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

“Mom, what’s that huge store that you went to that has cars in the middle?”

“I have no idea.”

“You know, it’s really big and there’s all these stores?”

“A mall?” I guessed.

“Yeah, a mall! I think we should go to a mall sometime.”

Does my son really not know what a mall it? Really? I’m semi-stunned.

Think what kind of culture shock he’s going to experience when he and his friends go to the mall to hang out.

Actually, I think he’ll have a blast. He’ll go berserk. He’ll probably hijack one of the security guard’s golf carts and take it on a zigzag joy ride through the hat kiosks.

Another recent conversation: we were driving through town and he said, “It makes me feel kind of sad.”

“What does?” I asked.

“That people buy their playhouses because they don’t know how to build them.”

“Yes well, not everyone knows how to build things.”

“Yeah, nobody knows how to do anything anymore.”

This conversation made me want to:

a. laugh—an 11-year-old sagely mourning a day and age he never knew
b. chortle—he appreciates our more hands-on lifestyle, yippee!
c. deliver a lecture—Let’s look at the big picture, sonny. Some of those playhouse-buying people can do things you’ll NEVER be able to do. Everybody has different gifts, so don’t look down your nose just cause you know something that someone else doesn’t.

I did none of those things. Instead, I kept my eyes on the road and just mm-hmmed.

As of late, he’s been getting a bunch of orders through his etsy shop.

“A bunch” is a relative term, of course. What I mean when I say “a bunch” is that it’s been keeping us busy. We’ve been spending whole mornings, and sometimes afternoons, making jewelry, book-keeping, emailing, and packaging up the items.

He’s doing more and more of the work himself—not only is he smashing the coins, but he’s coming up with new ideas, filing the coins, crafting the jewelry, addressing the envelopes, communicating with consignment shop owners (two have taken his jewelry), etc. He’s enjoying himself, too. He thrives when he’s king of his mountain—the more we become like equal partners (and less like bossy mom and recalcitrant son), the happier he is (and I am).

Over the last few months he has been gradually learning about good business etiquette and acclimating to my exacting standards. No longer does he argue (so much) when I tell him his handwriting isn’t neat enough or that a coin isn’t smashed properly. (Yes, I have standards for how we wreck things.)

For awhile there it was like pulling teeth (and it still is some days). It got so bad that I made him memorize Thomas Edison’s quote, “Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work,” and recite it to me multiple times every day. Now if he starts lagging, I just holler, “Opportunity, boy! Opportunity!”

The other day while I was photographing some custom-ordered necklaces, my son hauled down the baby head statue (an art project of my brother’s, modeled on [after?] Yo-Yo’s toddler head) and thunked it on the table. He and his sister adorned it with the jewelry and ordered me to photograph it.

“There is no way I’m putting these pictures in the shop,” I said. “We’d probably lose customers with a head like this.”

Then they mounted the head on a stool and dressed it.

Later—no pictures, sorry—a bridal Miss Beccaboo married it.

And even later I walked into the room and found it talking on the phone, a newspaper in its pocket and a puppy dog trailing behind.

This same time, years previous: roasted rhubarb, I have nothing to say (ha!), pounding the pulpit