Real Soup

On the reason for rhubarb

In the morning, one looks to the sky for certain messages. What socks shall I wear, and how many undies? Will it be the wool beret or the bandanna to wet and drape around one's neck?

If I take the risk and wear short sleeves placing my ninny flesh in jeopardy of blisters and burns, will thunder and lightning then converge over my house like Wagner in full scale crisis, sending rain and hail banging onto my dwelling in waves, not droplets, until a flash flood churns through my yard bringing, in its quick and remarkable red rapids, most of my neighbors' driveway and all the wood cutting debris from fourteen years up to my door in big round tides of bark.

Will this deluge strand the round-eyed and plaintive refugee dog in her doghouse, and fill a 5' deep pit with enough water to provide much later for a dramatized and straggly-looking group of children to row the aged, hairy blue boat across it to pose for my camera very happily, like little Hollywood hams beside the various heroes and heroines changing places at the soggy, sinking helm.

Or will the sun ease in through a chorus of birdsong, gently, discretely, the welcome guest. Moving cautiously, politely, acquiescing to local disturbances. Considerate, bearing gifts and inspiring outdoor activities.

No wonder the fruit in the markets is still a bit tentative.

Few are, I would suppose, emotionally ready to dive into the purchase of large quantities for pies or for preserving and jamming and pickling. The waves, the crops, the energy and heat are all still building.

When people mention peaches, I do begin sizing up the pantry. Seeing little hard pale plums in the market looking hopeful, I harken to the maroon joys of tart-sweet plum syrup on waffles.

The initial ruby displays of Bing cherries, setting hearts atwitter with their promising appearance reminded me of the ease of canning cherries, such good exercise for little hands.

All these things are gone now. They have gone the way of all things in a lively household and eventually they will be replaced by a new generation of bottled lovelies. But not yet. Peak of the season will come and, I trust motivation and open time will coincide.

I will apply my inordinate self discipline and wait for the flurry of the high produce season and answer my immediate urges by coaxing others, my dependents, mostly, into digging up big clumps of weeds and unsightly grasses, and to deliver fertilizer and fresh soil to my pots and plots, so that we can all plant flowers.

I want to reach in to the good dirt and transplant my little darlings, glorying in the sweet sunshine, my bare feet curling on the warm stones and have little to do with the kitchen.

Using the old English hand hoe, a tool that I revere and safeguard with passion, I will teach my daughter how to make a smooth furrow, to sow seeds sparingly, to cover and tamp fine soil over them so they have an easy trip through the surface, to water them with kindly, delicately, and to cover the seedbed so it doesn't dry out. I love this.

Then we water the rhubarb and rejoice because it grows so readily and enthusiastically for ordinary people like us. Its splendid big leaves like great ears in the garden, listening to the deeps and reporting with rosy stalks that are tart and true, that want to find themselves in delicious, easy pies. It blends the seasons.

Raucous weathers, yard work and the demands of spotless housekeeping, schedules bursting with baseball and programs and graduations and birthdays and the general social acceleration of long evenings outdoors, all are resolved with the first harvest of one's own rhubarb and the satisfying, early morning birth of Rhubarb Pie with Crumb Crust.

This loose formula combines three components, all of which are interchangeable with your favorite versions of crust, filling, and toppings. Here is how I make it.

My favorite bottom crust is the traditional Pennsylvania Dutch pastry, with one egg and vinegar and using all butter. This is the one that works for me, since I maintain an aversion to shortening and have, for many years prior to its discovery, wept into every pie crust I attempted.

With the pastry made and lining your pie plate, prepare a filling of freshly harvested rhubarb stalks. To be practical, just go at your plant until it is thoroughly cut back, then give it a good watering. Trim the leaves and butt ends of the stalks into the compost, hose off the stalks and head into the kitchen.

Trim the stalks to 1/2# lengths and measure 4-5 C. rhubarb for each 9" pie into a bowl. Preheat the oven to 450.

(Dredge the extra fruit in sugar or honey, put into a kettle with water to about 1/4 of the depth of fruit and slowly simmer, stirring occasionally, for a lovely ice cream topping. Or just bag it up and freeze it plain.)

For the filling, mix together:

5 C. rhubarb, raw

1 1/4 C. sugar

3 Tbsp. quick-cooking tapioca

2-3 Tbsp. butter, cut into pieces

1/2 tsp. cinnamon

1/4 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg

1/8 tsp. ground cloves

pinch of salt

To prepare a crumb topping, mix in a food processor or pastry blender, or with your old-fashioned fingers:

1 C. all-purpose flour

1 C. packed brown sugar

1/2 C. butter

1/2 tsp. salt

Work lightly. Spread topping over pie generously. Pat down.

Bake 15 minutes and turn oven down to 350. Bake until the rhubarb is tender, about 30 minutes longer.

Now. Everything is coming together. Cool and serve unexpectedly while the sun goes down. It is lovely, as is everything else, with vanilla or strawberry ice cream.