victory and disappointment. It’s one of the traditions I found incredibly odd when I was a naive newcomer, and one that has become something I await with anticipation.
I’m talking about Spring Clean Up Week. Or as I like to call it: Trash Christmas.
If you’re new, let me fill you in. Minot holds two Clean Up Weeks each calendar year, one in the spring and one in the fall. During these weeks you can put nearly anything out on your curb and the city will come collect it for you. Large items you’d normally need to haul to the dump or arrange for pickup (for a fee) are taken away free of charge. It’s a great service to the community.
But like most things in Minot, this bulk-waste collection has quirks.
Clean Up Week is really a thinly veiled chance for us pick through one another’s cast offs.
I was caught off guard during my first Clean Up Week. I’d see cars slowly driving around the neighborhood, stopping to survey discarded items along the curb. At first I thought it was an isolated incident. But then I noticed car after car doing the same thing. Spring and fall they came, sifting through furniture, shelving units, grills and cabinets. They came in pickups, beaters, nice SUVs and family vans. All kinds of people, all walks of life.
That’s when I realized: looking at each other’s junk during Clean Up Week is a thing here. This is something people do around here. Is this place for real?
The learning curve of life in Minot can be awfully steep sometimes.
Once I realized Clean Up Week was an unglorified thrift-fest, I skeptically got on board. When I pulled over to put a metal shelf for my basement in the back of my Equinox, I felt awkward and uncivilized.
Is this really okay? Shouldn’t I pay someone for this?
“Need help loading that?” a man across the street hollered.
“No. It just seems weird. I just take it?” I replied.
“Yep. It’s all going to the dump, otherwise. Better you using it than sitting in the landfill, right?”
He was right.
I dubbed the event, Trash Christmas — a name which has stuck so well, my four year old son frequently asks if Trash Christmas is coming soon, and what we have to put out for Trash Christmas.
We have gotten a lot of mileage out of a sandbox I scored at last Spring Trash Christmas. [Photo: Amy Allender]
Once you know that Clean Up Week is really Trash Christmas, your perspective changes. Suddenly, you’ll feel a little disappointed if no one even stops to look at your curb pile. They took Janet’s plastic planters, but no one is even stopping to consider the only partially broken cabinet from our bathroom remodel?
…is Another Man’s Treasure
You’ll feel the adrenaline rush of discovering a perfectly good — if very faded — Fisher Price picnic table while out on a walk. Will it still be there when you come back with a car? While driving back, you notice a nearly pristine garden bench. You only have room for one. Do you take the bench, betting the picnic table has already been snatched? Do you gamble leaving the bench in hopes you’ll have outdoor seating for your kids? How will you choose? And, wait — is that a carry-on suitcase across the street? Could that bit of red be a Little People barn down the block?
The excitement rivals that of Daryl’s Racing Pigs at the state fair or passive aggressively vying for books at the library sale.
A friend asked if I could pick up these Little People castles during Fall Trash Christmas when she couldn’t get there before the city collection date. [Photo: Amy Allender]
Trash Christmas has given me shelving units, a grill, the blackout curtains hanging in my bedroom (still in their package with tags on!), benches for my yard, a Fisher Price work bench for my kids. It’s magical. You never know what you’ll see out there.
Trash Christmas brings out the best of our thrifty Midwest ways and I’m here for it. Let it bring out your inner dumpster diver. And if you just can’t do it, please remember to bring your unwanted junk to the curb so the rest of us can see if we need any of it. At the very least, grab a soda and watch as cars crawl through neighborhoods and drivers crane their necks to get a good look at what might be sitting along the street.
To connect with me further or let me in on any good trash piles, join me on Instagram @amy_allender or on Facebook @amyallenderblog.
On Saturday, Minot’s teenagers will dress to the nines and scoot off to prom. Which means, this the perfect time to chat about an outsiders take on Hot Dish prom.
Before going further, let me be candid. I love prom. Though my prom years are long passed, I still carry an affinity for the formal wear, flowers and late 90s/early 2000s movies with elaborate prom scenes.
