Remembering Rhubarb Pie

My ears perked up at the familiar thud…thud…thud on the staircase, followed by the slam of the screen door. My brother was fourteen — six years older than I — and we didn’t communicate much, other than to fight and say dreadful things to each other. But I could always count on him to indirectly let me know when it was time to go to our grandmother’s house for lunch. “Tom!” I’d yell, scrambling to tie my sneakers and get through the door before he was out of sight. “Wait for me!”

My grandmother and grandfather lived in our small town “down by the creek,” and even though it was only a couple of blocks, there was a busy street that I was forbidden to cross alone. Tom would allow me to go with him…as long as I stayed at least half the distance to the moon behind in case he ran into one of his buddies along the way. Nothing would be more humiliating to a high school freshman than to be seen walking anywhere with his dumb little sister. It was worth the effort to stay out of his way because at the end of our journey was the promise of a table full of the greatest food in the world.

May Blume Rainbolt and Grover Cleveland Rainbolt grew an “award-winning” garden. Each year they’d grow corn, green beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, cabbage, fresh mint, and much, much more. But best of all…they grew rhubarb. My grandmother was the best rhubarb pie baker in the county, which was proven by the stash of blue ribbons she kept “inconspicuously” in an old Ball canning jar on the windowsill. Oh pshaw, she’d blush. Those old things? I’m just saving them for quilt scraps. She even made her own piecrust — an art she passed on to me (for which my husband is eternally grateful). Come to think of it, the quality of our grandmother’s rhubarb pie was one of the few things my brother and I ever agreed on when we were kids.

We always managed to arrive at our grandmother's house just as she was filling the table with bowls of mashed potatoes swimming in real butter, pinto beans seasoned with country ham, stewed okra, sliced tomatoes — still warm from the garden sun — and cucumbers smothered with onions. Although peas weren’t a favorite of mine back then, I enjoyed the days I watched my grandfather gracefully eat them with a table knife. He’d somehow manage to fill the entire length of the knife with little round peas, then tilt back his head and let them slide into his mouth. I tried this once, to my grandmother’s dismay, and ended up spending the better part of the afternoon picking peas up off the linoleum floor.

My grandmother lived well into her 70’s, but in my family, that’s like being struck down in the prime of life. Still, I learned a valuable lesson. The best *piecrust is made with vinegar. Yes…vinegar. But the most important thing she taught me, is that sometimes, especially on a steamy, Southern Indiana evening, it’s best to sit on the front porch, rocking gently back and forth in the swing.

Add a slice of warm, rhubarb pie…and it’s perfect.

Mary Cunningham