Strawberry Rhubarb Pie

Before I write about this week's pie, I want to write about last week's cake. That cake saw more of Chicago than most baked goods, and left a little bit of itself in every neighborhood. It's maiden voyage was a short one, in the walk from Aaron's to mine. Soon after it journeyed up to exotic Rogers Park on a very crowded bus,  finally sitting pretty and untouched on the counter while I cat sat for a friend. It's next trip was the longest, on the red line down to the expensive Gold Coast. This was its highlight of the evening. It sat quietly in the fridge while friends talked and laughed and read their writing to each other, and then came out, bedecked in birthday candles aglow, to be enjoyed even by the lactose-intolerant. After the festivities, a portion was sliced away to be eaten later by the hosts. The next leg of the journey, a third of it missing, the cake traveled on a late night train to Palmer Square. The next morning, another section parceled off for the host, the cake traveled first by bus, where it attracted the attention of a talkative woman who was taking a course in cake-decorating, and then by train again to treeless Uptown. There it was admired by employees of a cat shelter, and small slices shaved off here and there, until it was just a fraction of what it had been the night before. After all its traveling, the cake returned to his home, not its birthplace, but where its platter originated, the one with the black flowers and birds painted in an eternal circle. Finally, the remains of the cake were separated from the plate and wrapped in plastic, to be saved for a lady and her gentleman caller.

The cake was enjoyed by ten people in total, in four neighborhoods of Chicago. Needless to say, it was delicious.

I'm finally settling down to type up this blog at a quarter to eleven, after a long, hot day. I threw on my kimono, poured myself a glass of rose, and turned on my music.

Rhubarb, which is currently in fashion, according to my coworker Robin, who was my baking buddy today, is surprisingly difficult to track down. On my Hunt for Red Fresh Rhubarb, I went to four grocery stores before finding it at Whole Foods. According to my cookbook, the season for rhubarb (an honorary fruit) is January to June, so it's almost over. But this is 2014 in 'merica, so I figured rhubarb could be found all year long.

I biked home with the aforementioned bottle of rose in my water bottle holder and two and a half pounds of rhubarb clutched in my hand. Robin was cat-sitting, so I prepared by slicing rhubarb and strawberries. She's the one who suggested the pie, which made me happy because rhubarb is something I associate with my mom (and mother's day is Sunday!). I have such a good memory of eating rhubarb cake on the screened-in porch with a glass of sweet iced tea and an episcopal bishop.

Today I put on my summer mix from last year while I mixed the fruit with flour, sugar, and salt. It is eighty degrees today. Chicago bypassed spring altogether and flung us, sweaty but mostly non-complaining, into a fitful summer. Tomorrow it will be fifty again.

Robin brandishes a rolling pin

The pie was easy to make,

though it took us awhile because we chatted and drank.

Robin is goofy and full of stories. She's only three years older than me, but she's been married for four years.

Four years. I drank much faster than Robin.

When the pie was in the oven, we walked to the corner market for ice cream. The pie is so delicious--one of my favorites that I've made. The rhubarb has such a great, tart taste--almost like citrus, and the strawberry is clearly present with its sweetness. I wish my mom were in town to enjoy it with us!