Rhubarb Redux

I had some rhubarb left from the pie I made last week, so in the interest of “waste not want not,” and to celebrate the summer season, I made a recipe that a long-time friend gave me when I was first married. It has a sort of shortbread crust, and a custard-like rhubarb topping. I like it plain for breakfast or warmed up with ice cream as an evening treat. It is not going to do anything to improve my waistline, but it makes my mouth happy.


Rosemary’s Rhubarb Squares

preheat your oven to 350 degrees F.

Crust:
1 cup sifted flour
5 Tblsp. powdered sugar (I sometimes use 3 Tblsp. regular white sugar)
1/2 cup (1 stick) cold butter cut into chunks
Combine all this in a bowl and use a pastry blender (or two knives) to cut the butter into the sugar and flour until the mixture looks like small peas. Pour into an 7x11 inch pan and pat gently. You can use and 8x8 inch pan, but your crust will be thicker. Bake 15 minutes or until browned. Cool.

Topping:
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup flour
pinch salt,
about 2 cups chopped rhubarb - use what you have
Mix this together and pour on the prepared crust.

Bake 35 minutes.

Here’s a poem that features rhubarb. It makes me sorry that my single rhubarb plant died, victim of the spreading shade of my neighbor’s red maple.

Discovered
Shirley Buettner

While clearing the west
quarter for more cropland,
the Cat quarried
a porcelain doorknob

oystered in earth,
grained and crazed
like an historic egg,
with a screwless stem of

rusted and pitted iron.
I turn its cold white roundness
with my palm and
open the oak door

fitted with oval glass,
fretted with wood ivy,
and call my frontier neighbor.
Her voice comes distant but

clear, scolding children
in overalls
and highbutton shoes.
A bucket of fresh eggs and

a clutch of rhubarb rest
on her daisied oil-cloth.
She knew I would knock someday,
wanting in.