My Favorite Food and Why 

By Brenda Bowen Wright, Jan 2019

“What kind of pie did you just say was your favorite?” said my new husband.

I know it is a strange word. The spelling looks strange, saying it feels strange and the pie itself appears strange, but it is by far my favorite—my mother’s rhubarb custard pie. 

            “I’ve never had rhubarb pie. Is it seriously a pie?” hubby asked me.

            “You don’t know rhubarb? Have you never seen a rhubarb plant?”

            “No.”

            “Well, my dear, you are in for a treat.”

            This would have been the first Thanksgiving my new husband spent with my family. I couldn’t wait to introduce him to my family’s traditions. As soon as we got to my parent’s home, standing in the front room before all the welcoming was finished, I asked my mother, “Mom, you have rhubarb pie? right?”

            “Of course,” Mom said, “I made three big ones this year plus three pumpkin, a butterscotch for Wayne and a cherry cream I’ve been wanting to try.”

            “Hubby has never tasted rhubarb pie!” I blurted out.

            I have two brothers and two sisters so with all the spouses and maybe two grandchildren there were only fourteen people for Thanksgiving dinner. No one reacted to the fact my Mom had baked eight pies, that was common. But when they heard that hubby had never eaten rhubarb pie, the room exploded.

            “What?” And then a lot of “Wait until you taste it!” Until hubby was pretty excited to experience this new thing.

            Dinner itself was entertaining. No one had ever seen anyone put away such a large amount of food as my husband. He is hyperactive and burns through a massive amount of food. Everyone kept saying; “Save room for pie, don’t forget the rhubarb pie.”

            He wasn’t worried and neither was I.

The moment came and Mom personally served hubby his slice before anyone else. We all stopped to watch the reaction of his first bite. Thick sweet custard heavily spotted with disturbing hunks of red and green plant material—the pie unfortunately resembles a celery chunk quiche.

            I could see the twisting facial expressions as hubby cut the first bite and held the spoonful up to take a closer look.

            “Is this real? Are you guys pulling a joke on the new one?” he said.

Then a chorus of; “No it’s serious, it’s good, my favorite.” I finally had to take a bite of his pie before he did, to prove it really was edible. Even the sugar chunks on the top of the crust were mouth-watering spectacular. Mom had out-done herself.

            With his brow deeply furrowed, hubby put the morsel in his mouth and began to chew. On his face appeared the reaction of someone’s first experience with the incredible tartness of the rhubarb. Intense sour surrounded by sweet creamy custard, and the slight crunch of flaky crust, these flavors can’t be properly appreciated until chewed and mixed together well. Then when the mixtures seeps into the taste buds, the utter bliss of the pie explodes in your brain. He kept chewing, but by his face I knew it wasn’t going too well.

            “It’s ok,” he said after swallowing, “but not my favorite. Thanks anyway.”

            Everyone was a bit disappointed and we got back to our own devouring of favorite pie. Hubby, being the gentleman, and being a man who literally can and does eat anything—he slowly finished the whole slice, even after his two or three fillings of turkey and side dishes. 

            But as rhubarb does to those who aren’t seasoned regular eaters of it, the pie began to work on his innards. In the middle of the night, he had to get up and run to the bathroom probably a dozen times due to sudden mass evacuations of his bowels. I had forgotten to warn him of that little side effect.

            After a very cleansing evening, Hubby sworn to never eat THAT pie again. But, amazingly he did have more through our stay that Thanksgiving weekend and every Thanksgiving thereafter. In fact he began to ask my mom for it specifically whenever we were going to their home. And truly, for the rest of my mother’s life, she made a “This is just for Terry” pie every single time we visited. 

Within a few years, Terry found the absolute most flavorful plant to transplant into our yard, and I actually learned how to make rhubarb pie myself. I never did make the pie to perfection like my mother’s, but I made it quite regularly. Both the cuttings from the plant and the pie recipe quickly spread among all hubby’s family and friends. Of all the things we had to leave when we moved to a condo, the hardest next to my father’s roses, were those wonderful, tasty rhubarb plants and the thoughts of no more rhubarb pie. (Unless a niece or nephew reads this and feels pity on my soul and learns to make it. Hint, hint)