In which I harvest something wonderful planted by somebody else
Most of our discoveries were unpleasant, like the barbed wire left from the 1930's and 1940's, when the entire valley was a dairy farm. Some of our finds were bizarre, like the still-functional car jack and a claw hammer we found in the middle of the mares' pasture.
A few discoveries, however, were delightful, such as the thriving grapevine, buried under 6 feet of blackberry hedge, established in the 1970's and 1980's by a previous owner, and completely neglected by the folks who sold us the place.
It's difficult to say how long the rhubarb has been here. It grows in a rather odd location right next to the fence between the neighbors' horse pasture and our driveway, and we have to hang flagging tape on the gigantic green leaves each year so that the kids (they were raised in the city, after all) will recognize that it is a desirable plant and not something to run over with the lawn mower.
Yesterday, I picked a bunch of rhubarb for a pie.
For the top, I mixed pie crust dough with some cinnamon, some uncooked oatmeal (rolled oats, not instant), some melted butter and a tiny bit of agave. Then I crumbled it up on top of the rhubarb and apple filling.
Bake at 350 F for about 40 minutes, until everything is bubbling and smelling nice!