Rhubarb Meringue Dessert — When the Kitchen Is the Only Architecture That Holds

Peter did not call. I called him. He picked up on the third try. He sounded thin — the way he has sounded for months now, the way Pappa used to sound. I told him about the meatballs I was making. He said he wished he was here. I said come for Christmas. He said he would try. I did not push. I did not lecture. I said I loved him. I hung up the phone and I stood at the kitchen sink for a long minute looking at the lake. Sophie texted a photo of Mira eating cereal. Mira's face was covered in milk. The photo was lit from the side by morning light and the smile in it was uninhibited and full and I could not stop looking at it. I printed the photo. I taped it to the fridge. I have a system on the fridge now: a column for each grandchild, a column for each great-grandchild, photos rotated weekly. The fridge is the gallery. The gallery is the proof. Peter called from Chicago. He sounded thinner than last week. He said work was fine. I do not believe him. He said his apartment was fine. I do not believe him either. He asked about the dog. He asked about the lake. He told me he loved me. I told him I loved him too. I told him about the bread I was baking. He said he could almost smell it through the phone. We hung up. I stood at the sink for a long minute. I did not know what else to do. I cooked Wild blueberry pie this week. Berries picked from the Superior Hiking Trail in August, frozen for use throughout the year. Tossed with sugar and a little cornstarch. Baked in a butter-and-lard crust. Served warm with vanilla ice cream. The taste of the trail. I made the soup. Fifty gallons. I served the soup. A hundred and twelve plates. I came home tired. I came home good-tired. The Thursday tired. The right tired. I sat on the couch with Sven and a glass of wine and I did not move for two hours. The body wants this kind of tired. The body has wanted this kind of tired for thirty years. I thought about Lars this week. He has been gone since 1979. The grief is old, but it is not gone. The dead do not leave. They just become quieter. Lars at twenty was funny in a particular sideways way that nobody else in the family was funny. He could make Pappa laugh, which nobody could make Pappa do. He has been gone forty-five years. I still hear his laugh sometimes, when Erik is laughing in a particular way, or when Peter accidentally tilts his head the way Lars used to. It is enough. It has to be. And on a morning like this, with the lake doing what the lake does and the dog at my feet and the bread on the counter and the kitchen warm enough to live in, it is. Mamma used to say: "En människa är vad hon ger." A person is what she gives. She said this in Swedish so often that the phrase still sounds in my head in her voice. I think about it daily. I think about what I have given, and what I have not given, and what is still to give. The accounting is mostly favorable. The accounting is, in some ways, the only accounting that matters. It is enough.

The blueberry pie had already been made and eaten and thought about — that was the week’s anchor, the one that tasted like the Superior trail in August. But the rhubarb had been sitting in the freezer since June, patient the way rhubarb always is, and after the calls with Peter and the soup kitchen Thursday and the long minute at the sink, I needed something that required more from me than stirring. A layered thing. A thing with stages. Meringue demands attention, and attention is sometimes the only cure for the particular ache of loving people who are far away and thin-sounding on the phone. I made this for no one and for everyone, the way most of the best things in this kitchen get made.

Rhubarb Meringue Dessert

Prep Time: 30 minutes | Cook Time: 55 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 25 minutes | Servings: 12

Ingredients

• Shortbread Crust
• 1 cup all-purpose flour
• 1/4 cup powdered sugar
• 1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
• Rhubarb Custard Filling
• 3 large egg yolks (reserve whites for meringue)
• 1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
• 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
• 1/2 cup heavy cream
• 3 cups fresh or frozen rhubarb, sliced 1/2-inch thick
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• Meringue Topping
• 3 large egg whites, room temperature
• 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
• 6 tablespoons granulated sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Instructions

1. Preheat and prep. Preheat oven to 350°F. Lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking dish.
2. Make the crust. In a medium bowl, combine flour and powdered sugar. Cut in softened butter using a pastry cutter or your fingers until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs and begins to come together. Press evenly into the bottom of the prepared baking dish.
3. Blind bake the crust. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until the edges are just beginning to turn golden. Remove from the oven and let cool for 5 minutes.
4. Make the rhubarb filling. In a large bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, granulated sugar, flour, heavy cream, and salt until smooth. Fold in the sliced rhubarb. Pour the filling evenly over the warm crust.
5. Bake the filling. Return the dish to the oven and bake for 38 to 42 minutes, until the custard is set at the edges and just barely jiggles at the center. Remove and let rest while you make the meringue. Do not turn off the oven.
6. Make the meringue. In a clean bowl, beat egg whites and cream of tartar with an electric mixer on medium speed until foamy. Increase speed to high and add sugar one tablespoon at a time, beating until stiff, glossy peaks form. Beat in vanilla.
7. Top and finish baking. Spread meringue evenly over the hot rhubarb filling, sealing it to the edges of the dish to prevent weeping. Return to the oven and bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until the meringue is golden and the peaks are lightly browned.
8. Cool completely. Let the dessert cool on a wire rack for at least 1 hour before cutting. For clean slices, refrigerate for 2 hours after cooling. Serve at room temperature or slightly chilled.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 275 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 11g | Carbs: 42g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 90mg