When we first moved to Minot, my husband and I volunteered with our church youth group. As spring drew near, I got excited just thinking about how fun it would be to have high school girls to chat about prom with. I’d live vicariously through photos of their dresses and Pinterest boards of hairstyles and jewelry. It would be nostalgic and girly and delightful.
Then one evening in February, while closing out Wednesday night youth group, one of the girls called out to me. “Amy, do you wanna see a picture of my prom dress? It just came in!”
This took me aback as the temperature was well below zero and I was clad in snow boots and flannel. “Whoa, you’re really ahead of the game, aren’t you? I always procrastinate when it comes to stuff like that,” I said. Prom had to be months away, right?
“What do you mean? Prom is only a couple weeks from now,” she said. Then she walked over and we flipped through photos of a dazzling, ice-blue gown.
Amy at prom in 2005 [Photo: submitted by Amy Allender]
That’s when I learned they do prom a little differently here.
I had assumed prom would take place closer to the end of the school year — not teeter on the edge of winter. But like many of my assumptions about life in NoDak, I was wrong.
Where I come from, prom is one of the last events of the year. My school district typically held prom over Mother’s Day weekend. Where I come from, by May spring has decidedly arrived for good. Mother’s Day weekend is typically warm — even in the evening. Warm enough to accommodate strapless gowns without needing wear a jacket over the top.
Here, where freezing temps and snow are notorious for staying around well into April (and a May snowstorm isn’t unheard of) — prom is held early in spring.
When I first learned prom often happens in March (although this year it falls to the first week of April), I had one thought: Okay, but why?
Why host an event tailored toward bare arms and plunging necklines when winter hasn’t even faded from view? Why not just wait? Why doesn’t anyone around here think this is weird?
I’ll never know the answer. I may never stop wondering or experiencing empathy chills for all those who head to prom weeks before the Easter bunny dares to venture out.
“You’re coming to Grand March, right?” asked the girl with the ice-blue dress. I paused while my forehead wrinkled. I had a feeling admitting I’d never heard of a Grand March was going to be as awkward as the time I admitted I had no idea what SnapChat was.
I was right.
The girls around us laughed with good-humored indignation as they explained “Grand March” to me — a girl who grew up eating casseroles, of all things.
Here’s how Grand March works: The City Auditorium fills with spectators while prom-goers parade down a catwalk. It’s an elaborate photo opp, and the place to invite anyone who may want to see you in prom attire.
The concept of a Grand March had never crossed my mind before that first encounter with North Dakota prom. When I describe it to people “back home,” they usually ask, “Doesn’t it take a long time? Why don’t they just take photos in someone’s yard like we did?”
To which I reply, “Yes, and they do. But they do Grand March, too. Or maybe they don’t because it might still be snowing on prom weekend.”
I may never fully understand, but I do really like Grand March. It’s prom, after all. Strut for as many as you can. Take all the photos you want. Just don’t hold your breath for anything as magical as the prom scene in Ten Things I Hate About You — real life never holds a candle to prom movies.
So far, prom 2022 is on track to be one of the best yet. It’s in April, not March. The snow is gone and they’re forecasting a high of 50˚. Strapless weather, if ever there was such a thing. Happy prom, Minot! Here’s to a beautiful night and hoping for no wind.
To connect with me further or to share your own prom photos, join me on Instagram @amy_allender or on Facebook @amyallenderblog.
Amy’s son with Dizzy the Clown [Photo: Amy Allender]
A Casseroler’s Take on Relocating to Minot
“Wow, look at all those shades of brown.” The comment was delivered with faux awe from my passenger seat. Her sarcasm was friendly, not fiery. We both laughed.
“Now, now — don’t be judgmental. Look,” I said while pointing out the windshield. “Right there. Val’s Cyclery – it’s bright green. Fun fact, it’s also where I take my skates to be sharpened in the winter.”
We were driving south on 3rd Street, straight through town. My friend had just flown in from California to spend five, glorious, fall days with my husband and me in Minot. Her jokes about the lack of color and trees were lighthearted. She knew I had fallen in love with this town. A town I never knew existed until my husband got military orders to Minot Air Force Base. A town she never knew existed until she got my “change of address” card in the mail. I was a proud transplant, taking root in my new, proverbial pot.
