“Get up! Psst, get up!”

My eyes pop open and struggle to focus on the clock. It reads 5:59 am. The rousing isn’t directed at me. In fact, it’s all the way at the other end of the hall, one girl to another, but I have spent the last dozen years of my life conditioning myself to wake at the slightest child-made noise.

The stairs creak as several pairs of feet tip-toe down. I groan and roll over. I want my coffee and computer. How long will I have to wait till my tray arrives?

I lay in bed for 15 minutes, listening (there are no noises, hmm) before heading downstairs to investigate. I’m halfway down the stairs when the kitchen explodes in panic, running feet, and frantic voices. “She’s up!” and “Stop! Don’t come down!”

“Okay, okay,” I say. “Can you please make me my coffee? And I want my computer. Now.” To the male parental figure who is feigning sleep on the sofa, I say, “Help them.”

Soon my coffee arrives. And then a little later my youngest daughter, apronclad, shows up with my reading glasses. “Everything stinks down there. We burned the butter.”

When the tray arrives, it is mounded with an impossible amount of food. Four eggs? Or maybe six? There are also two thick slabs of toast, a jar of cherry jam, and a piece of margarita cake. I have to laugh at the cake. My kids sure know what makes me tick.

The eggs are incredible, moist and light, and I am surprised to learn that Papa had nothing to do with them.

Then the littles, giggling with excitement, give me their cards. And the bigs, each bearing a half, deliver their jointly-made card—but wait! Oh my, look at that! It’s a book!

They had cut out our faces from some old photos and glued them on the pages. My daughter decorated the pages, and my son wrote the poetry, riddled with misspellings (for example, “poems” is spelled “powoms”).

So this is what they had been doing last night when they were holed up in my son’s room for hours on end.

Here, I’ll give you a sample:

When It Was Messy
There was a time
back in our prime
when it was a mess
we had to confess
when it was just cleaning
and also the weaning
and that’s the story of
mom and us.

And this one:

Here we are all
cozy and small.

Quite suddenly, my eyes spring a leak. My children’s goofy, round faces beaming up at me from their heart-shaped picture cutouts—it pierces me through. They are growing up and all too soon this will all be just a memory, waaaaaah!

I blow my nose, wipe my eyes, hug my daughter (who had promptly pressed up hard against me as soon as the tears started to squirt), and read on.

This is us
so why all the fuss.

And,

So long, farewell, auf
wiedersehen good-bye.
Good-bye, good-bye, Mom.
We all love you.

They finished off the letter with their names and a torrent of X’s and O’s.

So, for a little post-letter analysis. According to my children, I
1. Fuss a lot.
2. Am obsessed with cleaning.
3. Equate messes with sins and make my children confess them.
4. Need to take a chill pill.
5. Have taught them they are past their prime at the wise old age of nine. (And what do they think of me? That I have half a leg in the grave?)
6. Nursed babies for as long as they can remember.
7. Traumatized my children when I weaned them. (I mean, really! How many kids talk about weaning in their mother’s day cards? Anyone? Anyone?)
8. Have encouraged so many viewings of The Sound of Music that they now can no longer simply say good-bye, but instead have to sing-write it, and in German.

This same time, years previous: warts and all

I did it! I did it! I did it!

I found the rhubarb cream pie that I’ve been looking for my whole live-long life!

Oh. You didn’t know I was on that particular quest? That I was lying awake at night, bemoaning my lack of creamy rhubarb pie knowledge? That every time I glanced at my rhubarb patch I took to wringing my hands and sighing so deeply that the very breaths seemed to come from my ovaries? That I was paging through countless recipe books, calling my rhubarb guru friends, sobbing in my mother’s (unsympathetic) ear over the phone, plucking my husband’s sleeve and whispering piteously, “Cream and rhubarb, rhubarb and cream, oh shall I never get it right!”?

You didn’t know all that was going on?

Well, that’s fine.

Because it wasn’t.

I was at peace with the hundred and six rhubarb recipes I have tucked happily under the elastic waist of my yoga pants. I didn’t think I needed more.

But then I opened up the food section of our local paper and there was a recipe for rhubarb custard pie from the Amish Cook. Usually I find her recipes too sweet, too bland, and too boring, so I just gave it a quick glance and made like to turn the page. But then I paused, pondered the ingredient list—cream, sugar, flour, eggs, and rhubarb—really pondered them, and then quickly tore out the recipe.

