Oatmeal Raisin Cookie Bars

My strongest belief in the universe — besides the importance of very good butter and the sanctity of leftover pie for breakfast — is that oatmeal raisin deserves better PR. It’s classic, it’s underrated, and these bars? They are the cookie’s suped-up cousin who actually shows up to Thanksgiving and brings candied yams and manners. Also: if you’re deep into nostalgia-cookie vibes, you might enjoy my riff on French cookie textures over here that oddly delicate obsession (look, I admit I have feelings).

How I single-handedly almost ruined Thanksgiving (and what saved dessert)

There was a year — call it 2017, the year the stuffing confronted me — when I tried to make four different kinds of cookies because apparently I thought my role was “domestic tornado.” The lemon bars disaster of 2019? Child’s play compared to the pie that slid off the counter and declared independence. I learned hard lessons: don’t multitask with an open flame and three toddlers, and always, always bake something with oats because they’re forgiving (and deceptively wholesome).

My aunt, bless her, still tells the story of my “joyful chaos” as a charming neighborhood anecdote — as she hands me a napkin and a seat. It’s a family tradition now: if Emily shows up with crumbs, the cookies will be fine. Emotional growth: zero. Cookies: excellent.

Okay but seriously: let’s pivot back to the recipe before I spiral into culinary confessions

ANYWAY, before I emotionally relive my entire pastry timeline, here’s the point — these oatmeal raisin cookie bars are exactly the kind of thing you make when you want comfort with an edge: chewy center, golden edges, and frosting that whispers maple-syrupy promises. They travel well, they hide in lunchboxes like tiny, nutritious spies (lol), and they pair suspiciously well with strong coffee and late-night apologies.

What you’ll need (shopping notes included, because I am a walking grocery list)

• 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• ¾ teaspoon ground cinnamon
• ½ teaspoon fine salt
• ¾ cup unsalted butter, room temperature
• ¾ cup packed light brown sugar
• 2 large eggs, room temperature
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 2 cups quick-cooking oats
• 1 cup raisins
• ½ cup unsalted butter, room temperature (for frosting)
• 1 ½ cups powdered sugar
• 1 tablespoon maple syrup
• 1–2 tablespoons heavy cream, room temperature
• ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon (for frosting)
• ¼ teaspoon maple extract (optional)

Mini-rant: Freshly packed brown sugar is non-negotiable. Trader Joe’s has decent raisins and the best bargain ginger snaps (irrelevant here but worth mentioning). If you go for fancy European butter, I will not stop you; I will high-five you from across the kitchen and also judge your budget choices a little.

Cooking Unit Converter (because measurements are life)

If you need quick swaps for cups to grams or Fahrenheit to Celsius, this tiny tool will be your best kitchen friend.

How I actually make these — messy, honest technique notes

I do not present this as a sterilized textbook of baking. This is the “what I wish someone told me” version, with flailing hand gestures and crumbs on my sleeve. Here’s what I learned the hard way: don’t overbeat the oats into dust, trust the chilling window sometimes, and when in doubt, taste the dough (but maybe don’t tell grandma).

• Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease a 9×9-inch baking pan with baking spray, line it with parchment paper, and set aside.
• In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt. Set aside.
• In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter and brown sugar together until light and fluffy, about 2–3 minutes. Scrape down the sides as needed.
• Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Stir in the vanilla extract.
• Gradually mix in the dry ingredients until just combined. Fold in the oats and raisins.
• Spread the dough evenly in the prepared pan. Bake for 18–20 minutes or until the edges are golden.
• Let the bars cool in the pan for 5–10 minutes, then transfer them to a wire rack to cool completely.
• To make the frosting, beat the butter until smooth, then gradually mix in the powdered sugar. Add the maple syrup, heavy cream, cinnamon, and optional maple extract, and beat until creamy.
• Spread the frosting over the cooled bars, slice into squares, and enjoy!

(Pro tip: if the frosting seems too thin, add more powdered sugar. If it’s too thick, add a whisper of cream. Baking is basically negotiation with ingredients.)

Why this matters to me (and probably to you too)

Food is memory — big, sticky, doughy memory. Baking these is a tiny ritual that smells like childhood kitchens and neighborhood potlucks and the awkward hug after a heated family debate. Making things from scratch is how I stitch together identity, tradition, and practical therapy (therapy I can eat). Also, when I frost a bar and someone closes their eyes mid-bite, I feel like I have contributed small miracles to the world. And for more oddly comforting chewy cookie inspiration (yes, I hoard favorites), see my take on buttery, chewy comforts here that butter-pecan obsession.

A tiny, sharp anecdote (because you deserve a laugh)

I once slid a pan of these into the oven while holding a toddler who decided flour is a fine accessory. There was a dramatic pause, an audible “oh no,” and later, a standing ovation from a neighbor who witnessed me emerge like a pastry phoenix. True story. Bring napkins.

Frequently Asked Questions (chaotic, unfiltered answers)

Okay, I’ll stop talking now (for two minutes). If you make these bars and someone sighs with joy, please send me that validation via interpretive dance or a photo — I will accept both. Trust me — bring them to Thanksgiving, to a bad-date recovery session, to a quiet Tuesday. They understand. And if all else fails, remember: crumbs mean success.

Daily Calorie Needs Calculator:

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