As a military spouse, I’ve called many different zip codes “home.” None, however, has ever captured my heart and imagination quite like Minot. Putting my finger on exactly why I like it here is tricky. It’s a complicated combination of both tangible and impalpable qualities and quirks. I can’t always describe it, but I always know it when I see it.
Like how locals describe location based on the location of something else — even if the latter has been closed for years. Example, “It’s in the plaza where the old Tutti Frutti used to be.” Or how Dizzy the Clown is a really big deal — and once you meet him, you start to get it. Or how if a destination is more than fifteen minutes away I start to question if it’s really worth the trip.
Fascinated by the Seemingly Mundane
As an outsider, a foreigner, a transplant — I love to sit back and watch life unfold in this place so unlike any other. I find it utterly fascinating and have made it my business to become well-versed in all things Minot. A self-titled “Minot Guru.”
But let’s get back to my drive through town with a friend who was visiting. There is a vast difference between coming to Minot for a visit and living in Minot. Those who come to visit may remark on the blandness and remoteness, but those who live here will look at those same “bland” buildings and see something remarkable. While I have come to love this place deeply, I won’t claim it’s something it’s not. You’ll never hear me tell someone with no connection to Minot that this is a must-see tourist hub. This is not a town bursting at the seams with traditional vacation fare. Be that as it may, I’ll always reassure those who move to town that Minot is a great place to come home to.
Dala horse at the Scandinavian Heritage Park, Minot, ND [Photo: Amy Allender]
There’s a Pull Here
Sure, anyone can have a great time here, but you’ll have an even better time if you come visit someone. A visitor with no connection to town cannot expect to understand what makes the Magic City so magical. It’s not about the Dala horse in the park or the waterpark attached to the mall. Minot’s magic is held in the spaces a passerby may overlook. It’s the rough hands of a seasoned rancher holding a door open. It’s a chorus of children laughing and singing with Ms. Kristy at Main Street Books’ story time—the best you’ll ever go to. It’s losing track of time because the sun never seems to set in the summer, and the glamor of a field of sunflowers that stretches to the horizon. It’s all the small ways this community cheers on good ideas and helps them take flight.
Story time at Main Street Books, Downtown Minot [Photo: Amy Allender]
That’s the difference between arriving in Minot as a visitor versus deciding to live here. As a transplant, this may be my most valuable lesson learned, my most sage advice: when you move to Minot, don’t approach life here as a visitor—expecting the fun to always be obvious and aggressive. Instead, relocate with the mindset of someone ready to live here. When you live here, really live here, you’ll find charm, oddities and a community dazzling with dimension.
The Allender Family [Photo: Amy Allender]
I know there are many who are not bewitched with life here. There are many who think I’m crazy for seeing this small city – and North Dakota – with the light of an artist’s muse. That’s okay. I’m just one transplant of many. But maybe, just maybe these ramblings will cause you to look around with new eyes. Just be warned, like me, you may become enamored and addicted to watching life unfold up here in Hot Dish Territory.
To connect with me further and see more instances of my “Minot Guru” skills—join me on Instagram @amy_allender or on Facebook @amyallenderblog.
I think the darkness is harder to bear than the cold. Everyone who comes to Minot thinks about the cold. Everyone dreads the cold. Everyone talks about the cold.
But very few mention the darkness.
In the fall we ride a slippery slope to days spent in the dark. It happens quickly. One day you’re raking leaves after dinner and the next you practically need a lamp on to see your lunch.
During our “shortest days” we’ve got a precious 8 hours and 20 minutes of daylight. The darkness is hard.
But now it’s March, and I’ve got great news — that same rapid pace that throws us into the dimness of winter is flinging us toward the endless light of summer.
[Photo: Amy Allender]
In my opinion, there is no greater mood booster, no better energy enhancer than the first major thaw that usually coincides with “springing” the clocks forward. Now, we’ve got light. Now, we’ve got water on the sidewalks instead of ice. Now, it’s light after dinner and we feel invincible, because there is so much day left at the end of the day.
When the clocks move forward and the snow starts to melt, we all emerge from our winter hiding places. Although we’ve seen each other, it often seems like we haven’t seen each other since the festivities of Christmas. January and February are full of arctic windchills. There’s no time to pause for a visit when you are shuffling from car to building with no coat on a -20˚ day. You make a run for it and offer a quick “Hello,” which is often swallowed up by the wind.
