Read by Matilda Longbottom

IIn the bustling market checkout line, I found myself cradling crimson stalks that could easily be mistaken for red celery. Cue the classic query: “What do you do with that?” With a mischievous grin, I proclaimed, “I make pies with it,” launching into a rhubarb rhapsody that left a bemused stranger with glazed-over eyes.

Rhubarb, my culinary muse, has earned me the title of aficionado—though some mischievous friends claim it’s a fitting term for my Irish stubbornness. Wikipedia may define rhubarb as the fleshy edible stalk of the Rheum plant, but to me, it’s a ticket to a tart and sweet extravaganza. Legend has it that in the olden days, rhubarb leaves adorned used chamber pots. My green-thumbed husband’s attempts to grow rhubarb in our suburban Philadelphia backyard have been fruitless, or should I say, stalk-less.

When the rhubarb craving hits, I embark on a quest to local markets, asking with bated breath, “Is rhubarb in yet?” I’ve even resorted to procuring the frozen variety during desperate times. One memorable escapade involved a 10-lb. box of cherry-red rhubarb from Washington, a discount from a kind produce manager, and a marathon nine-hour drive back home. Desperate times call for rhubarb-centric measures!

However, my love affair with rhubarb traces back to my dad’s zest for it. Every Spring, he eagerly awaited the arrival of rhubarb alongside his other culinary obsession, Delaware shad. Like a mischievous child, he’d stew rhubarb into a sugary taffy-like goo, leaving syrupy red blotches on the stove. My mom, with a raised eyebrow, offered “suggestions” on cleanup, usually as she was starting to prepare dinner. Yet, nothing deterred him—his mission for that mouthful of tart, sweet goodness was his and his alone.

Fast-forward to my pregnancy, and my late-night hankering for rhubarb pie led to a masterpiece. With Betty Crocker as my guide, I ventured out in the wee hours for ingredients, creating a lattice-crafted, sugary wonder. The next morning, I surprised my parents with the pie, prompting a million-dollar question: the pie or a million bucks? The pie won, of course, and as my dad uncovered it, his smile spoke volumes. That dessert became a moment of shared pride and love.

Since then, I’ve become a pie maestro, hosting baking classes and crafting rhubarb pies adorned with blueberries, cherries, raspberries, and apples. Our children and grandchildren anticipate it with Breyer’s vanilla ice cream—because what’s a pie without it? When people scrunch their noses at the mention of rhubarb pie, I proudly declare, “Ah, but not MY pie!” After all, it’s Dad-approved, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted. ❖

 
About the Author: Hannah Campbell, based in Pennsylvania, is a dedicated gardener and freelance writer whose work has been featured in GreenPrints Magazine on multiple occasions, reflecting her deep appreciation for nature and horticulture.