Writing and reading about rhubarb reminded me of a family story. My parents lived with my maternal grandfather when they were first married in the mid to late 1940's. My mom had made a rhubarb pie and both she and my dad had a piece for dessert that night. Maybe two more pieces got packed up for lunch pails to take to their jobs the next day. In the mean time, my grandfather was left alone with the left over pie. He cut himself a small sliver some time during the night and then another to go with his breakfast. He had a larger piece with his lunch and then made two or three trips back for "slivers" as he puttered around the house and yard.
Now, my dad loved pie. He worked hard in the coal mines at this time and getting toward quitting time he started to wonder what there might be for supper. He started really looking forward to the piece of rhubarb pie that would conclude that supper. Imagine his disappointment and dismay upon returning home to find an empty pie plate sitting on the kitchen counter. His cry of, "Who ate ALL the rhubarb pie???" rang through the house.
At this, my grandfather looked up from his evening paper in equal dismay. "Rhubarb pie? Some one should have told me that was rhubarb pie. I don't like rhubarb."