All of that changes when The Thaw begins.
Now, we can stop to chat when we pass in the parking lot. Now, we can gather on the sidewalk with neighbors. Now, we can start to wonder how we will get our kids to bed when the sun is still above the trees at 8 p.m.
[Photo: Amy Allender]
Keep Your Eyes on the Growing Light
I’ve never lived in a place where spring inspires such vivacity, such a profound shift in mood — not only in me, but the entire community. I see my children and neighbors brightening. Working is easier. Errands are easier. Even thinking is easier. Things are becoming new again, and we all feel it at a bone marrow level. Instead of focusing on how quickly we can get back to our home, we are making plans. Plans to go to take a walk, meet at the playground. The locals are even beginning to talk about going to “the lake” (wherever that is — but that’s a conversation for another day.)
Spring may not officially start for a few more days, but I think we can all agree that we are close enough. Yes, there will probably be more cold days. There may even be a May snow storm. But we’ve all seen the sun. The light is growing at breakneck speed. Snow can’t change the length of our days. We all know spring snow doesn’t last, anyway.
Yes, I say we are close enough.
So here is your charge: Get ready to pull down the plastic covering your draftiest windows. Inflate your bike tires. Find the windbreakers. Be prepared to swap storm windows for screens. Buy your zoo pass. Sign the kids up for little league.
Spring is happening, and we’re all here for it. Another snow storm may happen — but let’s keep our eyes trained on the growing light.
To connect with me further and see how I find small, magical moments in everyday life—join me on Instagram @amy_allender or on Facebook @amyallenderblog.
I’ve always been an eager participator; I think that’s why I feel so at home in Minot. It’s a community of participators. Need someone to join in? Chances are I’ll raise my hand.
Power of Participation
On Monday, I went to the Soggy Doggy Pool Paw-ty at Roosevelt Park Pool. My sons and I found seats on the bleachers to watch dogs jump from diving boards and wade in the kiddie pool. As I sat there, reveling in the wonderous thing it is to be alive and living in Minot, North Dakota at this very moment in time—I was reminded of my lackluster stint on my school’s Spell Bowl team.
During my senior year, my best friend asked me to join Spell Bowl. They were short on participants, and since I’ve always been a bit addicted to joining and participating, I signed up.
Six years earlier I had competed in the fifth-grade spelling bee and been eliminated during the first round. The word was “volcano.” My spelling had only marginally improved since then, but once a week, I stayed after school to spell complicated words. At competitions I was consistently our school’s weakest speller.
If you’re hoping this will be an inspirational story about how I kept showing up and gradually improved—you’re going to be disappointed. I earnestly tried, but my ability never became anything above mediocre.
The moral of this story isn’t about hard-work—it’s about the power of enthusiasm and participation to turn something that sounds lame into something vibrant and wonderful.
Participating in the Quirky
On paper, the Spell Bowl team sounded completely lame: Give up 90 minutes each week to sit quietly, while trying to spell difficult words. You’ll wear ill-fitting polo shirts to competitions—no one really knows how old they are. There are no rewards for participating; no extra credit will be given. There are no prizes if your team wins. The bus you’ll take to meets has no air conditioning. Maybe you’ll become a better speller. Maybe not. No guarantees.
Who wants to sign up?
Me.
And enough other people to eventually overflow our roster, allowing me to become an alternate. This meant my score only counted if multiple teammates were unable to compete, or in the event of a tie.
Dull description aside, my single season on Spell Bowl is one of the things I remember most fondly about my senior year. Nothing about the experience stands out except how absurd it was that Spell Bowl became something fun, memorable, and in the quirkiest way—even cool.
Based on the description, it shouldn’t have been any of those things—but it was. I joined, because I’m a joiner. I stayed, beyond necessity, because it was an undeniably good time.
Minot is like Spell Bowl in all the best ways.
It might not seem exciting—or even enjoyable—when first described, but because of the genuine enthusiasm, and willingness to participate in the people who live here, it’s something paradoxically lovely. You can’t quite put your finger on why it’s so fun even though it sounded so boring at first. It’s something you’ll come to look forward to, and maybe even want to stay beyond necessity.
