|IN June the medicated tropical fruit known as the rhubarb-pie is in
full bloom. The farmer goes forth into his garden to find out where the
coy, old setting hen is hiding from the vulgar gaze, and he discovers
that his pie-plant is ripe. He then forms a syndicate with his wife for
the purpose of publishing the seditious and rebellious pie.
It is singular that the War Department has never looked into the scheme
for fighting the Indians with rhubarb-pie, instead of the regular army.
One-half the army could then put in its time court-martialing the other
half, and all would be well.
Rhubarb undoubtedly has its place in the _materia medica_, but when
it sneaks into the pie of commerce it is out of place. Castor-oil,
and capsicum, and dynamite, and chloroform, and porous-plasters, and
arsenic, all have their uses in one way or another, but they would not
presume to enter into the composition of a pie.
They know it would not be tolerated. But rhubarb, elated with its
success as a drug, forgets its humble origin and aspires to become au
article of diet.
Now the pumpkin knows its place. You never knew of a pumpkin trying to
monkey with science. The pumpkin knows that it was born to bury itself
in the bosom of the pumpkin-pie. It does not therefore, go about the
country claiming to be a remedy for spavin.
Supposing that the gory, yet toothsome steak, that grows on the back of
the twenty-one-year-old steer's neck, should claim for itself that it
could go into a drug-store and cure rheumatism and heartburn. Wouldn't
every one say that it was out of place and uncalled for? Certainly. The
back of the tough old steer's neck knows that it is destined for
the mince-pie, and nature did not intend otherwise. So also with the
vulcanized gristle, and arctic overshoe heel, and the shoe-string,
and the white button, and all those elements that go to make up the
mince-pie. They do not try to make medicines and cordials and anodynes
of themselves. Rhubarb is the only thing that successfully holds its
place with the apothecary, and yet draws a salary in the pie business.
I do not know how others may look at this matter, but I do not think
it is right. Still you find this medicated pie in the social circle
everywhere. We guard our homes with the strictest surveillance in other
matters, and yet we allow the low, vulgar pie-plant-pie to creep into
our houses and into our hearts. That is, it creeps into our hearts
figuratively speaking. The heart is not, as a matter of fact, one of
the digestive organs, but I use the term just as all poets do under like
circumstances.
Many, however, will always continue to use the rhubarb-pie, and for
those I give below a receipt which has stood the test of years,--one
which results in a pie that frosts and sudden atmospheric changes cannot
injure.
None but the youngest rhubarb should be used in making pies. Go out and
kill your rhubarb with a club, taking care not to kill the old and tough
variety. Give it a chance to repent. Remove the skin carefully, and take
out the digestive economy of the plant. Be specially careful to get off
the "fuzzy" coating, as rhubarb-pies with hair on are not in such favor
as they were when the country was new. Now put in the basement of cement
and throw on your rhubarb. Flavor with linseed-oil, and hammer out the
top crust until it is moderately thin. Then solder on the cover and
drill holes for the copper rivets. Having headed the rivets in place,
nail on zinc monogram, and kiln-dry the pie slowly. When it is cooled,
put on two coats of metallic paint, and adjust the time-lock. After you
find that the pie is impervious to the action of chilled steel or acids,
remove and feed it to the man who cheerfully pays for his whiskey and
steals his newspaper.