Oatmeal Breakfast Bars have all the ingredients you want in your breakfast bar. Oatmeal, peanut butter, and chocolate--delicious!
Soft-baked oatmeal breakfast bar with none of those weird ingredients that you need to Google to figure out what they are.
And then feel all the guilty ickies when you find out what you just pulled from the box and shoved into your facial hole.
You guys. Before I get distracted with something else, I need to tell you that I LUVITY LUV LUV these bars.
The kind of love that makes you want to shout from rooftops and prance around the house all day singing honey-sweet oatmeal-y melodies.
I know. YOU thought that kind of love was only for Jennifer Aniston movies. Well peeps…
L-O-L-O-L-O-L-O-V-E just got REAL.
P.S. Name that song.
Ugh. Distracted. Always.
The softy-baked-goodness of these bars kind of hurt my heart for the first few moments that they were in my mouf. Because, I felt like I was cheating.
On my bowl of oatmeal.
I have been happily going spoon >> oatmeal >> face >> :D for the past eleventy billion years until these breakfast bars entered my life.
They swept me off their feet with their dashing swirls of peanut butter and ooey-gooey melty chocolate chips. I tried to ignore it for as long as I could.
But, they were new. They weren’t my typical ho-hum, predictable breakfast.
They got my heart racing and gave my tummy the rumblies.
I mean, what’s a girl to do? I couldn’t resist. I became a victim to their chewy, soft and SUPER MOIST (like cake for breakfast, but healthy, kind of moist) texturey-goodness.
Yep, I have clearly been watching way too many chick flicks.
Now that we’ve got the creepy, romance-y (but 110% necessary) description of oatmeal bar heaven out of the way, I need to tell you something.
Something that I have been keeping under wraps for all the evers, because I thought you might judge Mr. FFF, and then judge me by default. Not that I’m selfish or anything.
Anyway. The Huberoni. He doesn’t like chocolate and peanut butter!
I KNOW. Who the heck is he? And why didn’t he tell me this before marriage.
I feel like I would have investigated his roots a little bit further to make sure that “born in Nebraska” wasn’t some code speak for “Is an alien.”
HOW-EV-ER, the benefit of being married to an “I-hate-the-best-combination-on-the-planet-alien-weirdo” is that it means that I get to binge eat it ALL, with none of that sharing shenanigans that they tried to teach me in Kindergarten.
Well, until these bars that is.
I asked him to try one, knowing that he probably wouldn’t like it, and then I could pull the “oh sorry honey, I was just trying to be the best wife ever and make you on the go breakfasts, but I forgot you don’t like chocolate and peanut butter together. Shucks, guess I gotta eat ‘em all” card.
And then he LOVED IT.
And so we danced around the kitchen singing above mentioned oat-breakfast-bar melodies together.
Next time. I’m putting rocks in his.
Not that sharing makes me bitter or anything.
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