Willingness to participate—both in the parade and on along the route—is what makes the State Fair Parade a true spectacle. This year my family walked in the parade for the first time, my husband is pushing the stroller and our youngest son is walking.
Participation in the Potentially Awkward
Minot continues to remind me that anything is possible when people get excited and are willing to join in. Minot is like an awkward extracurricular activity that becomes memorable in all the right ways when enough people come fully committed, ready for fun.
Let’s not forget that even the most perfect place, the most exciting-sounding event feel utterly awkward if no one shows up, and those who do are overly inhibited. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be at the lame event that turns out awesome, than the awesome event that turns out lame.
In my opinion, a flash mob will always sound embarrassing on paper, but if enough people attend and go all out, it becomes something worth watching. It becomes viral.
That’s Minot. People are excited to be here and the attitude is spreading. This is a community of participators, ready to join in and try. It’s a place where people show up in droves to let their dogs swim in the public pool, walk the annual pumpkin trail, and brave arctic winds to see the town Christmas tree light up. I’m not from around here, but with my addiction to participation—here I’ve hit my stride. These are my people.
Let’s be people who encourage each other to join. Let’s be the best friend with contagious enthusiasm, spreading fun—even in places that sound dull. Let’s keep supporting good ideas, new ventures, and newcomers.
What’s something in Hot Dish Land that you love participating in? What do you love to tell others about? I’d love to hear from you! Join me on Instagram (@amy_allender) or on Facebook (@amyallenderblog).
A sign that survival instincts have kicked in across Hot Dish Territory [Photo: Amy Allender]
Hot Commodity in Times of Trouble
We’ve got to talk about the blizzards one more time. Just once more. Then I’m done. Unless, of course we get another blizzard. If we get a blizzard in May, all bets are off and you betcha I’ll write about it.
But for today, let’s confidently hope that blizzard warnings are in the rearview mirror and we won’t need to lace up our snow boots again until — at earliest — September.
Now that the snow is melting and we are getting glimpses curbs along the streets (who knew curbs could be so dearly missed?), things are starting to look a little more normal. People are running errands. Dogs are being walked. Mail is being delivered. Store shelves are restocked.
It’s the store shelves I want to draw attention to today. The grocery-buying frenzy prompted by an imminent storm has come to a close. So, I’ll take this moment for a little commentary on the one item that flies off NoDak grocery store shelves when a blizzard is in the forecast.
Cream of… what?
Cream of mushroom soup.
Okay, really any “cream of” soup. However, I have it on good authority that cream of mushroom is often the preferred “cream of” because of its versatility. Apparently cream of celery is a close second. Surprisingly, cream of chicken ranks low on the list.
Around here, stocking up on cream of mushroom soup before heavy snowfall or sub-zero temperatures is a survival technique. Before our recent blizzards the “cream of” soups seemed to disappear from shelves as though they were rolls of toilet paper in March 2020. As I did my pre-storm shopping to stock up on my own version of necessities: coffee, coffee creamer, milk, and diapers, I couldn’t help but notice the vacant can slots in the soup aisle.
I can’t liken it to anything else I’ve ever seen anywhere else. Cream of mushroom soup just may be the most singularly unifying North Dakotan item there is.
The need to be well stocked with cream soups separates the native North Dakotans from those of us who aren’t from around here. The weight you place on your cream soup inventory draws a distinct line between the casserolers and the hot-dishers.
Why cream of mushroom? Why cream soups? What do they need them for?
I have two words for you: Hot. Dish.
The True Meaning of “Hot Dish Territory”
There’s a reason I call this “Hot Dish Territory” and this is it. It’s not just that folks here refer to casseroles as “hot dishes.” It’s the prominent place a hot dish has in society. If one is well stocked with cream of mushroom soup, the hot dish possibilities are nearly endless. You could make hamburger hot dish, taco hot dish, chicken and rice hot dish — or, the most popular of all, tater tot hot dish. You could also go the pot-pie route, which I’ve been told is a close cousin to the hot dish.
