I picked up a handful of beautiful rich red rhubarb at the farmer's market last week, and finally, finally baked them into a rhubarb custard pie today.
It was so perfect. I even did a pattern on the top with the rhubarb.
Then I ate a slice.
It was lovely. I should have used smaller eggs, because the eggs really came through, more than they should have. But the richness of the cream, the sweetness of the custard complimenting the tartness of the rhubarb. And of COURSE I made my own crust.
I'm not a savage.
Basking in the afterglow of the pie, my guts rumble.
Then rumble again.
Then I have to scramble to the bathroom, to poop out all my yesterdays.
So I fed the pie to my roommates.
They didn't have an adverse reaction.
So I ate another slice.
Perfection. Tart, sweet, creamy, crisp. Just perfect.
Then my guts rumble.
My roommate hears it across the room.
I have to scramble to the bathroom AGAIN.
I have three pies in the fridge.
What am I going to do?!