Both Sides of the Fence

“The last rhubarb pie on the Fourth of July” was one of my mother’s rules. I don’t know where it came from, although it’s probably a good idea to stop picking early enough for the plant to build up the sustenance for the next season’s crop.

I just took mine out of the oven. A hint of freshly ground nutmeg, the grated peel of a whole orange, custard to cut the sharpness just a bit, and crumb topping just because: it’s fairly spectacular.

This really is the last rhubarb pie. I made it from stalks I’d culled from the County Grounds last year in my minor acts of civil disobedience—or criminal trespass, depending on how severe you are feeling today. Since it’s the Fourth of July, and since that’s about freedom, maybe you’ll lean toward favoring the pursuit of personal happiness that doesn’t harm person or property.

Or maybe you prefer restrictions. Lots of people do these days.

I like things a little wild, even if it leads to more effort. It was hard wading through the tall weeds that had overtaken the old gardens in just a year. This year, the weeds are nearly insurmountable, and the driveways to the Eschweiler ruins have been dug out so you can’t drive there.

You’d think there was treasure in those fields, the way the land has been made inaccessible.

In a way, there is. Not the strawberry rhubarb gardeners had tended for decades; that’s gone to dry woodiness. But among the thistles and teazle and Jerusalem artichokes grows wild garlic, a plant of almost unbearable beauty.

Someone’s put down sheets of plywood to give shelter to the Butler garter snakes. These “sudden fellows in the grass” still seem like treasures in the surprise they bring.

Later tonight, when the kids and I come together, we’ll eat the pie and give thanks for the ground in which it grew. I hope we’ll remember to love what we have before it’s gone forever.