Tater Tot Hot Dish, in case you are not familiar [Photo: Amy Allender]
When cold and snow encroach, the natives turn to cream of soup and tried and true hot dish recipes just as much as shovels and snow throwers. It’s comfort, familiarity, warmth and faith that this storm will pass and summer will arrive. It’s the beauty of a humble can of soup becoming a mascot for weathering the storm. It’s all of that and more, served out of a 9×13 pan, held together with cream of mushroom soup.
It’s something those of us who aren’t from around here should stop and notice. How do they do it? How do they get through a lifetime of brutal winters and unpredictable springs? Hot dishes. And cream of mushroom soup.
There have been two instances in which something of mine was stolen. They are as follows:
Once, at a pumpkin patch in Delaware, I painted a small pumpkin that came complimentary with each corn maze admission. I brushed on minimalistic black and white stripes, then let it dry on a picnic table while my group went through the maze.
Upon exiting the maze I discovered my pumpkin was gone — seemingly purposefully taken while all the others on the table were left untouched. I was both annoyed and flattered.
The other time was a bit more serious. While spending a long weekend in Galveston, TX, my husband and I parked the car in the driveway of our vacation rental just long enough to change for dinner. When we returned fifteen minutes later our GPS and camera had been taken. Yes, this was in the days of dash-mounted, cigarette-lighter-charging GPS devices and taking photos on something besides a phone.
Upon further search, I noticed another item missing: a Lego pilot mini figure we had mounted near the gearshift. He was a bit of a mascot, and he’d been snatched.
The stolen technologies were inconvenient. They’d been wedding gifts, and we couldn’t afford to replace them immediately. The stolen Lego pilot was a personal affront.
What does this have to do with Hot Dish Territory? Happily, very little.
Is there crime in Minot? Oh, I s’pose.
But when I hear complaints about high crime rates or talk of lurking danger, I can’t help but roll my eyes a bit. I’ve lived in places where walking alone through a park gave me the creeps. I have friends from towns where bars on windows are commonplace. I’ve vacationed in places where Lego mini figures are abducted from parked cars.
Say what you will about the extreme cold. I think it does a pretty good job of keeping the GPS-and-Lego-stealing riffraff at bay. I love Minot for lots of reasons, but near the top of that list is that I feel safe here. I’m never afraid to take my boys to the park, go walking in the evening, or run errands after sunset.
Last week while at the library, I went to the restroom. When I came out of the stall to wash my hands the sink counter was cluttered. Sitting near the edge was a purse — the top bulging open and a phone nearly falling out of a side pocket — and another bag filled with notebooks and a laptop.
I thought nothing of it as I washed my hands. Moments later a toilet flushed. “Ope, sorry about that. I’m hogging the whole counter,” a woman said as she came to join me at the sink.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got plenty of room,” I replied.
“Only in North Dakota, right?” she said, gesturing to her belongings on full display. “Can’t leave your stuff around like this just anywhere.”
It’s true.
The first time I saw a car left running a parking lot — keys still in the ignition — my brow wrinkled. Surely they forgot. This cannot be commonplace.
But it was. It is.
There’s a kindness, an honor code that seems to prevail here. Cars left running will be there when you come back out of the gas station. Your stroller and diaper bag will be exactly where you left them when you’re finished on the playground. A purse and laptop will be okay on the bathroom counter.
It’s just another aspect of life here that has spoiled me. Perhaps even spoiled me toward living anywhere else. The rest of the world isn’t like this. This is special.
I’m not saying crime doesn’t happen. And I’m definitely not implying you shouldn’t keep an eye on your stuff. It’s just that we’ve got a really good thing going here. Let’s not take the beauty of prevailing honesty for granted.
There may be no perfect answer, but I have found the perfect bar recipe
Midwest Bar Culture
“Are you willing to bring a pan of bars for the after-funeral luncheon?”
This sentence was written in a now nearly-decade-old email.
As I read and reread that first request for bars, I could surmise the term was referring to dessert. What on earth was a pan of bars?
I tried to imagine what a funeral luncheon dessert would include where I’m from. Cookies. Volunteers would be asked for cookies. Or maybe the email would just say, “Please bring a dessert to share at the luncheon.”