I’ve had other rhubarb custard pies before, and I’ve liked them all well enough, but they always seemed to be too something—eggy, bland, watery, sugary, etc. I doubted the Amish Cook’s recipe would be any better, but decided I’d give it a go. It wasn’t like I didn’t have plenty of rhubarb on hand or anything.

To make a long story short, I love, love, love this pie. Though, and this is the only fault I could find with it, it is clearly NOT a custard pie. It is a cream pie, as in a CREEEEAAAAAMMMMMM pie. Velvety smooth and lustrous, the creamy part melts on the tongue while the juicy bits of rhubarb squirt delightful bursts of flavor with every bite. All of that cupped inside my favorite rich, crispy, buttery crust? Ooh-la-la. Now if you’ll please excuse me while I go cut my THIRD slice of pie.

I actually had a little trouble with the crust the first time. It didn’t get brown on the bottom and there’s nothing more disappointing about a pie than a pasty, leaden bottom crust. I made two more then and was so concerned about getting them brown enough that I charred parts of the edges (the parts of the edges that I did not take pictures of).

The bottom line? Don’t under bake the crust and don’t over bake it. You want it to get just right—golden brown all over. But then you knew that, right?

I’m sitting here reflecting on how very creamy this cream pie is and it occurred to me that it’s very similar to a dreamsicle, but with rhubarb instead of orange. Doesn’t that sound lovely?

In any case, this pie is a dream incarnate. A creamy dreamy cream dream dream.

Rhubarb Cream Pie
Adapted from the Amish Cook‘s column in our newspaper

The rhubarb didn’t seem like it would be enough to fill a 9-inch pie even after I added an extra cup of fruit, but it was. It’s a more thinly filled pie, yes, but it’s so rich and flavorful that that’s as it should be.

1 9-inch butter crust
2 ½ cups diced rhubarb (the rosier the better)
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons flour
2 eggs, well beaten
3/4 cup heavy whipping cream

Line the pie pan with the crust and crimp the edges. If you want to blind bake your crust to help it get a little more color, do it now. (This is optional. Do whatever you need to get a golden brown crust.)

In a small bowl, whisk together the flour and sugar. Add the eggs and whisk thoroughly. Add the cream and whisk some more.

Dump the diced rhubarb into the pie shell, pour the cream mixture over top, and bake the pie at 375 degrees for about 30-45 minutes. You’ll know it’s done when the center of the pie no longer jiggles when you wiggle the pan and the crust is golden brown on the edges and bottom.

Cool to room temperature and then chill in the refrigerator before serving (though I’ve been known to eat it piping hot).

This same time, years previous: naked pita chips

Preamble
I learned how to cook chicken with rhubarb.

And then I learned how to cook chicken with mushrooms.

I thought you might like to know.

Story Number One: Rhubarb Chicken

The rhubarb chicken was actually rather conflicted, in the sense that we were conflicted as to whether or not we liked it.

Let me rephrase that: I was not conflicted. I thought it a lovely dish, saucy, sweet and sour, with a kick of heat. The kids, however, didn’t like the heat and John took issue with the “fruity flavor.”

“Chicken should not be fruity,” he stated firmly.

“It’s not!” I wailed. “You can’t even see the rhubarb!”

We were clearing the table and arguing when my brother and his wife stopped by.

“Ya’ll be quiet,” I ordered my family, not wanting them to foil my plan, and then turning to my brother and his wife I asked sweetly, encouragingly, “Would you guys like to do a little taste testing for me?”

“I’m already filled up on beans and rice,” my sister-in-law murmured.

“Um, can I have a piece of chicken, too?” my brother stage whispered.

I snatched them some silverware from the drawer. They helped themselves to some plates.

“This is really good,” my sister-in-law said, scooping the sauce into her mouth. “What’s in it?”

“You tell me that,” I countered.

“Alcohol?” Yep.

“Lemon?” Nope.

“It’s sweet and sour…hmm, I don’t know. But I like it.” She took seconds.

“It tastes how barbecued chicken ought to taste,” my brother suddenly declared triumphantly.

Huh? We all turned to stare at him, squinched up our eyes (we had to—he was so far out in left field we could hardly see him), and then collectively pronounced his statement hogwash.

