The Memory in the Magic Bars

Sarina Turner pushed open the heavy fellowship-hall door with her elbow, balancing a wide glass tray lined with foil. A wave of warm, cinnamon-tinged air hit her immediately; the Oklahoma winter could stay outside for all she cared. Inside, clusters of women milled around the decorated tables, laughing loudly in the way only women who hadn’t seen each other since last Sunday could.

“Evenin’, Sarina!” called Mrs. Calhoun, who was arranging snowman mugs filled with peppermint-dipped spoons. “Oh, you brought somethin’? You doll.”

“Magic bars,” Sarina said, easing the tray onto the dessert table between a red-velvet Bundt and an aggressively glittered plate of fudge.

Mrs. Calhoun paused, squinted at the bars, and tilted her head. “You mean Hello Dollies, sweetheart?”

Here we go again. Sarina smothered a smile. “Same thing. We always called them magic bars growing up.”

Mrs. Calhoun laughed good-naturedly and patted her shoulder. “Well, if they’re magic, I’ll take two.”

The misnaming had started the first year she and Tom moved to Oklahoma. Magic bars was just what her Arizona family had always said. But Oklahoma church ladies, apparently, had never heard that name in their life. She never corrected them—there was nothing to correct, really. Just two sets of roots calling the same sweetness something different.

That thought warmed her more than the room itself.

She dusted her hands on her jeans and looked around. The fellowship hall sparkled for the Women’s Ministry Christmas Party: twinkle lights draped over fake pine garland, paper snowflakes dangling from the ceiling, and a craft table in the corner where glitter was already settling like fallout.

A group of women huddled at the ornament-making table, each trying to tie ribbons with varying degrees of patience and coordination. “Mine looks like a drunk cardinal,” one of them announced, holding up something red and feathery.

Sarina laughed and stepped closer, just in time to hear another woman sigh. “Mom’s been in hospice a week now,” she said softly, twisting a bit of twine between her fingers. “She’s still lucid most days. She told me yesterday she liked the Christmas playlist I picked. Said Bing Crosby sounded like her childhood.” She continued explaining, “I’m bringing her homemade cheesecake later. I’ve been making cheesecake for the family since I was 14.”

The whole group paused, a quiet respect settling over them. Then someone placed a gentle hand on her back. “You’ll be glad for these last days, hon. Even the messy ones.”

The woman nodded, eyes glistening, but her voice stayed steady. “Yeah. I am. I really am.”

Sarina felt an ache pinch behind her ribs. Not sadness exactly, but a reminder—of how finite everything was. One day this will be me, she thought. Telling someone about Mom and Dad’s last Christmas in the old house.

She drifted toward the cookie-exchange table, where women slid tins across a long stretch of folding tables, debating loudly about who made the best snickerdoodles.

“Sarina!” called Margaret, waving her over. “Where y’all headed this Christmas? Didn’t you say you’re trav’lin’?”

“That’s a whole saga,” Sarina admitted with a grin. “We’re driving to my in-laws first—Tom’s family—then flying to Arizona the day after. It’ll be…a lot.”

Someone let out a low whistle. “Girl, that sounds like ministry in itself.”

“Oh, it is.” She laughed. “But worth it. My whole family’s going to be together in our childhood home for the last time. Mom found an apartment she loves—she moves in January.”

“Oh, is she excited?”

“She is,” Sarina said. “Really excited. It’s just—” She shifted the cookie tin she’d been examining. “The house is being sold after that. But I’m mostly grateful we get one more Christmas together in it. For 26 years, my mom and dad have rented the place. I bet the owner’s mortgage is paid off by now!”

“That’s special,” Margaret said warmly. “Not sad…just tender.”

“Exactly,” Sarina said, relieved to have someone name the feeling. Tender. That was it.

Someone else chimed in: “Oklahoma’ll be here waitin’ for you when you get back. We’ll save you some Hello Dollies.”

“Magic bars,” Sarina corrected softly, teasing.

A chorus of good-natured groans rose.

“Oh, here she goes again.”

“This girl and her magic bar nonsense!”

“They’re called Hello Dollies, and that’s that.”

She held her hands up defensively. “Listen. I didn’t invent the name.”

“Clearly,” someone muttered, and the whole table erupted into laughter.

The night continued in that warm, chaotic rhythm: prayer requests shared between bites of cookies, craft supplies spilling everywhere, two toddlers making a break for the gift-table and being wrangled by three women simultaneously.

Sarina checked the dessert table once the line had thinned. Her magic bars were almost gone—just a corner piece left sticking slightly to the foil. The sight gave her a happy twist in her stomach. No matter what people called them, they always disappeared first.

She slid the tray closer to her to snap a picture. The soft lighting caught the caramelized edges and melting chocolate chips just right.

Mom will love this, she thought.

She stepped aside to type the message.

Look what survived the dessert table tonight. Magic bars are still going strong.

She sent the picture and tucked her phone away, but it buzzed before she could walk back to the ornament station.

Her mother had replied.

Magic bars look perfect. Bring some home for Christmas. One more taste in the old kitchen.

Sarina’s throat tightened. The words weren’t sad—they were simple and hopeful. But something about them nudged that tender place inside her.

One more taste in the old kitchen.

She blinked hard, willing her eyes not to fully tear up. Good grief, pull it together, woman, she thought, laughing at herself.

“Everything okay?” asked a voice beside her. It was Mrs. Calhoun, holding a cup of hot cider.

“Yeah,” Sarina said, smiling. “Just hearing from my mom.”

“Mm.” Mrs. Calhoun leaned closer. “You know, I think you’re onto somethin’ with that name.”

“What name?”

“Magic bars.” She nodded toward the near-empty tray. “Maybe that’s why everyone likes ’em so much. ’Cause food is…well. It’s memories, isn’t it? It’s the old kitchen, and the people in it. Doesn’t matter if it’s in Arizona or Oklahoma.”

Warmth curled through Sarina’s chest. “Yeah,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Exactly.”

Mrs. Calhoun patted her arm. “See? Magic after all.”

The craft table erupted with laughter again—apparently someone had hot-glued an ornament to the tablecloth. The woman responsible held her creation up triumphantly. “Well, I wasn’t gonna keep it anyway.”

Women drifted toward the stage where the volunteer worship leader was tuning her guitar for one last Christmas song. People were gathering their swapped cookies, packing up leftover desserts, loading cars with centerpieces they’d been “volun-told” to store until next year.

Sarina lingered near the dessert table a moment longer, looking at the last square of her magic bars. The only piece left. Somehow that felt right.

She pulled her phone out one more time—not to text, but to simply hold the picture she’d sent earlier. The soft glow of the screen lit her face.

Different names, same ingredients, she thought. Different places, same feeling. Home in two directions.

Then she inhaled, squared her shoulders, and lifted the tray. Time to help clean up. Time to laugh with the others, share stories, and carry home a tin of cookies she absolutely did not need but absolutely would eat.

The last crumbs of the magic bars clung stubbornly to the foil as she turned to join the group. She didn’t mind. Their sweetness lingered, just like the night itself.

…just like the “home” she feels here in Oklahoma and in Arizona.