The fact that the email before me specifically said, “bars,” seemed significant. I searched my mental rolodex for bar recipes, but I came up wanting.
“A pan of bars.” It seemed like some kind of code. Obviously, this was significant. Bars are what you serve the bereaved. Bars are the dessert of choice when celebrating a life well lived. Bars were important to these people, and If I was going to fit in, I’d need to decipher their language. I’d need to become a bar-maker.
All these years later, and I’m still not a confident bar-maker. This is because the exact definition of “bar” is still hazy to me, and locals have a hard time explaining it. Just as they know a hot dish from a casserole when they see it—they can easily identify a bar from a not-bar on a crowded potluck table. A true Dakotan will defend their own definition of “bar” with polite vigor, passive passion, and a bit of nervous giggling.
Bars are part of hot dish culture. And if you want to run with the locals, you’ll need to understand the world of bars, and have at least one go-to bar recipe in your arsenal.
I’ve got you covered on both fronts. First, let me tell you what I’ve learned from locals this week about bars, then I’ll share my favorite bar recipe with you.
My favorite bars to make are these chocolate zucchini bars. It’s the perfect way to use extra summer produce. (Photo, Amy Allender/The Dakotan)
So, what is a bar?
At the very core, a “bar” is a dessert made in a pan, that can be cut into squares, and retains its shape when cut.
However, there are vehement exceptions and additions to be made. Let’s start with the pan. One local was insistent that a true bar is made in a metal 9×13 pan. Another told me the pan material didn’t matter, but if you’re making bars in a pan smaller than 9×13, you’ve completely missed the point of bars. Another said real bars on made on a sheet cake or jelly roll pan—meaning they are on the thin side.
Everyone agreed that brownies count as bars, but they blur the line since brownies can often be very gooey. One local explained it this way, “Brownies are bars, but they are also their own dessert category. If you bring gooey brownies when bars were requested others will probably be thinking, ‘Well that’s an interesting choice.’”
Another mark of a good bar is its ability to be eaten without utensils. As one person pointed out, this trait stops other desserts like cake from encroaching on bar territory. Traditional bars should be able to be served on napkins, for ease of serving. This also allows the eater to hold coffee, probably black and in a Styrofoam cup, in one hand and a bar in the other. Priorities.
If you are asked to bring bars to an event, locals agree that Scotcheroos will always be a safe, and winning addition to any function. There is hot debate over less-solid “bars.” One person said he believes there are neo-bar people out there who would consider layered puddings, or Jell-o desserts “bars,” but it’s up to you if you’re willing to risk your reputation.
With a holiday weekend ahead, you may be heading to an event that will have you mingling with locals. Wow them with your knowledge of bar culture by whipping up a batch of my favorite bars (recipe below). Then join me on Instagram (@amy_allender) and Facebook (@amyallenderblog) to continue the bar conversation. I’m eager to hear your take on the subject!
These bars are easy to make, come together in minutes, and hit all the marks of a traditional bar. Fork optional! (Photo: Amy Allender/The Dakotan)
Perfect Bar Recipe
Chocolate Zucchini Bars:
½ cup vegetable oil + a little extra
1 ½ cup white sugar
2 tsp vanilla
2 cups all-purpose flour
½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 ½ tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
2 cups shredded zucchini
Frosting:
6 Tbsp unsweetened cocoa powder
¼ cup butter at room temperature
2 cups powdered sugar
¼ cup milk
1 tsp vanilla
½ tsp salt
To make the bars:
Preheat your oven to 350˚ and prepare a 9×13 pan by greasing and flouring it.
In the bowl of a stand mixer (or large bowl) combine ½ cup oil, sugar, and vanilla. In a second bowl combine the remaining ingredients, except zucchini. Once dry ingredients are combined, add them to the bowl of your stand mixer. Mix well—it will be very dry and crumbly, you aren’t doing it wrong.
Add zucchini and mix again. The mixture will still be very thick. If it looks un-spreadable, add a bit more oil. Spread into prepared pan and bake for 25-30 minutes. They’re done when center of the bars should spring back when slightly depressed.
For frosting:
Combine all ingredients and spread on cooled bars. Allow the frosting to set up before cutting.
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