“Bah. That’s hogwash.”

But I was vindicated. The chicken is good, so there, John!

Story Number Two: Mushroom Chicken

The mushroom chicken was another one of those conflicted dishes. Mainly because no one in my family likes mushrooms but me.

But if you saw these mushrooms at the Farmer’s Market wouldn’t you have to buy them, too?

A recipe for chicken with morels and shallots in the latest Bon Appetit (which is hugely improved now that they have new leadership) had been sitting in the wings of my brain waiting for a chance to star in the show that is my kitchen, and the mushroom-laden table at the market was just the thing to get me going.

It’s a classic French chicken dish (or so I’ve read)—wine, cream, mushrooms, and chicken.

Basically, just cream of mushroom chicken dish, but with a lot more class.

And you know what? My husband, mushroom hater that he is, said the dish had good flavor but that he didn’t like the texture of the mushrooms. We’re moving up, people! Full-blown sophistication may be in my family’s future!

Now for the recipes.

Rhubarb Smothered Chicken
Adapted from an Emeril Lagasse recipe from Food Network

No one need know there is rhubarb in this recipe (if they are adverse to the idea of fruit with chicken), but it adds a splendidly zingy zip.

The recipe did not say how much Essence to use, so I put in a couple tablespoons. It gave plenty of flavor. (If you are sensitive to heat, go skimpy on the cayenne.)

3 ½ pounds of chicken pieces
2 tablespoons Essence seasoning (recipe follows)
2 tablespoons flour
1/4 cup olive oil
1 pound rhubarb, diced
2 onions, cut in half and then crosswise, thinly
3-4 cloves garlic, minced
1 bay leaf
½ teaspoon dried thyme, or a couple sprigs of fresh
1 cup white wine
1 tablespoon dried parsley, or 1/4 cup fresh, chopped
S & P, to taste

Combine the Essence and flour in a bowl and toss with the chicken pieces.

Heat the oil in a large pan and brown the chicken pieces—about 5 minutes on each side. Remove the chicken from the pan and add the rhubarb and onion, some salt and pepper, and saute for about 10 minutes. Add the garlic, bay leaf, thyme, and white wine and stir well, scraping up the little browned bits from the bottom. Return the chicken pieces to the pan, cover loosely, and simmer for about 45 minutes, stirring occasionally. (At first it may seem that there isn’t enough liquid, but as the rhubarb cooks, it releases more and more water. By the end, the dish was quite saucy.) Immediately before serving, add the parsley and taste to correct seasonings. Serve over rice.

Essence Seasoning:
2 ½ tablespoons paprika
2 tablespoons salt
2 tablespoons garlic powder
1 tablespoon black pepper
1 tablespoon onion powder
1 tablespoon oregano
1 tablespoon thyme
2 teaspoons cayenne

Mix and store in the freezer.

Chicken with Mushrooms
Adapted from the May 2011 issue of Bon Appetit magazine

The original recipe (and how I made it) called for browning the chicken pieces and then simmering them in the sauce. However, I’m not a huge fan of large pieces of meat on my plate (though I did like them in the above recipe) and the resulting sticky fingers and bits of refuse littering the table. Next time I’ll just poach a chicken, debone it, and toss the meat in at the last minute. I’ll lose some of the flavor from browning, but sauteing the shrooms in a bit of bacon grease would remedy that problem.

1 3-4 pound chicken, poached, deboned, and cut into pieces
1-2 tablespoons vegetable oil, butter, or bacon grease
1 small onion, minced
1 pound morel mushrooms (I used white oyster), roughly chopped
1 cup white wine
1 cup chicken broth
½ cup heavy whipping cream
salt and black pepper, to taste

Pour the oil into a pan set over medium-high heat. Add the onions and saute until soft. Add the mushrooms and saute for another 2-5 minutes, or until they have released a bunch of their moisture and are getting soft. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the mushrooms and onions to a bowl.

Add the wine to the pan, and bring to a boil. When it has reduced by half, add the stock and bring it to a simmer. Add the chicken pieces, the cooked mushrooms and onions, and heat through. Add the whipping cream and bring to a simmer. Taste to correct seasonings and serve over rice or noodles.

This same time, years previous: the bike question, revisited, baked macaroni and cheese