As I walked the dogs by my old Water St. apartment yesterday I noticed that the rhubarb I planted there was flourishing. When I got home, I called the landlady and asked her if I could dig it up and bring it here. She was agreeable, so I today I went to get it. It turns out that rhubarb should be transplanted in the Fall, so I picked some and left the patch alone. I'll bring it here in a few months.
This is the first real lattice crust I've ever made, and I feel very accomplished. Thank goodness for the blog so I can share it. I alone will eat the pie, I have to confess. I would take it to David's, except that he has a rhubarb phobia, which is the reason I got it in the first place. When he was first cleaning his lawn of various weeds and underbrush, he found a lot of rhubarb. He dug it up with the intention of putting it in the trash post haste. Diana and I leaped at the opportunity to rescue it and I planted my share next to the house where I lived then. Since that was during my vagabond days, I left that apartment before the rhubarb had a chance to take hold and grow. Now, several years later, I am reaping the rewards of that initial effort. The bed is lush and close to the ground. It is the beautiful pink variety of rhubarb, and has produced enough to make pies for all of Eastport. I'll go back and get more so that I can freeze it for later. Or that is my intent. It will be hard not to eat it until it's gone. Already, since I began to write, I cut myself a substantial piece and ate it.
It was delicious.