My Blue Heaven and Rhubarb Pie

See this? This is perfection. This is an empty laps lane and why am I taking this picture when I could be in that cool lagoon . . .

I did get some laps in this morning. Only had to share with two messy swimmers. Messy swimmers flop and splash a lot. They attack the water instead of going with the water. They did 30 minutes of intensive swimming and I loped along for the full 60 minutes. I suppose the same energy gets expelled with the two different methods. I just want the pain to last longer.

And how did I get in morning laps on a Monday morning when I am usually cooking up scrambled eggs for the grandchildren? The grandchildren are somewhere else today! Well, I do need to pick up the little beast at 4:00 from the "other babysitter." Gretchen also sits for three baby boys, two are nine-month-old twins. I fear that these boys will grow up with an innate fear for the opposite gender. Cameron can be a terror if they mess with her stuff. Stay out of my tea set and I'll let you keep your hair!

I now plan to attack the bottomless rhubarb bag. Dave has a friend at work who had the nerve to purchase an acreage with fruit trees. rhubarb and other naturals that require a lot of preparation before consumption. And she doesn't cook. I wish I had made that clear at the beginning of Dave and I that I do not cook. I have known other women who have said this and their families thrive just fine. But I did not. I cooked lasagna for him one Tuesday night fourteen years ago and he never left. This woman gives me rhubarb in a bag heavy enough to choke a Clydesdale and I can never get rid of it. I push it to the back of my fridge and put a watermelon in front of it but sooner or later we eat the watermelon and then there it is. Calling me: wash me, chop me, cover me with sugar, stuff me in a pie crust and then spend an hour cleaning up your sticky kitchen. Every time I go to look in it the rhubarb it has magically multiplied and it is still crisp and red and juicy. It is rhubarb from another dimension and I accidentally invited my father to supper so rhubarb will be in my life today. My mother was a chef of excellent qualifications - one who can taste the stew and tell you exactly what five herbs will make the meat sing from the pot. I keep adding and adding: garlic, bouillon, onion, beer, tomato paste, pepper, red wine, Italian seasoning until the stew doesn't resemble what its original ingredients set it out to be. No one ever wants a second helping and a lot of bread gets consumed at my meals. Mom's pies were delicate and fruity and smelled like home on a wintry afternoon. My pie will not be in that category but Dad will not complain. He is happy he does not need to eat the leftover TV dinner chicken he had planned on.