Halcyon Days and Rhubarb Pie
by
Dorothy L. Wake

     A visit to the grocery store with my mother one idyllic late spring afternoon in Sacramento marked her first real outing after a lengthy recuperation from a broken hip. How brave she was to take on a grocery store with her walker!
     When we arrived at the produce department, she paused at the rhubarb and gazed at it longingly. "Doesn't this look good?" she inquired of me, gently touching the bright, ruby-red stalks. Although rhubarb pie was her favorite, it was most often subordinated to choices that would please the whole family. Only the females in our family-mom, my big sisters Pat and Harriet, and I relished rhubarb. Rhubarb seems to be one of those foods you either love or loathe, like asparagus, turnips, or parsnips; and my dad and brother openly expressed their rejection of the slender, rosy pedicel whenever it appeared in our house.
     Pleasant childhood memories associated with watching mother preside over piecrust dough vividly flooded my mind: the smooth whir made by the rolling pin as it glided over the dough, punctuated by swift taps when the heavy wooden roller landed on the porcelain-topped table for another stroke; how the resilient, yet delicate leftover dough scraps I was given to make sugar-cinnamon roll-ups felt in my small hands; how we both almost held our breath when she magically maneuvered the thin, round layer into the waiting pie pan. I recalled the distinctive pungent‑sweetness that belongs only to the aroma of rhubarb pie wafting from the oven and then from the cooling rack. And I could almost feel the anticipation when mother's cutting knife finally sliced into the golden brown flakiness and through the plump fruit oozing with just the right amount of thick sweet juice. My mouth began to water as I remembered the taste of that first, still-warm bite.     Mother's pies easily qualified for the "magnificent" category; generous portions of fruit heaped between flaky, yet tender crusts that even the best bakeries cannot duplicate. But at eighty, the hands that had tended children, cooked and baked, loved, played the piano, crocheted, and worked for wages, were no longer strong enough to mix and roll out piecrust.
     It had become my turn to make pies for her.
     "Let's get some, and I'll bake a pie," I told her. I knew part of her enjoyment would be picking out the rhubarb and being involved in the preparation. After a few minutes of careful selection, she handed me a bag stuffed with more than enough rhubarb for a ten-inch pie. "Don't forget the cheese," she reminded me, as we made our way towards the checkout. (Extra sharp cheddar cheese served on the side with many varieties of fruit pies is a family oddity!)
     Mother was in high spirits when we returned to my house. I hauled every cookbook out of the cupboard, and mother and I eagerly began scrutinizing each and every rhubarb pie recipe. Finally, we settled on the recipe she determined came closest to the one she had stored in her head, making alterations for the extra measure of fruit and spices and the finishing dots of butter atop the fruit that made her pies unique.
     We were ready to begin! While I made the time-tested crust, mother measured the cut-up rhubarb-adding, of course, that extra cup or so that makes the difference between adequate and generous. The rhubarb, with just the right amounts of spices and thickening, was heaped into the bottom crust that had been gingerly placed in the waiting pie pan. To mother's immense satisfaction, I remembered the dots of butter before the top crust went on. Then, into the oven. Soon the house was filled with the familiar, warm, delicious fragrance. We played scrabble and talked while the pie baked and then cooled on the rack atop the kitchen counter.
     Mother laughed with delight when I answered her concerns about "saving some pie for others" by explaining that the pie was just for us. I cut the pie in half, and we each leisurely savored two pieces from our respective halves; complimented, of course, by a fresh-brewed pot of coffee and our extra-sharp cheddar cheese. The remainder of mother's half accompanied her home. The simple pleasures we shared that afternoon remained with her long afterward, and she talked about that pie for weeks.
     A tradition was established. During the last seven years of her life, what had become our "annual rhubarb pie event" was adapted to accommodate her accelerating frailty. Mother reveled, however, at the event becoming a threesome when Harriet moved permanently from Ohio to Sacramento.
     Looking back at our last "rhubarb pie event," it seems we somehow sensed its importance. Beneath our gaiety was a bittersweet mixture of an extra measure of caring and an undercurrent of sadness as the beautiful spring afternoon came to an end. Our senses didn't lie to us. Mother died in mid-August; Harriet died quite unexpectedly in late October.
     Late spring arrived once again. As I served up the still-warm-from-the-oven rhubarb pie to a small group of close friends, we laughed upon discovering our common enjoyment of sharp cheddar cheese served on the side. Then, perhaps sensing my thoughts, Margaret offered an impromptu toast: "Here's to your mother, Harriet, and us-and to rhubarb pie." Nourished, we continued our celebration of each other, ourselves, and the women who had contributed to halcyon days of past.
     The following spring, I planted rhubarb in the backyard garden. And when new shoots unfailingly emerge from the now well-established bed each spring, I anticipate the season's gatherings.

In 1996, Dorothy Wake left California State government to pursue writing, poetry and teaching. She holds a Master of Arts Degree in Government from California State University, Sacramento, and recently earned her teaching credential.  She is a published writer and poet, and her book, Mother Jones: Revolutionary Leader of Labor and Social Reform, was published in early fall, 2001.  Ms. Wake and her husband, Sam, reside in Sacramento, CA and have two grown sons.

For more information on her book see: http://www1.xlibris.com/bookstore/bookdisplay.asp?bookid=14205

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