Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Summer – Rhubarb Rhapsody

Rhubarb Plants Across from Cucumber Plants

My friend Jennifer and I rinsed our shoes at the hydrant by the south garden Tuesday afternoon. We’d waded in thick-soled shoes to protect our feet from the rocky bottom of summer-shallow Deer Creek.

Holding a watering can, my husband called from the winter squash patch. “Do you want to see my rhubarb?”

Jennifer, who’d driven from Cleveland for the day, pushed down the hydrant handle. “Sure.”

Spence set the watering can by a squash plant then stepped over his PVC and chicken wire fence.

Jennifer and I followed a garden path to meet him on the black plastic controlling weeds  in the cucumber patch. Spence and the cucumbers smelled like dead fish because he’d just watered the plants with fish emulsion and liquid seaweed. To the left of the cucumbers, five enormous rhubarb plants grew. He pointed at the largest and turned to Jennifer. “Do you know anything about rhubarb?”

“My grandmother used to grow it.” Jennifer leaned over and lifted a large leaf that resembled a baby elephant’s ear. “These stalks look healthy.”

Healthy maybe, but mostly green. “How do you know when they’re ready to pick? The only red is at the bottom.”

Spence shook his head. “This variety [Glaskins Perpetual Rhubarb] might not get red.”

Holding a stalk, Jennifer glanced at Spence. “Do you have a knife?”

He reached into a pocket of his garden soiled jeans, pulled out a pocket knife, and handed it to her.

With the blade, she sawed back and forth to cut off four inches of green stalk. She sliced a half inch off that, put the small piece in her mouth, and grinned. “Mmmm. This tastes like the rhubarb my brother and I used to eat from Grandma’s garden. I love the flavor. It was our SweeTarts before that candy sold in stores.” She cut pieces of rhubarb for Spence and me. “You can eat it green.”

When I chewed, tart exploded in my mouth. Was tart the flavor? I looked at the bitten green stalk in my hand. “Will the rhubarb turn red when you cook it?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember.” Jennifer pulled rhubarb strings out of her mouth. “It’s stringy, but, like stewing celery, it softens when you cook it.”

I chewed another bite of rhubarb―still tart. “I always wanted to bake a strawberry rhubarb pie.”

Jennifer leaned down to cut a stalk at the top and bottom. She tossed the leaf over the fence then handed the stalk to me. “I loved my grandma’s rhubarb pie. Strawberry rhubarb tasted too sweet. It ruined the flavor.” When she’d handed me eight stalks, she said, “Dice the stalks for your pie. If that isn’t enough, cut more.”

Spence fetched his watering can.

Jennifer and I checked cookbooks and the Internet for rhubarb recipes. She questioned all until I found “Best Ever Strawberry Rhubarb Pie” which used three cups of rhubarb, four cups of strawberries, and one and a quarter cups sugar.

“That might work,” she said, “but I still prefer plain rhubarb.”

Because I spent Wednesday tipping, stringing, and freezing five cookie sheets of pole beans, I didn’t get to the pie until Thursday afternoon. I diced the rhubarb―exactly enough―then sliced strawberries, which I’d picked six or seven at a time throughout July and August. Next I stirred in sugar. The green and red chunks looked Christmas festive. I put a lid over the bowl and waited an hour for the fruit to juice.

When I lifted the lid, the fruit swam in a pool of ruby liquid. Straining the mix yielded three cups. I only needed a fourth cup of juice for the pie.

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie

After mixing the pie filling, I made the crust and, like the recipe directed, brushed egg white and sprinkled sugar on top. It looked attractive. I put the pie in the oven and stared at the bowl of thick strawberry-rhubarb juice. Should I pour it down the drain?

What a waste!

But it isn’t cooked.

You can eat strawberries and rhubarb fresh.

It does look like punch.

Try it, silly.

I poured a quarter inch into the bottom of a juice glass and sipped. As if swallowing the whole cup and a quarter of sugar in a tiny sip, my taste buds registered super sweet―sweeter than a child’s lollipop. No wonder Jennifer preferred plain rhubarb. But a tangy flavor enhanced the strawberry. With water, I diluted the red liquid ten to one and sipped again. The tangy flavor was delicious, but it tasted sweeter than a child’s lunch box drink. Leaving the bowl and glass on the table, I washed measuring cups and mixing bowls. Like a magnet, the unusual juice lured me away from dish washing. After three more tastes, I paused with the glass half way to my lips. I often got dizzy after eating sugary treats. And I didn’t want the extra calories. I poured the mixture down the drain and hoped most of the sugar had drained from the pie filing so the pie would be palatable. Maybe I could have a slice for breakfast Friday morning.

Friday morning, I rolled onto my side and pushed my hands against the mattress to sit up.

My brains whirled.

The room swirled.

I fell back onto the mattress.

Vertigo. And the super-sweet, ruby juice probably triggered the attack. Would the pie trigger another?

After lunch Friday, I cleared the kitchen table and cut the pie. I lifted the first slice, set it on a plate, and licked the gel that had dripped onto my finger.

On his way outside, Spence grabbed the doorknob but didn’t open the porch door. “I’ll wait for a pie report before I check the truck’s oil.”

 

Licking the spatula, I compared the gel to the super-sweet ruby juice. It might be safe to eat. “It’s not sweet.”

 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” He shifted his weight to one leg. “Do you like it?”

 

I ate a bit of crust. The thin layer on top crunched like a saltine cracker, and the doughy under layer tasted as bland as cheap white bread. “Maybe.”

 

“That’s not an answer.” Spence opened the door and stepped onto the porch. 

Sitting in the Adirondack chair, I gazed out at the south garden and took a bite of the strawberry rhubarb pie. The soft fruit tasted tart, tangy, and faintly strawberry. I examined a hunk of baked rhubarb. Though covered with red strawberry glaze, the rhubarb stayed light green, but its fresh-picked-smooth skin now had ridges like the backs of celery stalks. Savoring many more bites, I made two decisions―first use my regular, flaky, olive-oil crust and second try plain rhubarb. 

 

Then I would experience the full Mmmm flavor that Jennifer cherished from childhood.

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie