Those are the parting words Evan has left me with as he closes the back gate shut and escorts Zeus on his nightly patrol of the neighborhood. The reason why Evan is saying this is because after my early evening debate on whether to make strawberry rhubarb pie or strawberry rhubarb lemonade with the rhubarb we got from the Eastbank Farmers Market, I picked pie. Which meant I needed a crust. And oh, did I mention, I don't do crust? You see, remember that analogy I made a couple of posts back saying if the perfect marriage were a pot pie then Evan would be the crust and I'd be the filling? Yeah well, I think what I meant to say was that the perfect marriage is like pie, not pot pie, because that's what me and my husband spent all evening doing: preparing a pie for tomorrow's service. I can make a mean filling but I lack the crimping and butter cutting skills necessary to bang out a flaky pie dough worthy of such a delicious filling. So what does one do in this situation? She goes to her husband, who crimps beautifully and thinks of butter as a close family relative. Evan and I get along beautifully in the kitchen; so long as as we're actually not running a service. Then? Well, that's when we have to be separate; sometimes a little separation is good, indeed necessary.
There is something extremely rewarding about preparing goods straight from the market. It's utterly inspiring to take something home and be forced to, excuse me, allow me to rephrase that, have the pleasure to actually ask yourself, "What do I want to eat tonight?" I especially like taking home things I'm not particularly familiar with so that I can experiment. It's a great way to refresh and bewilder your taste buds. Unfamiliar with what your local farmers market has to offer? Here's a peek:
Coming your way tomorrow, fresh from the farmers market and our kitchen:
Strawberry Rhubarb Pie
with almonds and whipped cream