Well, it’s finally happened: we are eating homemade granola bars. Next, we’ll be “harvesting” neighbourhood squirrels for stew or buying an electric car. But, before the tie-dyed crowd starts weaving daisies into my hair, I want to assure everyone that it was my wife who made these. Not me.
However, I do have to admit that, as far as granola bars go (and I’m sure that, wherever granola bars go, it’s by public transit), these aren’t bad. Chewy and crunchy, not too sweet, not too tart. After having one I almost feel like raising organic chickens in the backyard or reading a Margaret Atwood novel.
Come to think of it, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to wear socks with sandals.
