A Guest post by my Quaylo - The fruits of seasons and a family kitchen

A high point in my earliest food memories was an oft featured treasure from my mother’s ovens that caused ripples of delight any time we became aware that she was baking these. So fragrant were the smells that permeated our small home when my mother was baking that, in my recall, we all became a little giddy. Never more so than when we knew she was baking pie. It almost didn’t matter to us what kind of pie she was making, they were all great. Mom was a master at taking advantage of the best available ingredients. In this way her pies were woven into our sense of the seasons. In hindsight it isn't any wonder why I still love pie so much. Pie is a part of my biorhythms. It is a little sad that today's hot house production and global supply lines have rendered these seasonal dependencies a thing of the past. We can have any pie, any time we want. That is a substantial dilution to anticipation, that thrill when something we are waiting for gets closer and closer. Examples of pies that marked our seasons are distinct in my memory. For example the salad days of summer were made all the richer by the freshly picked peaches, which, when cradled in one of my mother's unbelievably flaky, lard based, crusts, was elevated to a culinary status that paid homage to mother nature's wonders. Since we helped pick the peaches at the orchard my father would drive us too each year, we had a connection to these pies that went beyond the simple enjoyment of eating them. It was almost transcendental. However, it wasn't just peaches, but also cherries, strawberries, and blueberry pies that marked our summer days as much as the warm sultry evenings during which we ate them. Today, a home-made summer fruit pie invokes memories of heading for the patio to escape the hot house, and the smell of freshly mowed lawns, the sounds of crickets, and the feel of cooling grass between our toes. Of course, after the weather had turned, and our care free days yielded to school days, there were pumpkin pies at Thanksgiving. They joined the fresh apple and pecan pies that became the standards of late fall and winter. Again, we were often the agents of the harvest, going back to the same pick-your-own orchards for apples, or finding pecan trees under which to gather the fallen bounty, or selecting the large pumpkins for our Halloween from the farmer’s market. My father had several prime pecan trees we went to each year, and they had an abundant output. Two of these were huge, ancient sentinels in the largest of the city parks. I often wondered why we were the only ones that hiked back to these trees to gather the pecans that had begun to litter the floor with the first cool fall winds. The pumpkins so deftly carved for Halloween were never allowed to wilt on the porch and instead were cleaned and stewed to put by for Thanksgiving pies. My mother never wasted anything.

One particular pie stood out. The fruit came from my father’s annual garden, along with the early asparagus which was another product of a rhizome plant. These popped up and grew as early as mid April, making it a sure bet for spring time. I am talking about the rhubarb, which traces its cultivation back thousands of years. The Chinese prized its root ball and stalks for medicinal qualities. Rhubarb roots are harvested in the fall from plants that are at least six years old. The roots are then dried for later use. The root was used in various preparations for use as an anticholesterolemic, antiseptic, antispasmodic, antitumor, aspirant, astringent, cholagogue, demulcent, diuretic, laxative, purgative, general tonic [1]. My father was an avid reader and world traveler, and he may have known all of this. But there was only one thing on his mind when he came into the house triumphantly carrying the earliest stalks of this remarkable plant. PIE!

Only the red stalks of the Rhubarb plant are used as an edible "fruit"

Today rhubarb is widely grown in hot houses year around. One rhizome can yield as many as three harvests per year. It isn’t a very popular pie filling here in Southeast Asia, but then pie is not particularly a popular dish except in kitchens that see western baking. Still, during a recent visit to Singapore, a friend of ours purchased some for us from a local market after I spoke about it the night before at dinner. Carefully wrapping the fruit and carrying them back on her return flight to Kuala Lumpur, Quaypo made sure the treasure was secured. In the meantime, I stayed on to finish my work, and almost forgot about the rhubarb until my own return a few days later. As soon as Quaypo reminded me I was on it. I chose to mix some strawberries into the filling I made, and wisely recruited Quaypo to make her crust as she has the same golden fingers for pie crust that my mother had, even though she is handicapped by the out of favor lard, in favor of a vegetable based alternate. My father loved the sharp tartness of a full rhubarb pie, but I favor a milder blend. The result was far better than I expected. The very tart rhubarb stewed up plump and juicy, and was balanced by the less tart strawberries and the sugar in the recipe. The pastry was typical of Quaypo’s talents. The memories of those pies of my youth were, well…priceless, which is why I am sharing them with you.

Best,

Stitch aka "Simplifried"

Strawberrie – Rhubarb Pie

Ingredients:

1 1/4 c Sugar

1/8 ts Salt

1/3 c Flour

Zest of 1 lemon

1 T fresh lemon juice

2 ts vanilla extract or 1 pod scraped

2 c Fresh strawberries

2 c Fresh rhubarb, cut in 1" pieces

3 T cold butter

1 T Coarse sugar

Pastry for 2-crust pie

Procedure:

Combine 1 1/4 cup sugar, salt, and flour. Arrange half the strawberries and rhubarb in a pastry-lined 9 inch pie pan. Sprinkle with half the sugar mixture. Repeat with remaining fruit and sugar mixture. Dot with butter. Drape top crust and flute edges to make high-standing rim. Brush top of pie with cold water and sprinkle on coarse sugar. Cut steam vents in top crust. “Collar the edge of the pie with aluminum foil. Bake in hot oven (425 F) 40 to 50 minutes or until rhubarb is tender and crust is browned.

[i] The Rhubarb Compendium

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