The Sunday Memory Drawer - Grandma's Rhubarb Pie and Other Concoctions

Well, here's a photo of yours truly guaranteed to cool you off on a hot summer Sunday.  Or send your finger scurrying for the "escape" button on the computer keyboard.

Yes, this snapshot of Mr. Knobby Knees is back, but for a different reason.  I want you to look past me (it's not hard) to the greenery growing in our backyard with that super-fancy wood fencing.  You know what that stuff is?

Rhubarb.

And, as I have written before, it was the staple in our family for many, many summers.  The one dish that my grandmother was truly famous for.  Requested by lots of relatives every summer weekend and many winter holidays as well.

Her rhubarb pie.

I guess every family has one or two treats that become traditions.  And every relative has a specialty dish that they alone make and are proud of.

My mother didn't bake pastries, but she sure did make a delicious meat loaf.  Her secret?  A beef and pork blend of chopped meat.  Remembering this, I attempted the same several months ago.  When I asked the butcher for this specifically, he looked at me quizzically.  He had never heard of such goings on.

My dad, when pressed to cook, had one great dish that he made over and over.  Pork chops in tomato sauce with peppers and onions.  His secret?  He cooked it all in an oven bag.  These days, this is common.  Back then, this innovation would have gotten him his own show on the Food Network.

I've written about my Aunt Helen recently and I remember her always making those little pizzas with English muffins.  Slap some mozzarella down.  A dollop of tomato sauce.  Into the toaster muffin.  Voila.  Pizza.  For some bizarre reason, I thought this was delicious.  In retrospect, it's probably the quickest meal in the world.  How lazy can you get?

My mother's goofy sister, Anne, supposedly had a secret formula for this really tasty salad dressing.   I mean, people gushed over this stuff every time there was a family gathering on Long Island.  It would make its appearance on the table as if royalty had arrived.  I'd ask what was in it.

"Oh, that's my secret recipe.  I never tell anybody how I make it."

Uh-huh.

Until one summer when I spent a week out there.  And saw my aunt in the kitchen.  

Pouring the vinegar up to the line on the bottle and then adding oil to the next line on the bottle.

It was a freakin' Good Seasons mix. Hello, the bottles are still around.   

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, there was Grandma.  I've written before about her culinary exploits.   Baking pies and cakes every Saturday morning with the amazing flavors and smells wafting up to my bedroom on the second floor.  Of course, her cooking skills were limited and very much in accordance with mindsets developed around the Great Depression which she guided a family of four sons through.

Making the most of little.

Leftover chicken bones used for soup.

Discarded ham or pork bones.  Also employed in a soup.

Spaghetti adored with a sauce that was nothing more than a can of Campbell's Condensed Tomato....wait for it...Soup.

Yeah, that was gross.

So, here in 2013, I've been all about sensory perception.  Trying to relive the past through the sense of sound or smell or feeling.

Or taste.  

As noted, I have attempted successfully Mom's Meat Loaf.  I have tried to devote some Saturdays to baking and, yes, the smells (albeit 3000 miles from where first experienced) are very, very similar.  And, for God's sake, there is now a Good Seasons salad bottle now in my refrigerator.

But, the piece de resistance for me was to experience anew that spectacular rhubarb pie.  This desire has nagged at me for years.  I know my cousins Gini and Lisa in Florida regularly make the same rhubarb pie.  But could I?

I remember Grandma's process to this day.

She'd be in that makeshift garden you see above.  Pulling out the rhubarb plants when they were ripe.

She'd wash them thoroughly in the kitchen sink and then chop off the leaves.  You use only the stalks.  She'd put the chopped up stems into a pot with a little water.  I recall them cooking all day.  Lisa tells me it's really only ten minutes.

Naturally, Grandma would have already prepared, from scratch, a pie shell or three.  As the rhubarb got stringy and soft, she'd add lots of sugar to offset the naturally tart flavor of the stalks.  And the secret weapon...a box of strawberry Jell-o.

This would all gel in the refrigerator overnight.  I remember they always seem to have rhubarb in some shape or form in our homes.  There was always a bowl of it in the refrigerator.  I have a visual image of my grandfather eating the filling for his lunch.  And containers of the stuff in the freezer so Grandma could have this summer plant ready for Thanksgiving and Christmas pies.

While I'm no Duncan Hines and had no inclination to enter a pie crust from scratch, the filling was something I wanted and needed to do.  At a local farmer's market, I bought the stalks.  Then, with my cousin Lisa handy in a Facebook chat, I concocted the filling.  Step by step, stalk cube by stalk cube.

Somehow, it came together.

I remember that Grandma's rhubarb pie could sit in the refrigerator for several days with the whipped cream topping always in place.  My experience recently has been whipped cream that collapses within the hour.  I got some quick lessons from an actual chef of a famous LA restaurant as well as my friend and writing partner.  

The cream whipping took ten minutes.  Grandma's topping was never too sweet.  I held off on the sugar.

It worked as this photo, worthy of a Three Stooges short, will attest.

And the cream held for the ultimate serving.

Several friends, never before exposed to rhubarb pie, loved it.

As for me, the taste triggered memories.

Running through the kitchen after an afternoon playing with my friends in the neighborhood.

Opening Grandma's Frigidaire and setting that pie.

One slice left.

"Can I have it?"

Yes, you can be young again.  

And now, like Grandma, I plan to do it over and over.  Making rhubarb pies to share with friends for dinners and the holidays.

I think it's the right thing to do.

Dinner last night:  Sausage and peppers at Carlo's in Yonkers.  Brown sauce again.  WTF!