If you travel to north Louisiana and listen carefully, whispers on the cypress-laden air will tell you legendary tales of a young woman who repeatedly tried to make lemon bars. The trees shield their eyes from the tragic tale of utter failure, while the bayous draw their waters up tight in sympathy and shame. . . Well, okay, that might be exaggerated, but not by far. Confession: I don’t bake. If you say the word “lemon bar” around my mom, she turns ghostly pale from blocked memories of my attempts to make those pesky little yellow desserts all through high school. Never got it right. I’m convinced they’re my nemesis. Now, don’t get me wrong–I can make a mean batch of Pillsbury chocolate chip cookies. You know, the kind where you cut open the package and place the already perfectly circular bits of dough onto a cookie sheet and bake for 12-15 minutes? I’ve got that down! In fact, I make them a little on the “not quite done” side, and people rave. Everyone always wants me to bring those to parties, like I did something spectacular. (and when I remember the lemon bars, I’m convinced I did) My mother…