It rained the night before. heavy. loud enough that it woke me at 2am and made me sit on the kitchen floor with tea I didn’t want. I hadn’t planned to bake. but then the rhubarb was soft at the market, and the woman next to me said something about “spring in a crust.”
I don’t even like fruit pies that much.
But I kept thinking about my grandmother’s pie knife—the one with the pearl handle and the chipped edge that always caught on the crust. she’d saw through those overbaked slabs like they were gospel. always dry. always lemon-sour. always insisted you needed a dollop of whipped cream “or what’s the point.”
I bought the rhubarb anyway. strawberries too. I didn’t need to. but I did.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness calls it “Rhubarb Strawberry Pie,” like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Her version? all geometry and grace. pâte brisée chilled to attitude. lattice top so neat it looks smug. the filling sweetened just enough—with a flick of orange zest and cornstarch to stiffen the chaos.
She dots the top with butter. folds the edges like origami. brushes with egg and sprinkles with sugar, of course.
It’s a good pie. I won’t lie. but it’s the kind of good that expects clean plates and linen napkins. not a fork stuck in while it’s still too hot and leaking.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t measure the rhubarb exactly—just filled the green Pyrex bowl to what felt like “enough.”
Didn’t chill the dough a second time either. the kitchen was cold. that felt fair.
Used blood orange instead of regular zest. it was all I had.
Skipped the sanding sugar. forgot until it was too late. didn’t matter.
I also used my own crust. Not because I think it’s better. Just… because I can’t make hers without hearing Nan’s voice.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The butter went in late. I almost forgot it—Mae called to ask if she could dye her hair pink again and I said yes, even though I was elbow-deep in flour and memory. The lattice strips were uneven. I didn’t care. One tore when I tried to lift it. I patched it with a mutter and a bit of cold water.
The filling looked like something bled. bright and raw and a little wrong.
And that crust—mine, not hers—started to brown too fast. I tented it with foil. then pulled it off again because it steamed the whole thing. I tapped the edge of the pie plate with a spoon. the dent in the Dutch oven was watching me. still.
While it baked, I stood at the sink and thought about that summer we bought the sea salt in Provincetown. how we carried it in a paper bag like it was treasure. I still use it. didn’t add it this time. but I could taste it anyway.
A Few Things I Learned
Let the pie cool. I didn’t. it collapsed a bit when I sliced it. but it was better warm.
The orange came through more than I thought it would.
And I still don’t like fruit pies.
But I liked this one.
What I Did With the Extras
Ate the first slice too soon. second slice with tea. third standing at the counter. Mae came by later and picked at the crust. said “this reminds me of the lemon cake.” she meant the one she dropped when she was nine. the one we ate anyway.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. not often. not for guests.
For me. for Nan. for whatever spring is trying to say.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The rain didn’t come back that night.
Just a soft window fog. and the smell of sugar cooling.
FAQs
Yeah, But It Softens Weird. The Crust Gets A Little Sulky. Better Cold From The Fridge The Next Day, If You Ask Me.
God No. Throw A Full Crust On, Cut A Few Vents, Call It Rustic. Martha Won’T Come For You. Probably.
You Can. It’Ll Be Soupier. Let It Thaw And Drain A Bit First. Or Don’T. Embrace The Mess.
Not Really. The Rhubarb Keeps It Sharp. If You’Re Worried, Cut The Sugar A Little—But Don’T Skip The Orange. That’S The Magic.
Then This Isn’T Your Pie, Friend. But Maybe Try The Plum Thing I Made Last Fall. Less Tart. More Comfort.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Rhubarb Strawberry Pie
Description
Soft Edges, Stained Filling, A Little Bitter. Like A Memory I Ate Too Fast.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Preheat the oven: Preheat to 190°C / 375°F. I did this early, then forgot and turned it off by accident. Start again. Let it heat properly.
- Prepare the filling: In a large bowl, toss together about 6 cups of rhubarb (I didn’t weigh it—used what fit), 1 cup strawberries (not all hulled, sorry), 1½ cups sugar, ¼ cup cornstarch, the zest of a blood orange and a splash of its juice, and a pinch of coarse salt. It should look vivid and reckless. Set aside while it weeps a little.
- Roll out the bottom crust: Roll out your first disk of pâte brisée (or whatever pie crust you trust) to about ⅛ inch thick on a floured surface. Line a 9-inch pie plate, letting the dough drape over like it’s tired. Spoon in the fruit, juices and all. Dot with 2 tbsp cold butter (I broke mine up with fingers). Slide the whole thing into the fridge while you tackle the top.
- Make the lattice top: Roll out the second crust, same thinness. Use a knife or pastry cutter to slice into rough strips—mine weren’t even. Some were wide. Some weren’t strips at all.
- Weave the lattice pattern: Or try to. I laid a few vertical, then folded every other one back, dropped in a horizontal, kept going until it looked “enough.” Don’t stress this part. You can always patch it.
- Seal and crimp the edges: Trim both crusts to about a 1-inch overhang. Tuck and crimp with your fingers. Or a fork. I used the edge of a spoon. Whatever makes it feel done. Refrigerate again—30 minutes if you’re patient. I wasn’t.
- Add the finishing touches: Brush the top with a beaten egg. If you remember, sprinkle with sanding sugar. I didn’t remember. Still worked.
- Bake the pie: Place on the middle rack. Put a foil-lined tray beneath to catch drips (it will drip—mine did). Bake for about 90 minutes, until the juices bubble like they mean it and the crust is deep golden. Check after 60 minutes—tent with foil if it’s browning too fast. Mine was. Of course.
- Cool before serving: Let it cool for at least 2 hours. I cut in at one. It collapsed a little but tasted like the inside of a memory. Mae said it reminded her of that lemon cake she ruined once. I think that’s a compliment.